by Graham Brown
“We do know one other thing,” McMullan said.
“Which is?” Kate asked.
McMullan looked back up toward the broken skylight in the ceiling, and Kate’s gaze followed.
“As psychotic and dangerous as this guy was, somebody managed to stick a twelve-inch blade in his gut and throw him through that skylight. And it wasn’t our drugged-out, hundred-and-five-pound little girl, I can promise you that.”
Kate squinted at the broken metal frame high above. McMullen was right. Something else had gone down on that roof—something bad—and the young woman had been just a small part of it.
CHAPTER 5
Boston, Massachusetts
ON THE twenty-ninth floor of a building owned by his company, Timeless Exports Imports, Drake Castillion sat calmly, gazing across his desk. Broad shouldered, but tall enough to appear lean, he had black eyes; thick, wavy hair that looked black in the low light but was actually deep brown in color; and a gaunt face that appeared both wise and aristocratic.
His hands clasped loosely in front of him, he rested his elbows on his black marble desk and gazed across its flecked surface at a man named Victor Losini.
As Drake watched, Losini’s gaze darted around the windowless office, studying the ancient artwork and long-forgotten relics Drake had collected. Despite being a former member of Interpol and running one of the best-known investigation firms in the world, Victor Losini seemed nervous.
A pair of elevator doors opened behind Losini; the office, along with the rest of the floor, was accessible only through them. A striking woman in a gray business suit came in. She was tall and thin, with long legs and cinnamon-colored skin.
Drake watched as Losini looked her up and down.
“The report you wanted,” she said, placing a file on Drake’s desk.
“Thank you, Vivian,” Drake said.
She nodded, walked back to the elevator, and stepped inside. As the doors closed, Losini’s gaze lingered.
“I sense you’d like to be on that elevator yourself,” Drake said.
“With her?” Losini said. “Sure.”
“Or even without her,” Drake replied.
“I don’t follow you.”
“You intend to turn me down,” Drake said.
Losini sighed and then got down to business. “I know the other agencies you’ve used to look for this man,” he said. “They’re top-notch outfits. If they couldn’t find him, it’s because he’s not out there.”
“They failed me, Mr. Losini. One of them betrayed me by taking my money and not even bothering to look. I sense you’ll do better.”
“With all due respect,” Losini replied, “I know five years at the rates those guys charge can’t run you less than ten million dollars. I know my agency will charge you fifty thousand a week to do the same. It’s your money, that’s true, and you say money is no object, but I’ve worked for plenty of rich guys who said the same thing. Sooner or later, money becomes an object. Sooner or later, you realize you’re just wasting your time. ”
Losini looked proud of himself, his wit and wisdom bright and quick in his own mind. Drake stood, drawing up to his full six-foot-three height. Losini seemed a bit startled.
“Come with me,” Drake said as he walked to a door on the right-hand side of the room. “I’ll teach you something about the true nature of time.”
Losini stood up cautiously as Drake swiped a card through the reader on the door and unlocked it.
Drake opened the door and held it, waving Losini forward.
“Where are we going?”
“To my inner sanctum of sorts,” Drake said.
Losini looked suspicious.
“My company owns the building,” Drake explained. “Business is conducted down below, but my private residence is up here, from the twenty-seventh floor to the roof.”
“I’m not sure that’s going to change anything.”
Drake offered a cunning grin. “Surely the other agencies told you how reclusive I am. Aren’t you the least bit curious to see what they never did?”
Losini hesitated, and then his confidence returned. “If you insist.”
Drake pulled the door wide and ducked into the hall. Losini followed. They walked past a small fountain in a dark hallway of gray-and-black granite. Only recessed fluorescent lights lit the corridor.
“Why is it so dim in here?”
“I have a condition,” Drake said. “Light bothers my eyes.”
“I see.”
They came out into a more spacious room, one with a view that took in all of Boston. The city was lit up for the night, and the moon rode high above.
Losini stared, duly impressed. The lights gave the city a pristine facade, as if it were a virgin metropolis. But beauty and the truth were seldom the same thing. And Losini’s eyes, Drake noticed, were drawn to the lesser of the two.
“Over here,” he said.
In the center of this great room was a large pendulum swung on a fifty-foot cable. Up above, somewhere hidden in the rafters, it attached to a bearing made of polished, frictionless titanium. Three stories below, a twenty-pound sphere made of solid brass swished repetitively across a map of the world patterned in silver and onyx. It moved back and forth in long, smooth strokes. In the silence, each pass could just be heard, like a whisper.
“Do you know what this is, Mr. Losini?”
“A pendulum of some kind.”
“Not just any pendulum,” Drake explained. “A Foucault pendulum, although this one is far older than the man for whom they’re named. I purchased it to remind me of life’s great truth: Time is more valuable and precious than any other commodity. Time makes all things possible.”
“I’m really not sure what you’re driving at,” Losini said.
Drake decided to explain. “The man who designed this pendulum died in a revolt against the Roman Empire in the year 483, fourteen hundred years before Foucault demonstrated the principle of these machines and explained how they work. This pendulum was lost, buried in the rubble of a city, and then found again in 1938. Before it could be fully excavated, the men working on it were killed by the Nazi party for their political activities, and the pendulum was buried again, this time in a warehouse in Berlin.
“Hitler is said to have wanted it for the Reichstag. But before he could mount it anywhere, he was overrun by the Allies and chose to kill himself like the coward that he was. Fifty years later, it came to me, and now, finally, it swings freely.”
“And that tells me…what?”
“The designer is gone,” Drake said. “The discoverers are gone. Hitler and his third Reich are gone. But the pendulum itself lives on. Time has made the machine more powerful than its creator, even its usurper.”
Losini looked at the pendulum one more time. As abstract as the concept was, he seemed to grasp it. “Once it gets pushed, it keeps on going,” he said, “slowly turning in the circle over your map of the world down there.”
“The other way around,” Drake said, correcting him. “The pendulum swings in one place, unwilling to change. The world revolves around it.”
Losini nodded and seemed to understand what Drake was saying. “Neat trick,” he said, “but even if the world revolves around that hunk of steel, it’s not going to bend its will to you or me. I can’t find a man who doesn’t exist. And the guy you’re looking for is either dead or locked up in some third world prison, where they don’t keep records or submit to inspections. And that makes him as good as gone.”
Drake shook his head. “I assure you he’s not dead, Mr. Losini. And as for a prison…I doubt there’s one on this earth that could hold him.”
Losini’s gaze narrowed. His interest seemed peaked at last. He was feeling his roots. The lawman with a criminal to hunt whom Drake had just elevated above him and his kind.
Drake only wished he’d tried that tactic earlier. “Let’s stop kidding ourselves,” he said. “You could have turned me down over the phone when I told you this would
be an extremely difficult task. You could have called or sent an e-mail canceling our meeting after the other agencies told you they’d tried and failed. But you didn’t do either. You came in person. There must be a reason. I think it’s that you believe in yourself—as all men should. You believe you can do the impossible and succeed where they failed.”
Losini hesitated.
“Am I wrong?”
Losini cleared his throat. “There is one option neither of them tried,” he admitted.
“A new method?”
“Facial recognition technology. Not exactly new, but getting better all the time. You gave me a picture. It looks kind of old, but you insist it’s relatively recent, so we can use it. I have friends at Interpol and in Homeland Security. I can get them to code this guy’s features into their network, put a John Doe tag on him, and give him a high-level threat category, the one they use to watch for terrorists. He pops up anywhere on the grid, and we’ll get a notification.”
“Cameras,” Drake said.
Losini nodded. “You told me he travels, never stays in one place very long. There are cameras everywhere now, especially around transportation hubs. Unless he’s riding a horse or paddling a canoe, he’ll show up sooner or later.”
Drake digested this. “Why wouldn’t the other agencies have offered this service?”
“Because it’s illegal,” Losini replied bluntly. “Because they don’t know the people I do, and they wouldn’t have the guts to grease the skids the way I’m willing to, even if they did share my contacts.”
“Can you actually do what you propose?”
Losini nodded without blinking. “Anyone gets caught, and there’s going to be hell to pay, but with enough money and promises, I think I can convince them to spread the net.”
“How effective is that kind of search?”
“Far better than anyone thinks or really wants to know. Big Brother is already watching, you can count on that.”
Drake took in the information. There were risks, but it was worth it.
“How much?”
“I’ll need a million to spread around,” Losini said without batting an eye. “And that’s just to get the doors open. A couple million to follow and ten million for putting my company at risk.”
Drake nodded. “You’ll have it.”
Losini appeared surprised. Perhaps he’d expected an argument or a negotiation. Things Drake had no time for. “Any other questions?
“Yeah,” Losini said. “Why is this guy is so important to you? Did he steal your wife or kill somebody or something like that?”
Drake spoke in a flat tone. “He’s killed many people in his time. None that you would know or care about, trust me.”
Losini’s face soured. “I don’t do private vengeance. Not even for your kind of money.”
“He was a soldier once,” Drake explained. “There were wars. They left him…disturbed.”
“I need more than that,” Losini insisted. “I need to understand your interest.”
“It’s very simple,” Drake said. “I have wealth, power, influence…But despite all this, despite everything I possess, I’m alone on this desolate rock of a world. The man in the photo, the man you’ll be looking for, is the closest thing to family that I’ve ever had.”
Losini took that in, perhaps wondering if there was any significance. “And when I find him?”
“Contact my office,” Drake said coldly. “And leave the rest to me.”
CHAPTER 6
New York City, Columbia University
IDA WASHINGTON used the strength in her arms and the power in her shoulders to force her wheelchair forward and over an obstruction that blocked her path. As she bumped down on the other side, she noticed the offending item was a beige-colored textbook from one of the classes she taught.
She shrugged. Moving around her cramped little office at Columbia University required a combination of dexterity, arm strength, and the occasional willingness to four-wheel it over things. Students often wondered about the state of their term papers once they were returned. Did the tattered edges mean Professor Washington had read it over several times? Were tire tracks the equivalent of a gold star or a sign she thought very little of the work?
Truth was, they were just a result of too much stuff and too little space.
A decade of inhabiting the same office led to clutter in most professors’ lives. Ida was no different. Surrounding her were stacks of unfinished research, keepsakes, and a collection of rare books, many of which had been around far longer than her fifty-nine years.
They gathered dust, mostly. The only thing that didn’t was a picture of her and her mother taken when she was a little girl. They were standing on the old wooden porch in front of the small house she’d grown up in.
In addition to the books, shelves on each wall were stocked with artifacts from around the world. At times, they seemed like relics from another life, as if they belonged to a former tenant who’d left them behind when he or she moved on.
In a way, that was true. Ida had collected these things before her accident. Before a fall in Guatemala had damaged her spine and rendered her legs all but useless. She’d ended up in a wheelchair. She hadn’t set foot outside New York since.
She didn’t need to—the Internet and a network of friends and contacts brought the world to her.
Instead of fading away, Ida had continued to work, raising her profile even higher than before. In many ways, she was now considered the leading expert on ancient documents and forgotten religions.
She’d petitioned many nations, organizations, and historical societies to give up documents and relics they held secret. She was so familiar with the Freedom of Information Act and similar rules from around the world that she’d been asked to author a book on digging up information. She’d agreed to write it, but only if someone would publish it under the title Being a Pain in the Ass.
So far, there were no takers.
Didn’t matter. She knew the value of persistence. It’s what got things done. At the moment, she was practicing what she preached. After years of pushing and cajoling and begging, she believed she was closing in on a secret, one that was long hidden by the Catholic Church and other religious organizations.
She wheeled herself up to her desk and moved the computer mouse. The monitor came on, displaying fragments of an old document, parts of which had been found in different places. It read like a holy order, like a call to arms.
A contact within the church had authenticated it in confidence as part of a larger text and the root of a much bigger story. Her friend had promised to explain what he could, while insisting there were things he could not tell her. She understood that too. In her line of work, you took what you could get.
She checked the time: nearly 1:00 a.m. in New York, 7:00 a.m. in Rome. With a type of excitement and nervousness she could scarcely remember, she reached for the phone and dialed a European number.
The call went through and began ringing.
“Come on, Father Hershel,” she whispered to herself.
Despite living in New York for years, she retained a hint of her Southern accent. Georgia had been her childhood home. Only college had brought her north.
A click on the line told her the receiver had been picked up. She waited to hear Father Hershel’s cheery hello, but no one spoke.
“Hello?” she said. “Father Hershel?”
A discordant male voice jarred her. “I’m afraid Father Hershel is not available.”
“Is he not in yet?” she said. “I didn’t realize how early it was—”
“I’m quite sure you know what time it is, Ms. Washington.”
That the man on the other end of the line knew her name was a little uncomfortable for her.
“Who am I talking with?” she asked firmly.
“I’m Father Dante Masiangleo,” the man said. “Father Hershel has been transferred to another position. How can I be of assistance?”
Ida was s
peechless. No small feat. She didn’t know this Masiangelo person. Father Hershel had never mentioned him, not even as someone who might have a problem with the truth Ida was searching for.
“Where has Father Hershel been moved to? And why?”
“He will no longer take your calls, Ms. Washington. You’ve played on his kindness and manipulated him, but Father Hershel is aware of your intentions and does not wish to let you discredit the Church.”
“I’m only seeking information,” she said. “I hardly see how revealing the truth could be an attempt to discredit.”
“You are in possession of mere fragments of a document,” he said. “Viewing such a small portion of the whole can result in misunderstanding. Drawing of conclusions that bear no relation to reality. This is how it would discredit us.”
“That’s why I want to know the rest of it,” she said. “When you keep things hidden, people have no choice but to draw their own conclusions.”
“I can only tell you that what you possess was never supposed to see the light of day,” he replied, “or to be viewed by the outside world. It was part of an internal discussion relating to a point of theology.”
“It talks about war,” she said.
“A spiritual war,” he insisted.
“You don’t need soldiers or swords for a spiritual war,” she countered. “The fragment references the bringing of weapons to a zealot’s army.”
“Metaphors, I assure you.”
“Come on, Father. Do you really expect me to believe that?”
The priest sighed. “Does the document you have not speak of demons?”
The document was written in ancient Latin, and the translation was odd and difficult. It read like a confirmation of fears, that something not of this world had entered it and now dwelled among the people. The church called them the Fallen. It claimed they were demons sent to destroy humanity and undermine the Lord.
“It does,” she admitted.
“And pray tell me,” he asked, “what good might swords be against such creatures?”
