In spite of her misgivings about the book's delivery, Lucy was intrigued. Magee had inherited the storytelling ability his Irish fore-bears were known for and was using it to full effect. "So what's it about?"
"What's it about?" he repeated, looking about mysteriously, which made her laugh again. "I'll tell you what it's about, little deir-fiuir." He stopped and appeared to be listening to the sounds outside the garden-level window opposite his chair and above Lucy's head. "I believe it's a sort of unauthorized edition exposing an organization so secretive that they make the Freemasons look like publicity seekers."
"I see, turn down your marriage proposal and suddenly I'm no longer 'mo chuisle,' I'm your little sister," Lucy complained. "Oh well, fickle man, tell me more."
"I have to do something to protect my wounded heart," Magee sniffed. "Thinking of you as my little sister, and therefore unsuitable for carnal pleasures, will help me heal. But before I go further with the book, I think the occasion calls for better ambience." He rose halfway from his chair and turned the switch that started his electric fireplace. The glowing "coals" and "flames" cast an orange pall on the room and strange flickering shadows on the walls. "Ah, that's better," he said.
"Much," Lucy agreed. "Now tell me the name of this book and this mysterious group."
"Such an impatient child," Magee complained. "If you're not careful, you're going to ruin the mood. But as to your question-they are one and the same, the title and the group." He turned the book to where she could see what it said.
"The Sons of Man," Lucy read aloud. "From the poem?"
"Exactly. 'A son of Man will march among the sons of Ireland to silence the critic for the good of us all.' Only I think we should be reading that as 'Son' capitalized."
"So the Sons of Man is the name of the group," Lucy said. "What's the book say about them?"
"It's a history book," Magee said. "Remember what I told you about the Isle of Man and how it was home to inveterate smugglers?"
"Yes, you said that the wealthiest people on the island today owe their fortunes to smuggling."
"And you'll remember how in 1783, the British, who were tired of being made fools of by the smugglers, as well as needing money to carry on war against the Americans, offered amnesty to the smugglers?" Magee continued.
"Yes, and five hundred took them up on the offer," Lucy said.
"And those who didn't and remained on the island were hunted down," Magee added. "Well, it appears that there was a third group of smugglers who refused to join the British armed services, nor were they willing to live as hunted men on their own home island. These people…what was that?" Magee stopped his monologue and tilted his head to the window behind Lucy.
Lucy turned in her chair to listen, but hearing nothing, she scolded Magee. "Stop that, Cian," she said. "You're giving me the willies."
"I thought I heard something at the window," Magee protested. "But never mind. It could have been somebody walking by or one of the rats from the alley. I swear they're getting bigger and more aggressive. I had to battle one for my peanut butter and jelly sandwich the other night. Fortunately, rats are not one of my phobias and I was victorious."
Magee reached into a box next to his chair and pulled out a meerschaum pipe and a large plastic bag of tobacco. "Do you mind?" he asked. "I know it's extraordinarily bad taste these days to subject someone to secondhand smoke, but it's my one real vice and it adds to the story, I think."
"Go ahead, Cian, I like pipe smoke," Lucy said.
"Oh, good," he said, lighting the bowl with great dramatic puffing. He sank back in his chair with his eyes closed and a look of satisfaction on his round face. "Anyway, this third group of smugglers, with all their kin-led by twelve heads of families-fled across the Atlantic to America, where the war was winding to a close. Patriots might have been fighting for freedom and ideals, but the smuggler families saw opportunity in the form of miles and miles of open coastline along which to ply their trade. They smuggled goods from Europe and the Caribbean-rum, tea, and even arms for the revolutionaries-not because of any patriotic zeal for their new homeland, but the desire for cold, hard cash."
In the orange glow and swirling smoke, Lucy imagined the seafarers running British blockades as Magee continued his story. After the Americans won their war, the smuggler families continued their business with even greater ease. The fledgling government was having a difficult time collecting taxes from honest men, and had no navy to speak of. "So they grew wealthy."
Smuggling remained the cornerstone of the empire they built, but it wasn't the entire building. "They were no different from other immigrant groups that founded crime syndicates-the Irish mob, the Mafia-in that they saw the wisdom of funneling the ill-gotten gains into legitimate enterprises," Magee said. "They also began to assimilate into society. Perhaps to disguise their roots, they changed their Manx names to English or Scottish, and using their fortune as bargaining chips, they began to marry into the best families. However, they continued their secret ways, organized into a council made up of the leaders of the twelve original families. Places on the council were passed from first sons to first sons. Other family members could be involved in the secret organization, if they were trusted, but only in unusual circumstances could someone who wasn't a firstborn son ascend to a place on the council."
"The Sons of Man," Lucy said.
Magee nodded. "Yes, that's where the name came from. As I said, their historic business was smuggling, and that apparently included a wide variety of commodities over the years, including slaves. But their operations remained diverse-rum from the Caribbean, diamonds from South Africa, whatever they could get past U.S. customs and make a lot of profit from. They also exported products made in the good old USA and smuggled them into other countries, especially weapons that went to foment revolutions and wars. They apparently made quite a killing smuggling liquor into the United States from Canada and Mexico during Prohibition. However, they seemed to be content with just getting their cargoes in or out and let others-like Al Capone-do the distributing, which I suspect avoided unnecessary conflicts with other armed groups."
"Wow," Lucy said. "This is all so out of left field. What else?"
"Well, the history stops just before the Second World War," Magee said. "But if the Sons of Man stayed true to form, I suspect that their ventures evolved to smuggling drugs and God knows what else. However, what I find particularly interesting is that they weren't just content with their smuggling empire. Somewhere along the line-maybe to protect what they had-they began to broaden their reach into politics, the legal system, the military, and financial institutions. First sons, the heirs to their fathers' seats, were expected to pursue careers in these areas-so they became politicians, and lawyers, and judges, and bankers, and captains of industry."
Magee patted the book. "And it's all in here. The original Manx names and the name changes; the history and the general outline of their purpose. Up to the late 1930s anyway. It's rather frightening, really, how a focused organization that is willing to bide its time and wait for the right moment can become a potent political and economic force. Maybe alter the course of history."
Lucy looked skeptical. "You're kidding me. A group no one has ever heard of?"
Magee nodded solemnly. "Yes, a group no one has ever heard of-or few people, because somebody obviously sent me this book, and I assume that was so that I could help you and Agent Jaxon."
"Speaking of whom," Lucy said, looking at her watch, "I wonder where he is. He's going to want to hear all of this."
Magee smiled. "That's quite all right. A good tale only gets better the second time around, and I suspect the two of you will want to borrow my book and delve into this yourselves."
"So who wrote the book?" Lucy asked.
"A good question," Magee said. "There is no credited author. No publisher listed after the title page, and no record of it in the Library of Congress or any public library I could find. I tried to find a record of the Sons of Man
on internet search engines and got a few hits. One was an incredibly bad song by a band called Killswitch Engage. I believe the lyrics go something like You son of man I am here as a witness/You son of man can't you see what burns inside me. Not exactly Bob Dylan and no apparent help with our poem. But that was about the most interesting of the lot."
"Did you try to find any references from the Isle of Man?" Lucy asked.
"Yes, and nothing there either," Magee replied. "I even wrote an email to their tourism bureau asking if they knew anything about a group called Sons of Man, but that was a dead end, too. Obviously, it was written by someone with insider information-maybe one of the Sons."
"So if Sons of Man is capitalized," Lucy wondered aloud, "I wonder if the poem is also referring to another group that calls itself the Sons of Ireland?"
"I thought of that myself," Magee said. "And I did find a nonprofit association called the Sons of Ireland in Monmouth County, New Jersey. But it was founded in 2002 after the World Trade Center attack, as their internet site states, based on 'the principles of brotherhood, charity, and community service.' Their big annual event is the Polar Bear Plunge on New Year's Day, when the brave ones jump in the Atlantic to raise money for charity. In other words, they don't seem to be in league with the nefarious Sons of Man."
"Can I see the book?" Lucy asked.
"Yes, of course," Magee said. "This has certainly added a bit of spice to my mundane little existence, but I'm sure I'm merely the conduit and this should be in your hands."
Lucy got up off the stool to get the book. "If that's the case, why not just send it to me?" she wondered as she sat back down.
"That I can't answer," Magee said. "But I expect it will be revealed in due time."
Lucy looked at the cover. It was embossed with a symbol consisting of three running legs joined at the hip inside a circle, as if forming the spokes of a wheel. "I've seen something like this before, only there was a Medusa's head in the middle," she said. "It's on the flag of Sicily. I think it's called a triskelion."
"Or triskele, from the Greek for 'three-legged.' It's quite an ancient symbol and has been found on pottery dating back thousands of years, including one piece depicting Achilles with the triskele on his shield," Magee said. "It's also on coins found in Sicily that date back to 300 BC. You've already seen the one on the Sicilian flag. But it's also on the flags of Brittany and…as you might imagine…the Isle of Man. They're each a little different. Besides the Medusa, the legs on the Sicilian version are nude; those on the flag of the Isle of Man are like the one on the front of the book, gold-armored and spurred. Notice that whoever published this book went to the expense and trouble of using real gold leaf on the armor. Isle of Man banknotes also feature the tre cassyn, as it's known in Manx, above the Latin phrase Quocunque jeceris stabit."
"Wherever you will throw it, it stands," Lucy translated, and grew quiet. He bears the mark that stands wherever you throw it. Look for it. She could hear Andy's voice warning her from her peyote vision.
"Exactly," Magee beamed, then noticed that Lucy had grown pale. "Say, is there anything wrong?"
Lucy pulled herself out of the memory. "No. Just recalled something. Not important."
"Okay, if you're sure," Magee said, then turned back to his story. "The oldest known version of the tre cassyn on the Isle of Man is found on the ancient Sword of State that once belonged to Olaf Godredson, a king of the southern Hebrides and the Isle of Man in the 1200s."
Lucy smiled. "You've been doing a lot of research."
Magee blushed. "Oh my, yes, and one discovery seems to lead to another. For instance, there are stylized versions-such as a triskele where the legs are represented by spirals. The earliest of those discovered so far were found on Neolithic carvings in County Heath in Ireland."
"Think that's the tie to the Sons of Ireland?"
"Who knows?" Magee shrugged. "But other than the use of the triskele, I couldn't find any definitive connection between the two. However, the more I looked, the more I was surprised at what a common symbol it is."
Magee explained that the triskele was also the symbol of nationalist movements of indigenous groups of Spain, including the Galizan, Asturian, and Cantabrian. "There's a four-branched version called the lauburu that is used by the separatist Basque movement."
It had also been adopted by Wicca and other neo-pagan groups. "It's quite popular with the bondage and sadomasochism crowd, too, especially after it appeared in the movie The Story of O. I suppose you and I could rent it and watch it together," Magee said, looking sly. "Just in case there's some hidden message in all that heaving, naked flesh."
Lucy rolled her eyes. "The only hidden message is in your pants, you dirty old man."
"Maireann croi eadrom i bhfad, eh?" Magee chortled.
"Yes, Cian, 'a light heart lives longest,' but on with your story," Lucy said.
Magee laughed and swiveled in his chair to the wall of books behind him and removed a small book from the shelf. "Mein Kampf," he said. "'My Struggle,' Hitler's little master-race manifesto. Originally it was published with a photo of that madman on the cover. This is a reprint, but the point is, I want you to look at the symbol on the front."
"A swastika." Lucy nodded. "Four-legged, but yes, I see the similarity."
"Quite unfair really," Magee said. "In many cultures, the swastika is a benign symbol, such as in the Hindu religion. But unfortunately, the triskele was doomed to become a symbol of hate once the Nazis got a hold of it; a trilegged version was also the symbol of the Waffen-SS division in Belgium. More recently, white racist death squads in South Africa have used it as their symbol, as have Aryan and neo-Nazi groups in western Europe and the United States. There is also a cousin of the triskele favored by these racist groups called the Valknut-three interlocking triangles-a terrible fate for something of innocent Norse origins."
"So are the Sons of Man racist?" Lucy asked.
"There's some indication of that in the book," Magee replied. "Part of which seems to have emerged during the slave-smuggling years, when there was little regard for the welfare of their cargo other than keeping them alive for sale. But while there are racial overtones, I think that the philosophy that evolved simply holds that their interests are best protected by a white state, preferably of Celt-Nordic-Germanic origins. I have to say as an Irish-American who is proud of his Celtic roots, I'm ashamed that such a connection exists. They can kiss my ass, Pog mo thoin!"
"Every race has its racists," Lucy said with a shrug. "And most every society has had men who seek dominion over other men, or think they know what is best for all-especially if it is best for them. The Sons of Man seem to be just one more, though if they still exist, they might be more dangerous than most. Maybe the recording and the book was sent as a warning, like you said, a Rosetta stone to translate what they're up to… God, I wish Jaxon was here."
Lucy checked her cell phone. It was working, but there was no message. "He's almost an hour late, which is not like him," she said. Then she stood up, walked over to Magee, and kissed him on the cheek. "Especially after you've done so much work."
Magee blushed the color of a ripe tomato and tears jumped into his eyes. "Be still my heart," he said. "Thank you, but I was just doing what I could to help." Embarrassed, he hauled his bulk out of the chair. "Perhaps I best fix us a spot of tea while we wait for Agent Jaxon."
As Magee puttered about near his microwave, Lucy looked at books on the shelves and piled on chairs. When she glanced over at the hallway leading to the front door, she was startled to see someone standing there. Then she saw that the 'person' was actually St. Teresa.
Oh no, Lucy thought. Whether the saint was a figment of her imagination or a genuine apparition, she didn't know. But whichever it was, the saint tended to show up in times of danger, and this was no different. Teresa looked at her and mouthed a single word. Run.
At that moment, something crashed through the garden-level window near the door and fell flaming like a meteor
in the hallway. The Molotov cocktail then burst and spewed flaming gasoline against a wall of books.
Lucy turned to Magee, who'd come around the corner carrying two cups of tea. "Run," she screamed to him as he stared in confusion at the quickly spreading conflagration.
"Where?" he cried. "That's the only way out!"
A block away, a man trotted down the alley toward a waiting limousine. He slowed when he approached the car and Jamys Kellagh stepped out. "Is it done?" Kellagh asked.
"Yes," the man said. "I listened for a few minutes. He had the book and had shown it to the girl. They knew far too much."
Kellagh nodded as he thought: That damn book could have ruined us all. Written and self-published by a traitor within the family, only a few copies survived-all in the hands of council members. This one had been, too, until another traitor took it and gave it to the enemy, though he'd since paid the price.
It should have been destroyed a long time ago, Kellagh thought. Folly to have kept it out of some misplaced affection for history. It was only by luck-and technology-that he'd learned that Cian Magee had received the book. His people regularly monitored the major internet search engines, like Google and Yahoo, for a variety of keyword searches that might impact the organization's plans. After the book was stolen, he'd added Sons of Man to the list of keywords to watch out for. There'd been nothing until shortly after Thanksgiving, and then there'd been several hits, all traced to the bookstore.
His first inclination had been to simply visit the shop and, when no one else was around, shoot Magee and take the book back. But the opportunity had not presented itself before Magee called Lucy Karp, a conversation he'd listened in on; then he knew he had to act fast and decisively. He'd decided that a wine bottle full of gasoline and a rag for a wick would accomplish the task of destroying the book and killing the witnesses to its existence.
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