The Crimson Code. Rachel Lee
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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