These two groups, under various names, had been fighting for influence over world events for centuries. Both had operatives embedded within governments, military forces, the intelligence community, law enforcement, multinational corporations, universities, the media, and religious organizations of all stripes.
Incredible as it sounded, the story fit with some of the lingering whys left unanswered by some of the stranger things Daniel had bumped up against during his years in the field. He hadn’t known how much of Carter Ames’s story to believe but if even half of it were true, then there was an unwritten history behind the official history of world affairs.
A shadow history of shadow governments.
A separate reality behind the one we know.
The laptop screen brightened and the machine automatically launched the QuickTime video player. Carter Ames sat behind a cherrywood desk, facing the camera. The angle wasn’t wide enough for Daniel to make out much of the room behind him. It was an office, or maybe a well-appointed study. A large Mondrian canvas dominated the wall behind the desk.
Ames was a trim man in his sixties—or if very fit, early seventies—dressed in an impeccably tailored gray suit. He spoke with a transatlantic boarding-school accent, somewhere between British and American.
“Good day, Daniel,” Ames said. “During our brief time together, I said that if you walked the path, you’d learn the truth. You did walk the path, quite admirably, and now you shall have the truth.” He paused to sip water from a glass on the desk. “What the media has been calling the Trinity Phenomenon is not, in fact, exclusive to your uncle. While Tim Trinity is the only case that has become public as a news story, whatever this phenomenon is—and let me be clear: We do not yet know what it is—has been happening to thousands of people around the planet in recent years, at an ever-increasing rate.”
A bar graph filled the screen. Confirmed Cases of Anomalous Information Transfer—Worldwide. The graph covered the past twenty years, a bar representing each year. Around the millennium, the bars jumped from a baseline barely in the double digits up into the hundreds, climbing through the following years until it reached above nine thousand. “Of course, we haven’t any idea the origin of the phenomenon”—Ames shook his head—“nor its purpose. But for good or ill, it is on the rise.”
Over the next hour, Carter Ames narrated a presentation that included charts and graphs, scanned copies of affidavits and psychiatric evaluations, MRI reports, and video clips. The Trinity Phenomenon—what the Foundation called “Anomalous Information Transfer”—didn’t usually manifest in backwards speech, as it had with Daniel’s uncle. In some cases, subjects fell into a kind of babbling trance. Others spoke fluently in languages they’d never studied or even been exposed to. Some simply transcribed the voices they heard in their heads, or wrote down the dreams they had that felt like more than dreams.
But all confirmed cases contained information the subjects could not possibly have known. And they didn’t all predict the future, as Trinity had. Some detailed events from the distant past that appeared in no history books and were known to very few. Others spoke of events unfolding half a world away, at the very time they were happening.
Carter Ames came back on the screen. “I realize it’s a lot to take in, Daniel. The bottom line is, whatever the cause of Anomalous Information Transfer, this explosion of cases represents a seismic event in human history, and we believe the people of the world deserve to know about it. The Council for World Peace aims to keep it to themselves, and they have killed hundreds, including your uncle, toward that very aim.”
Daniel hit the space bar to pause the video, and took a sip of his thick black chicory coffee. He put personal issues aside, focused on the facts. On a planet of over seven billion, nine thousand was a minuscule number. Even if, as Ames had suggested, the actual number was ten times the number of confirmed cases, that would still be ninety thousand out of seven billion. But if the trend line depicted on the graph continued for another decade, ninety thousand would become nine million. Whatever the cause—God, quantum physics, or something as yet unimagined—clearly the universe was trying to tell us something.
The very idea sent an electric charge up Daniel’s spine. He put the mug down, tapped the space bar. He knew what was coming. Carter Ames was a smart man, he’d sunk the hook well.
The video resumed.
Carter Ames said, “Understand, the Foundation was completely unaware of the existence of AIT until the late 1920s, when our predecessors learned that the Council for World Peace—then called the Many Nations Alliance—was studying the phenomenon in Germany. The Foundation’s own studies confirmed its existence, but with only a handful of cases to study, the studies went nowhere. The more important thing we learned was that AIT was not the appearance of a new phenomenon, but the reappearance of a very old one.
“It’s always difficult when reading the tea leaves of ancient history, the records of pre-scientific societies, but we know Anomalous Information Transfer waxes and wanes throughout history. It goes virtually dormant for hundreds of years at a time but surges during times of great change—the fall of empires, when there are rapid shifts of power, or at times of depopulation due to widespread war or disease—sharp turns in the course of human affairs. We don’t know if these pivotal changes cause AIT, or if the periodic rise of AIT triggers the societal changes, but we do know that they arrive together.” Carter Ames sipped his water again, his expression turning grim. “Which does not bode well, since AIT is surging once again. We intend to do something about it, and I think you could play an essential role in our efforts.”
Daniel had spent a lifetime looking into the faces of some of the most talented con artists on the planet, and more than a few lunatics, but looking at Ames, Daniel saw neither.
“And so I leave the ball in your court, Daniel. Let’s talk about how we might work together, should you feel so inclined.” The image faded to black, and a 212 telephone number came up on the screen.
When they’d met in person, Carter Ames had floated the idea that Daniel might become an operative for the Foundation, but at the time Daniel wasn’t thinking past keeping his uncle alive. Then the Council silenced Tim Trinity with a bullet, preventing the world from learning whatever the universe was trying to tell us.
Now Daniel would join the game.
3: WELCOME TO THE MACHINE
New York City
In the Yorkville neighborhood on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, a half-dozen blocks south of Spanish Harlem and a block from the East River, a feat of architectural and engineering brilliance hides in plain sight. Thousands bustle past the thirty-two-story building each day without giving it a second thought. From the street, it looks like a quietly upscale condominium tower built in the late 1990s or early 2000s. But instead of the standard swimming pool, hot tub, chaises longues, and party deck with wet bar, the rooftop boasts a helipad and satellite relay station. And none of the units ever go up for sale because the Fleur-de-Lis Foundation owns the entire building.
The perimeter is like any upscale condominium tower. The apartments are used as housing for Foundation trainees, visitors, and staff members working round-the-clock assignments, and on the lower floors is office space for several Foundation-affiliated businesses. But inside the perimeter is a second building entirely. Windowless, electronically shielded, with its own elevators and stairwells, and running on its own separate power and ventilation systems.
The inner building is invisible to the outside world.
Daniel Byrne removed his headset as the AgustaWestland executive helicopter touched down in the yellow circle on the roof. He waited for the pilot’s signal, then opened the door and stepped down onto the sizzling, sun-drenched surface, crouch-jogging to the man waiting at the rooftop door. The man gestured Daniel inside and shut the door behind them, cutting off the din of the decelerating rotor blades.
The man hel
d out his hand and Daniel shook it. “Raoul Aharon. Pleased to meet you.” Raoul Aharon looked about thirty-five, curly black hair, olive complexion, five o’clock shadow a few hours ahead of schedule. He wore black cargo pants and T-shirt. He was tightly muscled, his handshake firm with maybe just a hint of implied challenge. He stepped into a mahogany and brass elevator. “I’ll take you to the director.”
In the lounge area of Carter Ames’s expansive office, Daniel sat on a white leather Barcelona chair, drinking strong black coffee from delicate bone china. Ames wore a bespoke navy-blue suit over a powder-blue shirt, offset by a yellow Hermès tie, tied in a perfect Windsor knot. The Windsor had always seemed fussy to Daniel and he’d never learned it, but on the director of the Fleur-de-Lis Foundation it looked more than comfortable. It looked inevitable.
Carter Ames did not waste time on small talk. “Our training program is rigorous. If you quit during training or fail to graduate the program, we pay you a severance of fifty thousand dollars, you sign a non-disclosure agreement, and we part friends. If you succeed, you become a Foundation field operative. And we take good care of our operatives. The job comes with a six-figure salary, but that just goes straight into your retirement fund—the Foundation covers all of your living expenses while you are in our employ. We pay for everything. You will live well”—Ames sipped his coffee—“which is as it should be for a job that makes high demands on your life and carries the risk of an early death.”
“Care to quantify that risk?” said Daniel.
“Eleven percent on average,” Ames said without hesitation. “Eleven percent of our field operatives die on the job. Another 33 percent quit the game with various PTSD-related issues—what we used to so quaintly call burnout. We take care of their financial and medical needs, but of course we can’t undo the damage.” He was quiet for a moment, giving Daniel time to absorb it. “Still interested?”
“So only 56 percent make it to retirement relatively intact,” said Daniel, a smile invading his face. “Hell of a sales pitch. Sure, I’m still interested.”
“I thought you would be. Questions?”
Daniel eyed the large Mondrian he’d seen in the video Ames had sent him, the Picasso on the opposite wall. Originals. “Why didn’t the Foundation put some skin in the game and really try to prevent my uncle’s assassination? You’ve got the resources.”
Ames nodded. “I don’t mean to be impolitic or to minimize your personal loss, but the direct answer is Tim Trinity wasn’t worth the investment of manpower or the risk to our top operatives. You saw the graphs, the trend lines. In the last year your uncle was one of—we don’t even know the number . . . ten thousand? One hundred thousand?—let’s just say many cases of Anomalous Information Transfer. His case was strange, but aside from the fact that it became a news story, it was not particularly special.”
Carter Ames turned and lifted a file folder from a small stack on the side table. “To be perfectly frank, we were more interested in you than your uncle.” He placed the file folder on Daniel’s side of the coffee table. Printed on the tab was Daniel Byrne. “We’ve been scouting you for some time, and we’re not alone in that.” Ames refilled their cups from the silver coffee pot. “Anyone who spends ten years as a top-level Vatican investigator does not go unnoticed by the players of the game.” He gestured at the folder, flashing professionally manicured fingernails. “You’ll see.”
“All right,” said Daniel.
“Now there is the matter of confidentiality.” For the first time, Carter Ames seemed a shade less than perfectly comfortable. “Perhaps the greatest sacrifice our members make, you will not be able to discuss the Foundation or the work we do with anyone on the outside. Naturally, that makes relationships difficult, and it’s why we encourage friendships and romantic entanglements between Foundation members. If you’re involved with a civilian and the situation becomes untenable, you can request that he or she be vetted and, if cleared, read in. But I’m afraid your lady friend, Miss Rothman, would not be cleared. For obvious reasons. I can only offer that, when the time comes to go public, we will offer her a head start on the rest of her colleagues in the media.”
“We’re no longer a couple,” said Daniel, “but she’s still a good friend, and I’ll take you up on the head start.”
“When the time comes, and not before. We’re not in the business of causing mass hysteria. That would only play into the Council’s hands. They’ve been far ahead of us on this from the start, and we’re still playing catch-up.”
“Understood.”
“And we have to play catch-up a lot faster than we have been. You saw what happened with your uncle, the flood of information that came out of him—in a matter of weeks, he plunged the entire country into chaos. Imagine if the Council had exclusive access to not just one, but maybe dozens of sources like that. They could manipulate currencies and stock markets and wars and elections around the globe; they’d have influence over world events on an unprecedented scale. The world wouldn’t stand a chance. So Anomalous Information Transfer has become the Foundation’s top priority, and we need you on the AIT team as soon as humanly possible. Our training program normally runs six months, but I’ve asked Raoul to get you ready in three.”
“I’m a quick study,” said Daniel.
When Raoul Aharon said they’d be having dinner in the commissary, Daniel naturally imagined a cafeteria. But the Foundation “commissary” was a large, elegant wood-paneled dining room complete with adjoining bar. The place would give the Yale Club an inferiority complex. But what really floored Daniel was the artwork—Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec and Miró and Dali and Hopper and Pollock and . . . too much to catalog.
“It rotates,” said Raoul as they sat. “The art. They go on tour or long-term loan to all the top museums. The view changes regularly, which you’ll come to appreciate. It’s what we have instead of windows.”
A waiter stopped by and took their order—crabcakes for Daniel, salade Niçoise for Raoul, and a half liter of Bordeaux to share—and then Raoul got down to business.
“Carter has decided to fast-track you through training.”
“He told me.”
“Did he tell you I argued against it?”
“No, he didn’t mention that. Do you argue with him often?”
Raoul nodded. “And sometimes I win him over. See, the way it works here . . . discussion and debate are not only encouraged, they’re insisted upon. Everyone’s clear on chain of command, but it’s less hierarchical than you might think—certainly nothing like it was back home.”
“Israel?”
“Are you saying I have an accent?”
Daniel smiled back at him. “Slight.”
Raoul drank some wine. “Yes, I was Mossad. Israeli Army Intelligence before that.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“I saw the bigger picture. A moment comes to every intelligence agent worth a damn, no matter what country you pledge allegiance to . . . you realize decisions are being made far above your pay grade, far above your boss’s pay grade, by men who do not pledge allegiance to nations, men playing a bigger game for even bigger stakes. And you don’t even know your real role in it all. So you have a choice to make. You can pretend not to see it and go on doing their grunt work without knowing why, you can quit intelligence work altogether . . .”
“Or you can join the big leagues, play the bigger game.”
“If you’re good enough.” Raoul gestured at the file folder Carter Ames had given Daniel, now on the table beside them. “For the record, Padre, you’re good enough. I’m the guy who scouted you for Carter. And I’ll try to get you ready in three months, but until you’re ready, you won’t go out in the field, however long it takes.”
“Padre” was a friendly jab, the kind of ribbing men do to bond with each other, but it rankled Daniel more than he liked. “For the record,” he said, “I was ex-commu
nicated.”
Raoul chuckled at that. “You forced the Vatican’s hand, didn’t give them any choice. You ex-communicated yourself.”
“Fair enough,” said Daniel.
“You were never sincere about the priesthood—”
“I was sincere about my work,” Daniel cut in.
“No doubt. Great investigator, lousy priest, not much of a Catholic even. I’m not judging—believe me, I understand better than you think. Me, I’m an Israeli Palestinian love child who joined Mossad, so I know, things get complicated. My concern is not with your choices in the past. Everyone arrives here with a past.”
“What is your concern?”
“We’ve never fast-tracked training before. For anyone. We can get you up to speed on what you have to learn, but we can’t rush your assimilation into our culture. The Vatican is like most places—interdepartmental rivalries, turf building, compartmentalization of intelligence—not unlike the CIA and the wider intel community. And you were pretty much a lone wolf there. I mean, did you trust—I mean really trust—anyone beyond Father Nick?”
“Not really,” Daniel said honestly. “There are only three people alive I’d trust with my life—one is my ex-girlfriend, one is a New Orleans voodoo priestess, and the third is a mercenary named Pat Wahlquist I met in Honduras.” He toasted with his wineglass. “It’s been a long, strange trip. And it turns out Pat’s a Foundation ally. I figure if he trusts you, I can.”
Raoul sipped some wine. “Good answer. Understand, the game we’re playing here is life-or-death. Trust is essential.”
“Carter already laid out the risks,” said Daniel.
Raoul continued as if Daniel hadn’t spoken. “Here, we trust each other, and we share information with each other. Look, we’re not asking for a blood oath. You stay with the Foundation as long as you like, or as long as we like. You judge us by our fruit, as the Bible says. But it takes time to get to know each other, and you can’t come in half-assed.”
The Devil's Game (The Game Trilogy Book 2) Page 2
