The Crimson Code

5

Washington, D.C.

President Harrison Rice sat in a wingback chair, looking at his National Security Advisor. Phillip Allen Bentley had not been Rice’s first choice for the position. In fact, Rice would not have chosen Bentley at all. When he had announced the nomination, Rice had spoken to the press of Bentley’s twenty years of service with the State Department, in a variety of postings. And that, coupled with Rice’s close association with the key senators on the Foreign Affairs Committee, had set the tenor for Bentley’s confirmation hearings.

The name of Jonathan Morgan had never come up, and certainly not in the White House. But Bentley’s presence, so unwelcome, served as a constant reminder.

What Harrison Rice knew—and hoped no one else had discovered—was that his old college roommate and lifelong friend Edward Morgan had masterminded the assassination attempt on Rice’s rival in the Democratic primaries: Grant Lawrence. Edward was dead now, a loose end tied up. Edward’s father, Jonathan Morgan, had come to Rice shortly after the election and explained Rice’s tenuous political position, making it clear that “his people” would expect Rice’s obedience. And the death of Edward left no doubt as to the price of disobedience.

Afterward, wild for some escape hatch, he had called for a private meeting between himself and the Director of the FBI, seeking an update on the Lawrence assassination attempt. The meeting had been held away from any possible ears or microphones, at a hunting lodge in West Virginia. Instead of learning that Jonathan Morgan had been lying, he learned that the Bureau had suspected Edward Morgan’s involvement but could not find hard evidence. If the FBI couldn’t prove it, then Rice had no hope of blowing a noisy whistle on the conspiracy. The “debt” would have to be paid.

Bentley’s appointment was the first installment, and although his influence in the administration had thus far been minimal, Rice knew that couldn’t last. Black Christmas had changed everything.

“If we handle this well,” Bentley continued, “we can form an international consensus. Black Christmas proved to the world what 9/11 should already have made obvious, that Islamic terrorism is an imminent threat to global security. The United States must act, and act decisively.”

“Of course we must,” Rice said. “But this kind of response…I mean, do we even know for sure who did this? As heavily as we’ve infiltrated Al Qaeda, wouldn’t we have known if they were planning something on this scale? And let’s not forget that Pakistan has been an ally in the war on terrorism. And they have nuclear weapons of their own.”

“Who else but Al Qaeda could have carried out such an attack?” Bentley replied. “We know they’ve wanted another high-profile strike, and we know they’ve become a global, pan-Islamic ideological movement. As the 2003 subway bombings in Madrid demonstrated, Al Qaeda’s leadership doesn’t have to be directly involved in a given attack. They’ve become a rallying cry for disaffected Muslims around the world. A mention here, a suggestion there, and indigenous Muslim radicals would gladly have performed the Black Christmas strikes on their own.”

“But the coordination,” Rice said. “You can’t tell me these attacks were independent, coincidental actions.”

“No,” Bentley conceded. “There would have been some coordination in terms of time. But the varying nature of the attacks themselves suggests multiple actors, working independently. And the complete absence of solid intelligence before the attacks seems to confirm that. So yes, Mr. President, I think it’s safe to conclude that this was an Al Qaeda coordinated operation. And we know their senior leadership is clustered in the remote regions of western Pakistan.”

Rice rose to his feet and turned to look out at the White House lawn. The snow on the ground was white and even, a pristine backdrop to a conversation that no U.S. president had seriously entertained since the end of the Second World War. For a moment, he let himself wonder if the mountains of Pakistan were also covered with snow at this moment, and whether some Al Qaeda leader was looking out from a cave entrance at a scene of picturesque beauty. He shook the image from his head and turned back to Bentley.

“Why not special operations forces? If we know where these people are, why not go in and get them?” He picked up Bentley’s memo. “I mean, why this, of all things?”

Bentley opened his hands, palms up. “Those caves are natural fortresses, Mr. President. They stretch hundreds of feet into the mountains, and they’re interconnected by man-made tunnels. That’s too big a target for commando-style operations. Defense tells me they would need at least a reinforced brigade to assault that kind of target, and we would take heavy casualties. Their projections are based on operations against cave complexes in Iwo Jima and other Pacific islands during World War II. They’re saying forty to sixty percent.”

Rice recoiled at the prospect of three or four thousand dead Americans. “But this isn’t 1945, Phillip. We have better technology now. We have the best military the world has ever known. I can’t believe—”

“Mr. President,” Bentley said, “cave-clearing operations are straight-up infantry battles. Those fights haven’t changed much in centuries. All the high-tech gizmos in the world mean little or nothing in that setting. It would come down to men with rifles and bayonets, groping along in the darkness, having no idea of the terrain ahead of them, against an enemy who knows every inch and is ready to go meet Allah. No, Mr. President, the ground option simply is not militarily viable. It would be a bloodbath, worse than Iraq, and the American people would not stand for it.”

Rice nodded slowly. “Okay. And conventional bombs? We have twenty-thousand-pound, armor-piercing bunker busters. We used them in Iraq. Why not there?”

Bentley shook his head. “They are designed for man-made structures, sir. Not for mountains. This is our only viable military option.”

“Our only viable military option,” Rice echoed. “You want me to blast a hole in Pakistan—an ally—with nuclear weapons.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Bentley said. “With nuclear weapons.”

Cairo, Egypt

Guiseppi Veltroni strolled along Midan Talaat Harb, admiring the neoclassic architecture. Despite its haze, Cairo was still a beautiful city. When he had first met Nathan Cohen, years before, Cohen had offered to take him to the Valley of the Kings and the Giza Plateau. But to Veltroni, that was “tourist Egypt,” too far removed from the experience of the common Egyptian. Veltroni preferred Cairo or Alexandria, where he could watch the comings and goings of ordinary people, gauge their moods and feel the pulse of their nation.

During the day, Cairo hummed with a rhythm as old as time. Men and women shopped at outdoor markets, bargaining for the best prices on vegetables, meats, clothing and other necessities. It was this sort of human push and pull that had first drawn Veltroni from the tiny village of his birth to the sprawl of Rome, and while he still went home to visit, his heart remained in city life.

His Arabic was barely passable, but he could still learn much from facial expressions and body language. The woman at the lemon stand, for example, seemed untouched by the events of Black Christmas. In her weary face, he saw a woman for whom life was not global in its reach. Not for her the machinations of power or the whispered schemes of men who would do whatever they thought necessary to gain an advantage. Her life was simple, and in that simplicity, he saw a beauty he had long since forsaken.

“You are probably right, my friend.”

Veltroni turned to see Cohen standing beside him. As always, the man seemed to appear out of nowhere. Perhaps more irritating, and also as always, Cohen seemed to be able to read his thoughts.

“One day I will learn how you do that,” Veltroni said, not extending a hand in greeting.

“It would be better for all of us if you did not,” Cohen replied. He pointed to an outdoor café across the street. “Come, let us have fine Turkish coffee and talk. There is much we need to discuss.”

“Perhaps,” Veltroni said, following Cohen to a table. “If you had news of my brother priest in Guatemala, I would be more inclined to listen to the rest of what you say.”

“Ahh yes,” Cohen said, sitting. “That would be Father Lorenzo, no?”

Veltroni nodded. “As always, your knowledge of my activities exceeds my knowledge of yours.”

“And that, too, is probably for your own good,” Cohen said, before switching to Arabic to order for both of them. After the waiter had gone, Cohen turned to Veltroni. “The good Father Lorenzo is alive, my friend, or was when last my sources heard of him. He and the villagers of Dos Ojos have gone into hiding in the mountains, hunted by both the government and the rebels. And also by your enemies.”

Veltroni’s heart squeezed. While he and Lorenzo had taken the same oath for the preservation of the Faith, an oath that bound them even unto death, he had no desire to test the limits of that commitment, for himself or for his friend and protégé.

“And what can your…sources…do to protect him?” Veltroni asked. “Some quid pro quo would not be amiss.”

Cohen shook his head. “Even our reach has its limits, Monsignor. If I could guarantee your friend’s safety, I would. But that is not in my power to do.”

“And Black Christmas?” Veltroni asked. “Was that in your power to prevent?” It was almost an accusation, a sign that his diplomatic abilities were becoming strained by his concern about recent events—and by Cohen’s opacity. Veltroni forced himself to draw a steadying breath. Like it or not, he couldn’t afford to offend any contact, least of all one about whom he knew so little.

“I wish it had been,” Cohen said. “What happened last week served only the basest of human impulses. That horror will only beget more horror. Even now, there are those who are discussing the most awful of consequences.”

“Your choice of words is disturbing, Mr. Cohen.”

“It should be, Monsignor. There are those who will pause at nothing to pursue their ends, and who will use these attacks as a way to justify more bloodshed.”

Veltroni felt chilled despite the warmth of the Cairo afternoon. Time. All of a sudden it seemed there was no time.

“When?” he asked numbly.

Cohen shrugged and sipped his espresso. “The sword must be rattled first. You will hear it rattling.”

Veltroni closed his eyes, suddenly wondering how it was that he could be sitting here on a sun-drenched street in Cairo, watching ordinary people go about their ordinary lives and discussing the unthinkable.

“Monsignor,” said Cohen, leaning toward him, “I will give you something to think about.”

Veltroni’s eyes snapped open.

“Consider whether you are protecting your Church or your faith. They are not one and the same. As for the Codex you sent your young friend to find…you would be wise to pray that he does not find it. You have no idea what events you and your enemies have set in motion, Monsignor. No idea at all. For myself…” Cohen shrugged. “Armageddon will happen. Now or later.”

He rose and threw some money on the table to pay for the coffee. He paused and spoke one more time. “There is a reason, Monsignor, that your Church holds no specific doctrine about whether Yeshua ben Yusef was married. Your Church has shown wisdom in that, and you ought not ignore that wisdom. Be willing to let the truth be the truth.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the crowds on the street before Veltroni could say another word.

At that point, if the sky had darkened and lightning had begun to shoot from the clouds, Veltroni would have been no less disturbed. Nor felt any less that he was on the cusp of a division between realities.

His head suddenly rang with Pilate’s infamous question: What is truth?

And for the first time in his life, Giuseppe Veltroni wondered if he had ever known the answer.

Frankfurt, Germany

Jonathan Morgan rarely came to Frankfurt these days. He was getting too damn old for international flight, even on a private jet. Eight hours in cramped quarters seriously annoyed him. At his age he’d earned the right to spend time fishing and tending his collection of orchids.

Instead, he’d been summoned to a meeting in no uncertain terms. It was all his son’s fault, he thought grimly as he stretched stiff joints before attempting to climb down the stairs to the apron. If Edward hadn’t screwed up and needed to be eliminated, he would have been the one making this hellacious trip.

A car awaited him, he saw. And Frankfurt’s winter weather hadn’t improved a damn. Cold and gray, threatening snow.

His valet buttoned his overcoat snugly and helped him wrap a muffler around his throat. On his head was perched a stylish gray merino hat.

He descended the stairs easily, now that he had worked out the kinks. For a man in his late sixties, he was in remarkably good shape.

Inside the car sat Wilhelm Tempel, one of the oldest and most esteemed members of the Brotherhood. Wilhelm’s family had been one of the founders of the Berg & Tempel private bank, the very core of the Brotherhood. Their association with the bank went back to the thirteenth century. Despite long association and several centuries of marriages between Morgans and Tempels, Jonathan Morgan still fell like something of an upstart beside this man.

“It is good to see you, Jonathan,” Wilhelm said warmly enough. “It has been too long.”

Jonathan smiled. “That trip is too long for men of our age, Wilhelm.”

“This could not be discussed any other way. As good as our communications security is, one must never be too trusting of technology.”

Jonathan nodded. “I agree.”

Wilhelm smiled. “I am told the Hunter is on the trail, Jonathan. He is closing in.”

Jonathan felt his heart leap as it had not leaped in years. “How close?”

Wilhelm’s smile broadened. “Let’s discuss it with the others over the very fine meal my chef is preparing. I even have a bottle of that fine Riesling you enjoy so much.”

Jonathan forced himself to be patient, but it was not easy. That the quest might be completed in his lifetime! And if so, he knew exactly what that completion would trigger—and who would rake in the profits.

6

Guatemalan Highlands

This was the dry season? Hah!

The Hunter lay among the thick growth while rain dribbled onto his back. This was supposed to be the best time of year in this godforsaken country, but instead it was miserable. He supposed some weather forecaster would blame it on El Niño or something like that. As if it made a bit of difference on the ground.

He’d been out here for weeks now, following some priest who was supposedly looking for the Kulkulcan Codex. His masters believed the priest would find it faster than the Hunter could. They, of course, were reckoning without adequate knowledge of the Hunter’s exquisite interrogation techniques. But then, they wanted the priest, too, as if they suspected him of holding some special information apart from the Codex.

His finely honed sense of people told him the priest was nowhere near finding the damn Codex. Even if that had been Lorenzo’s mission, affairs had pushed him onto another tack. The Hunter hadn’t experienced the least difficulty learning the story, even after all this time. These Indios had little to occupy them other than work, religion and gossip. They loved to talk about almost anything, but they particularly liked to talk about injustices against themselves and their fellows. The story of what had happened at Dos Ojos was beginning to take on all the proportions of an epic myth. Some were even murmuring that the bruja at Dos Ojos had made all the survivors invisible.

The Hunter knew better than that. They were invisible, all right, but there was no magic involved. It was simply that they knew the ways of these mountains better than he ever could. No matter what he did, he always seemed to be two or three days behind these people.

And as he plotted each campsite he discovered on his map, it began to seem to him they were moving in circles. Very big circles, but in no particular direction, unless you counted the miles they had put between themselves and Dos Ojos.

He bit into a piece of jerky and watched the rain drip from the narrow brim of his olive-drab pork-pie hat. He prided himself on his skills, smarts and utter ruthlessness. But right now he was beginning to wonder if a bunch of ignorant natives were going to outsmart and outrun him forever.

Neither his employers nor his masters would accept that. Either he found the priest and the Codex, or he died trying. There were no alternatives. Cursing silently, he pressed on into the jungle.

Frankfurt, Germany

Jonathan Morgan was pleased with his suite. While the Steigenberger Hotel was comparatively new, especially in a country where businesses proudly proclaimed centuries-old heritages, it offered both luxury and convenience, and had a well-earned five-star rating. Had he been merely a tourist visiting Frankfurt, he might have thought he had tumbled into a traveler’s delight.

But he was not on a tourist visit, and as he surveyed the faces of the other men in the room, he found himself unable to relax in the posh comfort of his accommodations. This was business, pure and simple. And it was an ugly business, at that.

“So,” the German said, “is your president prepared to use nuclear weapons?”

“He seems resigned to the prospect,” Morgan replied. “But this is hardly an easy decision for any man to make. He is a bold man, however. Once he accepts that there are no alternatives, he will move forward with our plans.”