Thirst No. 5: The Sacred Veil

  “Has the IIC used his firm in the past?” Seymour asks.

  “No. But I’ve heard about them through the grapevine.”

  “What have you heard?” I ask.

  Brutran shrugs. “That they’re top-notch.”

  “Is the firm rich?” Matt asks.

  “They’re doing extremely well,” Brutran says, her eyes flickering to her laptop. She’s never without an Internet connection.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “This is pure speculation, but you all know that at IIC we mastered the art of hiding assets. From what I’m picking up on Larson’s law firm, I’m confident they’re hiding the bulk of their money.”

  “How can you tell?” Seymour asks.

  “I would need a day to answer that question. Trust me.”

  “Anything else unusual about them?” I ask.

  Brutran continues to study her laptop. “They’re funneling a lot of their assets through Swiss banks. And they . . . this is very odd.”

  “What?” Matt says.

  “Well, we were talking about their client list. The famous and the rich. I just hacked into another one of their files. They’re doing a lot of work with the Pentagon.”

  “What kind of work?” Matt asks.

  “I don’t know, it’s odd. They can’t be fulfilling defense contracts. Yet, they have an extensive list of Pentagon contacts. A few are generals and admirals. From what I can see, they talk almost every day.”

  “Does the firm bill the Pentagon?” Matt asks.

  Brutran frowns. “Not exactly. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they were handling their money.”

  “The House and the Senate handle the Pentagon’s money,” Matt says.

  “That’s what they taught us in high school,” Brutran says.

  “This gets more interesting all the time,” Seymour says.

  “We need to talk to this Michael Larson,” I say. “Today, in person.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Brutran says. “Except for the small problem of the manhunt. We’re fortunate they haven’t zeroed in on us here. I can only assume that’s because we’ve stopped moving. But we board a plane or a train and we’ll be spotted.”

  I stand. “Maybe not. I have to check on something.”

  Matt jumps up. “What?”

  I turn toward the door. “Finish your breakfast. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”

  I return to my motel room and find Mr. Grey propped up in bed and working on my laptop. He has plugged it into the metal box we found near the Goodwins’ house. He smiles when he sees me.

  “No breakfast?” he says. “I was hoping you would bring something.”

  I step near the bed so I can see what he’s working on. The screen is half filled with binary code, the rest with assembler language, a computer code that most operating systems are written in. He would have to know a lot about computers to understand the language.

  “I can bring you whatever you like,” I say. “After you tell me what you’re doing.”

  “I’m disabling the program that’s pestering you,” he says.

  “You know about that. Your superiors told you about that.”

  “I told you last night I could call off the manhunt on you guys. At least for a while.”

  I sit beside him. “Are you having any luck?”

  “I’ve already managed to remove your names from the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted. I’ve also disrupted the flow of e-mails about you and your friends between the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, the Pentagon, Homeland, and the White House.”

  “Does this mean we’re free to move about?”

  “For the time being. These agencies haven’t stopped talking to each other. But the leaders in each agency are probably beginning to question the original orders to hunt you down. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the program’s sophisticated. It knows it’s been attacked and it’s adapting to meet the attack. I can’t say for sure how long your freedom of movement will last.”

  “Estimate,” I say.

  “Two days. But I might be able to extend that time. I have to wait and see how the program reacts. But I can tell you already it’s annoyed.”

  “The program has emotions?”

  Mr. Grey chuckles. His color is better, his energy, but I can tell he needs more time in bed. His cracked cranial bones are not going to knit together in less than a day. However, we probably have no choice; we’re going to have to take him with us.

  “It behaves like it does,” he says.

  “What is your opinion of the person or people who created it?”

  He stares at me. “You want to know if they’re human.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t. Except you.”

  “But?”

  He sighs. “I’ve also never encountered this style of programming. When I said it’s sophisticated I was understating the facts. The mind that created this computer code is beyond normal human intelligence.”

  “Yet you are able to disrupt it. You must be pretty smart.”

  Mr. Grey bows his head. “I appreciate the compliment.”

  “Actually, it was more of a question. But you know that, because you’re so smart.” I pause. “My friends are restless. They want me to get rid of you.”

  “They won’t feel that way once you’ve shown them how helpful I can be.”

  “On the contrary, your computer wizardry will just make them more suspicious. I’m trying to help you here, Mr. Grey.” I pause. “What’s your first name?”

  He hesitates. “Mr. Grey is fine. Go on.”

  “See. That’s just another example of how peculiar you are. You appear out of nowhere. You almost get yourself killed trying to defend people you don’t know. You know Matt and I are not human. You pick up my laptop and defeat a program the best minds in the world have not been able to scratch—in less than an hour. And you don’t even have a first name!”

  “You look beautiful when you’re mad.”

  I stand and pace. “I’m not mad, not at you. I’m frustrated. There’s a difference.”

  “In either case it’s nice to have you on my side.”

  I stop and shake my fists at him. “How do you know I’m on your side?”

  He shrugs. “I’d be dead if you weren’t.”

  I sit and take his hand. “You might die even with me in your corner. I’m strong, but I can’t hold back Matt once he makes up his mind. Please, you have to start talking. Who are you? Where are you from?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s against the rules.”

  “Whose rules?”

  “The rules set down by my superiors.”

  “Who are your superiors?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Besides being a genius, do you have any supernatural powers?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know so much about our situation?”

  “I only know what my superiors have told me.” He adds, “And what I have researched.”

  “Are you here to help us?”

  “Yes.” He pauses. “And myself. And others.”

  “Who are these others?”

  “Just other people. Everyone.”

  “Everyone in the world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is the priority? You or us?”

  He squeezes my hand. “You are my priority, Sita.”

  He is telling the truth. Indeed, he’s going to great lengths not to lie. Unfortunately, his truth is so full of holes it will never fly with the others.

  I really am worried about Matt. I can feel the gears grinding inside whenever we talk about Mr. Grey. When in doubt, Matt prefers to reduce the variables in any given situation to a minimum. It’s his way of playing it safe. Something his father taught him. Yaksha used to think along similar lines.

  I squeeze Mr. Grey’s hand and stand. “We need to fly to New York right now. Is it safe for us to take a commerc
ial flight?”

  “Probably. But a private plane would be safer.”

  “Can you travel?”

  “Sure.”

  “No, this is a serious question. Have you been out of bed yet?”

  “I got up to use the bathroom and picked up your laptop.”

  “Did you feel dizzy? Tell me the truth.”

  “I did have to hold on to the walls for support.”

  I shake my head. “Then you should remain here. You need to heal.”

  He sits. “No, I can’t stay here. I mean, my reason for coming is to be with you, to help you. I know my physical condition is delicate. But all you have to do is get me on a plane. I can sleep there, I can rest and recover.”

  “We don’t know what we’re going to run into in New York. It could be dangerous.”

  “I accept that. When I was chosen for this mission, I accepted that I could . . .” Realizing his mistake, he doesn’t finish.

  “Why do you call this a mission?”

  He shakes his head, he doesn’t speak.

  I sigh. “You were going to say that you accepted that you might die.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want you to die, Mr. Grey.”

  He brightens. “Really?”

  “I don’t know why but I like you. You remind me of Seymour.”

  “I was told about him. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry. He’s one of the people who wants to get rid of you. In fact, except for me and Jolie, everyone wants to get rid of you. You don’t have a lot of support in this mission of yours.”

  “You’re enough.” He struggles to get out of bed. “I should get dressed. Where are my clothes?”

  I gently push him back down. “Your clothes are covered in blood. I’ll get you some new ones right now. It won’t take me long. And I’ll explain to the others that you’ve given us some breathing room. Are you absolutely sure Brutran will be able to verify what you’ve done?”

  “She’ll be able to verify the effect of what I’ve done. But not how I did it.”

  “When we’re on the road, can you explain to her how you did it?”

  “No.”

  “Because your superiors won’t let you?”

  “No. Because she wouldn’t understand what I did.”

  I’m forced to laugh. “You know, if you didn’t have such a serious concussion and hadn’t been covered in blood when I found you, I’d swear you were a robot.”

  He smiles. “Careful, Sita. You’re getting warm.”

  TEN

  To put it mildly, Brutran doesn’t believe in Mr. Grey’s incredible accomplishment. Even when she checks the FBI Ten Most Wanted list and finds our names removed, she remains unconvinced. She’s of the opinion the Cradle’s program has erased us from their files in an attempt to bring us out in the open.

  Yet the deeper Brutran digs, the more puzzled she grows. She admits she can’t locate any chatter about us in the various intelligence agencies. She also says her bank accounts—her personal accounts and those connected to IIC—have been released.

  “It makes no sense the program would give us access to our money,” she says.

  “Then you believe him?” I ask.

  Brutran glances at Mr. Grey napping on my bed. He was asleep when we returned to the room and our talking hasn’t awakened him—another sign of how severe his injuries are.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Brutran says. “How did he work this miracle?”

  “He says it’s too complicated for us to understand.”

  “He gives an answer like that and you trust the guy?”

  “ ‘Trust’ is a relative term. I trust he means well and that he can help us. That doesn’t mean I’m not suspicious that he may be a pawn for people who do not mean us well.” I pause. “Rent a private jet. I want it fueled and ready for liftoff from the Raleigh airport in one hour.”

  “Are we going top-of-the-line again?” Brutran asks, turning back to her laptop.

  “Leave that up to Matt,” I say.

  Ninety minutes later we’re in the air, in another Gulfstream IV. Matt likes what he likes, there’s no arguing with him. He also considers himself our team leader. This time, when he demands to know what happened in the war, he refuses to take no for an answer. He orders Seymour to the cockpit and locks the three of us inside.

  If Brutran is upset about being left out, she doesn’t complain. To my surprise, she ends up taking a liking to Mr. Grey. It might be his amazing intellect. Brutran grills him about computers, hardware and software, and whatever he says keeps her enthralled. I can only assume he’s able to show off and still not give away any trade secrets—info his elusive “superiors” deem confidential.

  At the same time Mr. Grey bonds with Jolie. Except when Seymour plays with her—chess or checkers or any number of board games—the child has been relatively quiet since we blew up IIC’s headquarters. At first I assumed it was the trauma of losing her old playmates, but now I’m not so sure. Jolie remains a mystery to me.

  “The Veil of Veronica,” Matt says when the three of us are seated in the cockpit. “Talk.”

  “How long until New York?” I ask.

  “Ninety minutes,” Matt says.

  “I can’t tell my story that fast. You need to hear some background first.” I pause. “Is that acceptable?”

  Seymour shrugs. “As long as you’re not stalling.”

  “I want to get this off my chest. It’s been bothering me.”

  “I know. Last night you were talking in your sleep,” Matt says. “I heard you through the wall.”

  I’m insulted. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”

  “How would you know?” Seymour asks.

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I was watching Mr. Grey.”

  Matt snorts. “You were sound asleep for over two hours, and several times during that period you whispered the names Anton and Himmler.”

  I’m dumbfounded. “So I was having a nightmare.”

  “See this as therapy,” Seymour says, patting my leg.

  I tell them the first part of my tale, how I worked for the Resistance, how I broke Anton out of the Gestapo prison, and how that intense night ended with me wrapped in the mysterious comfort of the veil. By the time I finish, Matt has begun our descent and the New York City skyline is visible up ahead.

  Matt is not satisfied with what I’ve revealed. He wants to know more and I promise I’ll give it to him when we have another stretch of time alone. On the other hand, Seymour is like a kid salivating over the start of a great book or movie. He relishes every detail I provided.

  “So the face on the veil looks like our idea of how Christ looks?” he asks.

  “Basically, although the veil might have inspired the look. The Vatican had the veil for approximately two centuries during the Middle Ages. Many of the paintings of Christ that were created during that period copied the veil.”

  Seymour leans forward. “Do you think it’s genuine?”

  I hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Because of how it made you feel when you gazed at it? Held it?”

  Seymour always cuts to the heart of the matter. “That morning in Ralph and Harrah’s flat, when she left me alone with it, I felt a special energy radiating from it.”

  “Was there another time that it helped you?” Matt asks.

  I nod. “I’ll talk about that later, when we have time.”

  To spare Mr. Grey a long car ride, we land at LaGuardia instead of JFK. The airport is close to Manhattan and we’re checked into the Marriott in Times Square within forty minutes of touchdown.

  I can’t stop worrying about Sarah Goodwin. But if I’m honest with myself, I’m just as concerned about the veil. It seems insane to equate a human life with an artifact but such is the spell it’s cast over me. Yet I have not thought about the veil in years. Something has stirred a sleeping desire for it inside me.

  Mr. Grey lies down as soon as we reach our three-bedroom suite.
He insists he accompany us to our showdown with Michael Larson but it’s a feeble offer. He knows he’s in no shape for what might turn out to be a nasty confrontation. In reality, I prefer Matt and I go alone. Protecting the others is always a balancing act.

  “I didn’t fly here to babysit,” Seymour complains.

  “Yes, you did,” Brutran says. “You have to stay and watch Jolie.” She turns to me. “Larson’s a high-priced lawyer in the business world. That’s a world I know better than you or Matt. I should go with you.”

  I shrug. “If you can help us kidnap him without creating a scene, it’s fine with me.”

  “Is kidnapping necessary?” she asks.

  “We can’t interrogate him in his office,” Matt says.

  “Use force and you’ll alert our enemy that we’re in the city,” Brutran says. She has a point, and I would agree with her if I didn’t feel so rushed.

  “Every minute we leave Sarah in their hands decreases our chances of saving her life,” I say.

  “And recovering the veil,” Seymour adds, reading my mind.

  Brutran appears to reconsider. “Their security is probably multilayered. There could be shooting. Maybe I should stay here with my daughter.”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen Brutran act fearful. Does she know more about the law firm than she lets on? Probably—she never shows all her cards.

  “If we manage a clean snatch, we’ll bring him back here,” Matt says.

  “Get his computer,” Brutran says, glancing at Mr. Grey. “Our new friend can hack into it in minutes.”

  “Glad to be of service,” Mr. Grey says, yawning, ready for another nap.

  Matt and I walk to Rockefeller Center—it’s only a few blocks. The day is hot and humid, the streets crowded. Once there we stop at a neighboring store and upgrade our clothes. Matt buys a pair of gray slacks, a black Armani sport coat. He forgoes the tie. I pick out a white pantsuit and a red blouse that goes beautifully with the tailored jacket. Matt says I look hot, and I have to admit he can still get my heart pounding. I don’t know why I don’t just sleep with him and get it over with.

  Of course, I’ve had sex with him before, just not in this body. And that’s the problem, I doubt a casual romp will help me get over anything. It’s as if the memories I collected while living in Teri’s body have never left. I recall a thousand precious moments they shared. Worse, I feel the longing she always felt for him. Teri saw him as far above her, often imagined herself to be a desolate moon circling a warm planet. She only felt full when she was near him.