Adam pushed the laptop toward her, let her read the financial report he’d just pulled.
Kitsune said, “They bought the boat six years ago from a company in Saudi Arabia, and it’s docked in Bermuda. They really are global, aren’t they?”
She gave him a blazing smile, grabbed his face, and kissed him again. “You have my gratitude forever, Adam. Forever.”
“What’s this, more kisses? What’d you do now, Adam?” Nicholas stepped into the room.
Adam gave Nicholas a cocky grin. “The people who kidnapped Grant Thornton hauled him away in a boat belonging to the Genesis Group. Elysian Fields.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mike was rubbing her hands together. “A splinter arm called Black Diamond.” She wanted to hoot and holler until she saw Kitsune’s still face. She said with total conviction, “Your husband is alive, Kitsune. They’re not stupid enough to kill him until they have you. We will find him and then we’ll nail these power-mongering—Hey, Nicholas, why are you grinning like an idiot?”
“Kitsune, I’ve confirmed Lilith Forrester-Clarke has been your shadow, for years now. And, not surprising, her interest and focus have intensified the last few months.”
“How do you know this?”
“I called Gray, asked him to look through Lilith’s financials. He accessed photos of you and Grant in the Genesis Group computer assigned to Lilith. The photos date back to when you were playing the role of the young artist in London, prior to your Koh-i-Noor engagement. She’s responsible for bringing you into this, without a doubt.”
“Was it her personally, or do you think she was under instruction to vet me for the Topkapi job?”
Nicholas handed her the sheaf of papers. “See for yourself. Gray sent us everything he could find—it looks like she wanted to know even more, and so she paid a private investigator, an expensive one, out of her own pocket. Because she knew you, admired you and your skills, she recommended you to the Kohaths. She knew you were one of the very few thieves in the world who could steal the staff of Moses from the Topkapi.” He paused a moment. “As you know, the other one died in a fire.”
Kitsune swallowed. “Yes, Mulvaney.”
“Your old mentor.”
Nicholas scraped a hand against his face. He needed a shave badly. “She upped her surveillance on you for the last six months, then hired you to pull off a nearly impossible heist, which you did, and instead of handing you the second half of your payment, she tried to have you killed.”
Mike said slowly, “Maybe it wasn’t Lilith’s decision to kill you. Maybe the Kohaths saw you as a loose thread and wanted you dead.”
Louisa wandered into the small bedroom, eating a banana. “We need to find out where they took Kitsune’s husband.”
Adam didn’t look up from his computer. “I’m looking now. I have a lot of irons in the fire. I’ve been trying to hack Russo’s email and haven’t had any luck, either. Can you guys leave me alone for a while and let me sort through everything? As soon as facial recognition comes through on the dead shooters we don’t already know, I’ll holler.” He did look up then. “Kitsune, I’ll find Grant. Just give me a little time. I’ve got an idea.”
Nicholas said to everyone, “Let’s go back into the living room. I’ll tell you about some interesting abnormalities Gray has found in the Genesis Group’s financials.”
“Like what?” Kitsune asked.
He didn’t answer, pointed at Adam, whose brow was furrowed as he stared at the screen. They followed Nicholas into the suite living room, set themselves at their stations. Kitsune stood by the window, looking out every few moments. A well-ingrained habit, Mike imagined.
Nicholas said, “Now, we need to run some other data as well, try to match it to the financials—”
Mike stopped, put her hands on her hips. “Stop, right there. Listen, Nicholas, as soon as Adam finds where the Kohaths are holding Grant, we need to move. We have everything we need. I’ll even wager the Kohaths will be wherever Grant is being kept. We can’t just sit around gathering more data.”
Louisa said, “I agree with Mike, Nicholas. I think we should go at them hard, and do it now, before they have a chance to cover anything up. Or before Major Russo comes here with a platoon of soldiers and tosses all of us in his Italian hoosegow.”
They heard a whoop, then Adam came running into the living room, waving his laptop. “I found Grant. You’re smart, Kitsune, the private airports were the key. I found where the yacht docked, traced them to a plane at a small airport outside of Naples. Yesterday, a plane with the same tail number landed in Perugia, that’s about four hours southwest of here, toward Rome. There are several security cameras placed around the hangars, and they still hadn’t recycled the feeds.”
He had the video queued up, hit play. There was Grant, handcuffed, his arms held by two men. It was obvious he was deeply drugged. They dragged him to a small hangar and the screen shot changed.
Kitsune couldn’t help it, she blew out a shaky breath. “Those bastards. But he’s alive, he’s alive.”
“I pulled satellite footage from the area. Got lucky, there’s a U.S. Army base north of here, Aviano, and they do regular flyovers. Otherwise I would have had to ask the Italian government for help, and I assume after we banged up their piazza, they wouldn’t be so hot to lend a hand.
“So, look here. They’re getting into a Peugeot, driving west. Sorry, I lost them after that.”
Nicholas clapped Adam on his shoulder. “Fine work, Adam, and no, I’m still not going to kiss you. Do the Kohaths have holdings near Perugia?”
“Let me see.” He typed for a second. “Yes, here it is. The Kohaths have a house in a town called Castel Rigone, near a big lake called Lake Trasimeno. It’s only thirty minutes from the airport in Perugia. Huge place, too. Practically a castle.”
Kitsune was already heading toward the door. “That’s where they are. Mike’s right—since Grant is there, the Kohaths must be, too. We have to go now.”
Nicholas shook his head. “Look, I agree with all of you. We will go get Grant. But think about this logically. Interviewing these two in Rome at their headquarters is one thing, confronting them in their own personal castle is quite another. We need a plan.”
The room phone rang. Nicholas answered, “Major Russo?” then listened. He hung up and looked at Louisa. “I guess we’re going to have to find another castle for you to storm, Louisa. Major Russo has respectfully requested your forensics assistance. It seems his team is not performing as he expected.”
“But—”
He raised a hand. “This is important and I figure it’s the only way we can try to smooth over some of the chaos we caused. Plus we need all the evidence you can gather, more nails for the Kohath coffin, and I want eyes on Russo. I don’t trust him. You’re the only one who can do this, Louisa, and see that it’s done right.”
Louisa didn’t look happy. “All right. But you know, guys, sometimes it isn’t all that wonderful to be the greatest forensics expert on the planet.” She turned at the doorway. “You were supposed to laugh. That was a joke. Keep me posted. I’ll join you as soon as I can take care of Russo’s mess.”
Nicholas turned to Adam, but before he could speak, Adam said, “I know, you want me stay here with Louisa, keep an eye on her, and gather more evidence.”
“Yes, thank you, Adam,” Mike said. “While we get ourselves together, pull everything you can on the Kohaths’ house.” She paused a moment. “They could be moving him around, Kitsune. It’s possible he’s no longer even there.”
Kitsune was still standing by the door, shoulder tense. “He’s there. I know it. It makes the most sense.”
Adam said, “I’ve got the tail number of the Kohaths’ private plane—a Citation CJ3 Plus, really swanky. I’ll see where they are, what flight plans are recorded.”
“Good,” Nicholas said. “If we’re going to storm the castle, all the information you can muster is welcome.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
2005: Category 5 Hurricane Katrina made landfall in New Orleans. Levees failed, 1,245 were killed, and damages were estimated at $108 billion.
The Bermuda Triangle
Jason watched the news every night. It was an old habit, ingrained from childhood, when having a television was something rare and exciting, and a nightly news report was, with the exception of the movies, the only way to know what was happening outside of his backyard.
He could have watched on the computers, but he had a small theater, with comfortable chairs and a monstrous television. He sat back and tuned into another showing of the footage from Beijing. He watched the sand sweeping through the enormous city, choking the air and the people, suffocating thousands. He knew it had to happen in exactly this way, but still, the loss, the waste of it all, made him hurt deep, it hurt his soul. And in the end, what had been the point? For some predestined future to play itself out?
But then the evening news turned to the shootout in Saint Mark’s Square in Venice. Details were sketchy, but it was said that an American government operation had gone badly wrong, and an American federal agent was in the hospital. There was footage of the shooting, filmed by tourists, and most of it was shaky. But all the violence, the bloody deaths, the panic, were crystal clear to see. He stared, unable to believe what he was seeing. Unlike his own disasters, this one involved characters he knew very well, they were of his blood, and he knew in his gut the twins were tied to this mess—more, he imagined, they were responsible for it. The thoughtless, uncaring young idiots. So unworthy of their proud name, of their mother’s name. He was so angry, so despairing. He felt nausea and dizziness and quickly placed a nitroglycerin pill under his tongue. Slowly, he felt his heart calm, his body right itself.
All those men killed in the square had worked for the Kohaths; he didn’t need anyone to tell him that. Well, it was done, over with, and the chips would fall where they would fall, and he didn’t doubt for a minute that where they fell would spell disaster. And all because of yet another poor decision by Cassandra and Ajax. The waste of it all, he thought again, the sheer waste.
No more, he thought, he simply couldn’t do it. There would be no more arguments; there would be no more orders from him they ignored, no more acting on their own.
He knew time was flowing like a river into a desert. He wondered how many more people would have to die before time ran out.
He returned to his control room and sat in front of his bank of computers. Once calm, he flipped one of the screens to a weather station he liked, out of Atlanta. Naturally, the topic there was the out-of-season hurricane currently off the coast of Puerto Rico. There was no real concern; the storm was predicted to weaken, that if anything at all, there would be only heavy rains before the storm moved back out into the Atlantic.
He sucked hard on the sliver of nitroglycerin under his tongue. He would do what he had to do, no choice. He would call attention away from that disastrous incident in Venice and he would do it now. He had already stirred up the atmosphere in the Gulf of Mexico, warming the waters with the Coil’s laser.
He had a choice, certainly, of letting the hurricane simply peter out, but he thought of the millions and millions of dollars the Genesis Group needed to continue their exemplary archaeological work, he thought of the police tracking down Ajax and Cassandra. No, he didn’t really have a choice.
In the past he’d always managed to do a superb job of rationalizing, witnessing the influx of cash from Katrina and their other ventures. This storm was also needful and he knew exactly where to aim it.
Ten minutes later, the storm was reprogrammed, strengthening. It felt wrong, using a storm to cover his grandchildren’s tracks. He knew he was blackening his own soul to protect them. And should something happen, well, he could turn the storm and have it dissipate with the push of a button.
While he watched the endless variety of weather around the globe, storms causing untold destruction, violent hurricanes, snowstorms, and tornadoes he hadn’t caused, he picked up the folio he kept on his counter. In it were all his personal letters from Helen. He pulled one written nearly twenty years ago to the day. Helen’s hope, her excitement, all but leaped from the page. The paper was creased and worn from so many readings. He ran his gnarled finger along Helen’s rounded letters, still girlish despite her age. It hurt to read her words, yet he did, over and over again, always feeling close to her, for a brief time. The letter was addressed to her children. He’d read it to them, then put it away to keep it safe.
His hand shook as he read his daughter’s words.
Mysore Base
Gobi Desert
1996
Cassandra and Ajax:
Soon I hope to announce that your mother is the best archaeologist in the world. And this is why:
You two have always loved to play with our people as they excavated the tunnels beneath our home in Castel Rigone. You always knew we were looking for something important, heard the word Ark over and over, and when you were little, we told you it was a box, but a special box.
Now you know it is the Ark of the Covenant we’ve sought for all these years. We never found it and I couldn’t understand why. After all, I had Pope Gregory’s letter stating he sanctioned the Knights Templar to hide the Ark beneath our mountain—then their mountain of course—which I know they did, along with their own immense treasures. We have found much of their treasure, but the Ark isn’t there and at long last, I have found out why.
Today, I found another letter written by Pope Gregory. He writes of how his plans hadn’t materialized because the Polo family devised a plan to steal the Ark and present it to Genghis Khan in Zhongdu (now called Beijing), China. The pope doesn’t write how the Polo family learned of the Ark’s hiding place in his own vaults, and now it hardly matters. The Ark never got into the Templars’ hands.
I know the path the Polos took—it’s called the Silk Road. I know they were drawn off course, and were hit by a tremendous sandstorm near Dunghuang that lasted for days. And when they made it to Beijing, they did not have the Ark.
So, my darlings, it is time for me to follow their route, and dig where we think they were waylaid in a storm. Our only hope is that the storm was so severe they lost the Ark, and it is still there, buried in the sand. Every sign points to a certain spot. I am sure it is there.
Since they were not Kohaths, they had no right to the Ark and they were punished for their thievery. It will not punish me, it will embrace me.
So I write to you as I wait in Dunghuang for yet another sandstorm to end and the skies to turn crystal blue and make the air clear and crisp. I hope to set out for the site at noon.
Your grandfather will guide you. As you know he is a magician when it comes to storms, and you will come to understand this when you are older.
Ajax and Cassandra, it is my dearest wish that you study with your grandfather, so you may understand how to continue our family’s honorable profession. Do not ever forget your magnificent calling, a calling that demands honor, obedience, and goodness.
I devoutly pray both of you will follow in my footsteps and become archaeologists. Also, you must study hard to understand the business of the Genesis Group. The Ark will be mine—ours—and the company will need a steady hand to lead once I’m gone: your hands.
Pray for my success. Your grandfather knows exactly where and when to strike to maximize our profits.
I must sleep now. I love you both with all my heart. Wish me luck!
Always,
Your mother
Jason folded the letter, gently placed it back in its folder. He started going through the stacks of old letters. He pulled one out from his father, a letter Alexander had written to his wife, Jason’s mother, Babette. Like Helen’s letter, he never tired of reading the words that had given him this life.
Cuba
1961
Darling Babette,
Forgive me for the shortness of my letter, but Jason and I have made a g
rand discovery. Not Atlantis, like I believed, but there is an island here, about one hundred miles north and west of our Cuban base, that is perfect—perfect!—for our experiments with Father’s Coil, and I suppose I must add Tesla’s name as well. There is a volcano, and a beach, the island is small enough to walk across in an hour.
We were sailing toward the base when our instruments went haywire. We got off course, and that’s when we found it. There is an electromagnetic signature here, coming from the center of the island itself. Jason—our brilliant young man—thinks he can harness it and use it to make the Coil stronger.
We laid claim to this small piece of land and found the most curious things—a decrepit dock and tunnels dug through the mountain. Perhaps the Russians set up a base here, trying to get weapons aimed at America, since it does have the feel of an abandoned military base. We think the electromagnetic interruptions must have been too much for their tools, and they gave up and left. We may never know who founded this place, but it is perfect for our plans. We will develop the island, bring in the necessary equipment. Jason will return to England for more schooling, but I will stay here to oversee the implementation.
Just think, a single place from which we can work. No more hiding. We will be hidden by nature itself.
Your husband,
Alexander
Jason folded this letter, as carefully as he had Helen’s. His father had died here. He himself had found him dead among the rocks on the beach one afternoon, having suffered a heart attack on his daily walk. By then, they’d built one of the most sophisticated weather-tracking stations in the world, with the beginnings of an electromagnetic field that would hide them from prying eyes. They were controlling the weather by balloon launches, but they soon bought their first satellite, and Jason took the Kohaths to the next level, developing the laser that was their bread and butter, the Coil’s most sophisticated iteration yet.