A Pale Horse

  “Put on some clothes, Jason.”

  It wasn’t often that Jason heard that tone in Lawrence’s voice.

  “Lily is alive.”

  Jason stared at him blankly.

  “Get dressed,” Lawrence said calmly.

  Still staring at him, Jason pulled yesterday’s shirt over his head, then pulled a pair of sweatpants on over his shorts.

  Lawrence took him gently by the arm, and they walked slowly through the corridors, up a winding staircase, past signs reading “Sanatorium,” followed by one enthusiastic, slightly overfed Rhodesian ridgeback.

  They stopped outside two large glass doors. Lawrence pushed them open, and Jason followed him into a small room off the main corridor to his left.

  They stood together outside a small cream-colored door. Slowly Lawrence opened it.

  Jason stood in the doorway, frozen.

  Nick sat on a chair next to a small iron bed. There, fast asleep, was a pale, ethereal-looking figure swathed in white sheets.

  Lily de Vere.

  Jason moved toward her in horror.

  “Oh, God.” He put his hands over his eyes. “She . . . she’s . . . ”

  “It’s all right, Jason.” Nick grasped his arm. “She’s breathing.”

  Jason knelt down by Lily’s bedside and placed his hand on her heart. Her chest was rising and falling evenly.

  He started to laugh.

  “She’s . . . she’s alive!” He turned to Lawrence. “But how . . . ? What . . . ?”

  Lawrence shook his head. “She’ll tell you in her own time. All that matters for now is that she get strong.”

  Lawrence smiled broadly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Jason moved toward him, tears streaming down his cheeks, and grasped the spry old man in a bear hug. Then he did the same to Nick.

  “Thank you, Lawrence,” he whispered. “I’ll stay with her.”

  Lawrence disentangled himself from Jason. “Quite all right, dear boy. We had help—quite a lot of help, actually.”

  Jason was staring down in exhilaration at Lily, stroking her face. He sat down next to her and held her hand.

  She stirred.

  “It’s okay, Lily.” He wiped the tears from his cheeks. “You’re safe, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

  Slowly Lily’s eyes opened. She looked around the room, then back at Jason. She frowned.

  “You look awful, Dad. When’s the last time you shaved?”

  Jason ran his fingers over his dark stubble and grinned. “Thanks.” His grin got broader.

  Lily sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m so tired, Daddy,” she said.

  “You just sleep, sweetheart. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. You need your rest.”

  Lulu sat obediently next to Lily’s bed.

  “Lulu.” Lily smiled as the dog licked her hand.

  “Where’s Mom?” Lily murmured. “I want Mom. Is she here?”

  Jason turned to Nick in horror.

  They both said the word in unison. “Julia!”

  * * *

  At the Gramercy apartment in New York, Julia raised herself with difficulty off the floor of Lily’s room, into a sitting position. She rocked incessantly from side to side, a photo of Lily in her hand, staring blankly at the wall.

  Her cell phone rang. She pushed it away.

  It rang again. And again. And again.

  Groggily she reached out her hand to click it off, then stared at the caller ID.

  Jason.

  Slowly she picked up the phone.

  * * *

  “Julia . . . Julia, it’s me, Jason. Are you okay?”

  He closed his eyes.

  “She’s sobbing,” he whispered to Nick.

  Lily took the phone from Jason and pressed it to her mouth.

  “Mom . . . Mom,” she murmured. “Don’t cry, Mom. It’s me, Lily—I’m alive. I’m alive.”

  Lily raised herself up slowly in bed. She was still terribly weak. “She’s not saying anything, Dad.”

  “Julia,” Jason said quietly but firmly.

  “Something happened. Lily’s safe. She’s here in Alexandria with Lawrence. With me. Safe, Julia. At the monastery. She’s alive, Julia. Our little girl is really alive. Julia, you must stop crying.”

  He turned to Lily. “Your mother wants to speak to you again.” He held the phone out to Lily.

  “Mom . . . I was drowning, Mom. The water went over my head. I couldn’t breathe. I was sinking, sinking into terrible blackness. I was so frightened, Mom, so scared.

  “I saw a light, Mom. At the end of a tunnel. Those stories they tell us are true, Mom.”

  Lily stopped. She closed her eyes.

  “My eyes are so heavy, Dad.” The phone slipped from her hand.

  Very gently Jason took the phone from her.

  “She’s very, very weak, Julia, but she’s alive,” he said. “And she’s safe. Julia, did you take tablets? How many?”

  He shook his head at Lawrence. “She’s groggy, not herself. Said she took three sleeping pills.” He put his mouth to the phone.

  “We’ll call you tomorrow. No, don’t tell Adrian, Julia. Weaver’s got you on a secure line. I can’t explain now, but Adrian has to think Lily’s dead. Do you understand me? Jason’s voice was almost harsh. He tried to get control over his emotions.

  “You’re sure.”

  “She’s okay,” he mouthed to Nick. “Look, I can’t explain now. We’ll call you again tomorrow on the secure line. Then we’ve got to get you out of there. You’re in danger.”

  Jason clicked off the phone. He looked down at Lily, who had fallen asleep. Very gently he traced the outline of her strong cheekbones.

  He looked up at Lawrence. “He’ll go after Julia next. First we get her out. Then I deal with Adrian.”

  Lily stirred. She opened her eyes. “Dad,” she whispered.

  “Go to sleep, darling. You need your rest.”

  “Dad?” Lily looked panicked. “Dad!”

  She clasped Jason’s hand.

  “What is it, Lily?” He stared down at her in alarm.

  “Dad, it’s my legs. They’re tingling.”

  She looked up at Jason in wonder.

  “I can feel my legs.”

  * * *

  Gramercy Park, Manhattan, New York

  Julia rose to her feet, her hands shaking. She was still clutching Lily’s photo in her right hand. Gently she laid it down on the nightstand, then walked over to Lily’s closet, opened the door, and buried her head in Lily’s vast array of brightly colored tops, sobbing.

  She stood a long time, then took a deep breath and walked over to the tall bookcases. Lily was a voracious reader. She skimmed her hand over the hundreds of books. She knew exactly what she was looking for.

  There it was. Her hand stopped on a small, dusty pocketbook Bible that Polly had given Lily on her thirteenth birthday.

  Julia took it down and, trembling, opened it. There on the flyleaf was inscribed “Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

  Julia walked over to the bed and, falling to her knees, laid her head down on the bedspread.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, sobbing with joy into the soft cashmere throw.

  She was still there two hours later, clutching Lily’s small leather-bound Bible in her left hand, fast asleep, a look of utter peace on her face.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Monastery of Archangels, Alexandria, Egypt

  Lawrence sat in the shade, watching Jason finish his lunch.

  “Tea, Jason?” He held up the teapot. “You really should partake.”

  Jason shook his head. “You know I don’t touch the stuff.”

  Lawrence steadily continued to pour tea into three cups. He gave Jason a knowing smile. “It’s never too late for an old dog to learn new tricks. Try the tea, Jason, my dear boy. It’s Darjeeling—most refreshing.”

  Nick was in a world of his own, his eyes distant.
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  “Nick, you okay, pal?” Jason asked.

  Nick jolted back into the present. “It’s okay. Just some unexpected news,” he muttered.

  “Nicholas,” Lawrence said, “the time has come.”

  “Jason’s going to need more than tea.”

  “No more bombshells.” Jason looked at the tea and grimaced, then looked at Lawrence. “The time has come for what?”

  “The time has come to divulge the truth of the De Vere heritage. Nicholas?” Lawrence nodded.

  Nick sighed. “Look, Jas, just take a deep breath and listen, okay? When Lawrence first told me, in this very spot, I thought he was stark-raving mad.” Nick hesitated. “But he was right. Everything we’re about to tell you is true.”

  “It can’t get worse,” Jason muttered.

  Lawrence poured copious amounts of sugar into his tea, then picked up a spoon and stirred vigorously. “Oh, but it can, dear boy.” He took a large slurp of tea.

  “And unfortunately, it does, so brace yourself.” He took another sip of tea, then set the cup down.

  “The De Vere family is one of thirteen families that have significant influence in the global business of nations. Through a consortium of power brokers—private investors, defense contractors, renegade factions of NASA, the CIA, the CFR, IMF . . . The list is too long to mention them all.”

  Lawrence picked up a gingersnap and dunked it in his tea, then brought it to his mouth and ate the entire cookie in one bite. He nodded to Nick.

  “Our family has financed these operations for centuries,” Nick said, “through our treasury and bullion trading, mining, and investment banking. De Vere Asset Management New York, East Asia . . . De Vere Reserve.”

  Jason shrugged. “No bombshells there—been in the public arena since I can remember.”

  “That’s exactly what I said,” Nick replied. He sighed. “Go on, Lawrence.”

  “These are all subsidiaries of the De Vere family- controlled De Vere Continuation Holdings AG,” Lawrence continued quietly, “established in Switzerland in the early part of the twentieth century to protect your family’s ownership of its banking empire.

  “De Vere Continuation Holdings AG is not, however, in the public arena and never has been. I’ll ask you precisely the same question that I asked Nicholas over three years ago.”

  “Ask away,” Jason said nonchalantly. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, enjoying the balmy Egyptian winter sun.

  “I could get used to this,” he muttered, then looked back at Lawrence. “Okay, give it to me.”

  “Who runs De Vere Continuation Holdings, Jason?”

  “Dad. At his death, all power of attorney was transferred to Mother. Satisfied?”

  Lawrence St. Cartier sat across the table, silent.

  Nick sighed. “De Vere Continuation Holdings was established by our ancestor, Leopold De Vere, in the 1790s. From verified sources, it is confirmed that he also held a secret subterranean vault full of gold beneath his house in Hamburg. In 1885, Ephraim De Vere handed it to his son Rupert, our great-grandfather. In 1934, our paternal grandfather, Julius De Vere, took the reins.”

  Jason shrugged. “Nothing new so far.”

  “Our grandfather cornered the world’s gold supply. By the time of Julius De Vere’s death in 2014, De Vere Holdings held over five percent of the world’s gold in its private vaults.

  “Well, Julius decided Dad was unfit to take the reins, and before Julius’s death, he handed total control to his trustees.”

  “No, to Mother.”

  “Your mother was their token, Jason,” Lawrence interjected. “She had total autonomy on the charitable side. Everything else was clandestine.”

  Nick frowned. “How much is the family worth, Jas? A rough guess.”

  “Look, it’s common knowledge that we lost over forty percent of our net worth in the 2008 crash. And over half our wealth in the run on the banks in 2018. What’s your point?” Jason began to get irritated.

  Lawrence looked at him straight in the eye. “The De Vere family’s assets amount to forty trillion dollars, Jason.”

  “That’s patently untrue,” Jason snapped. “I’m a businessman, Lawrence. I saw every document connected with our holdings.”

  “Or did you?” Lawrence looked at Jason grimly. “The De Vere fortune is completely intact. There were no losses. A PR ploy to keep prying eyes at bay.”

  “Sorry, Jas,” Nick added. “It’s all true.”

  “Your family owns more than forty percent of the worldwide bullion market,” Lawrence continued. “Operates an aggressive monopoly on the diamond industry, has undisclosed stakes in Russian oil—estimated at over fifty percent. Operates at the center of the illegal global drug and arms trade. And runs the International Security Fund, set up in the 1990s under the auspices of your grandfather, Julius De Vere.”

  “Your point is . . . ?”

  “My point is,” Lawrence continued quietly, “that in 2001, the Illuminati, following Julius De Vere’s instructions to the letter, orchestrated the raising of a targeted 60.5 trillion from at least three hundred international institutions, in the biggest secretive private-placement financing operation in the world.”

  Lawrence nodded.

  “Its aim was to pay off every leader, policymaker, and intelligence operative worldwide, for the rest of this century, in pursuit of the group’s nefarious goals.” He drained the last of his tea. “One of the most significant being your younger brother’s dramatic rise to power. He now rules their new world order. And their meticulously planned one-world banking system.

  “It is the Illuminati’s illegal slush fund. Estimated today by undercover overseas financial investigators at over one hundred trillion dollars, directed on behalf of the Council by Adrian De Vere.”

  He squinted at a figure coming toward them through the blazing sunlight.

  “Weaver!” Lawrence gestured to a chair. “Out from the shadows. What brings you into the land of daylight?”

  Dylan Weaver stood grimly looking at Lawrence.

  “Dylan?” Lawrence frowned.

  Weaver squinted at the sun and rolled his shirtsleeves down over his pasty, freckled skin. “We have a problem.”

  Lawrence studied Weaver’s face. “What kind of a problem?” he asked.

  “The serious kind, Professor.” Weaver pushed his stringy hair away from his pasty face. “It’s Lily.”

  Jason looked up from his salad.

  “There’s an implant. A biotech implant.” Weaver hesitated. “Embedded in her right hand.”

  Lawrence slowly put his napkin down on the table.

  “You’re absolutely certain?”

  “Certain, Professor. It showed up on the sensor X-ray. There’s no scar tissue yet, but it’s deeply embedded in her right arm. She’s had a local anesethic. Father Innocentus is removing it now.”

  Jason put down his salad fork. “Removing what, for God’s sake!”

  Lawrence rose slowly to his feet.

  “A very sophisticated biochip that your brother had embedded in Lily’s arm,” Dylan replied.

  Jason looked back at Lawrence, then to Nick, who sat in silence.

  “Can you tell if it’s the Mark?” Lawrence asked quietly.

  Weaver shook his head. “Not until I examine it more closely. Our intelligence tells us they haven’t manufactured it yet.”

  Lawrence paced up and down in agitation. “Or have they?” he murmured.

  Weaver turned and lumbered hurriedly down the monastery roof stairs, followed closely by Nick, then Lawrence.

  Jason stood up hastily and followed. “Would someone please tell me in plain English what the hell’s going on!” he shouted, striding after them.

  “The implant in Lily’s right arm is a microchip that Guber and his cronies have been developing,” Nick called up from the stairway. “A system of digital enumeration of every human being in the ten-kingdom currency zone, in coordination with the introduction of a one-world currency.”

&n
bsp; “A virtual fingerprint,” Lawrence added.

  Jason strode behind him. “Yes. Chessler called the prototype—‘the Mark.’”

  “Very good, Jason,” Lawrence continued. “During the famine of 2024, they conducted a Europe-wide trial in which an EU Social Security number was embedded in a chip on the right wrist. The wearer had access to food stamps, to Europe’s vast grain stores and underground seed banks.”

  He stopped in the middle of the olive grove and turned to Jason.

  “Without the chip, they starved. The trial was exactly that: a trial. Since then, they’ve been developing an extremely sophisticated prototype in the depths of Guber’s biotech laboratories. Believe me, Fort Dietrich in the U.S. and Porton Down in the UK are kindergarten compared to them.”

  “How sophisticated?” Jason asked.

  “Beyond imagination,” Weaver mumbled, “though our intelligence tells us that certain elements are still inactive.”

  Lawrence gestured to Jason to follow them down the garden path.

  “So why on earth would he implant it in Lily’s arm?” Jason asked.

  Weaver sighed as they walked past the monastery vegetable garden. “Lily’s chip also contains a tracking device. Active,” he added softly. “They have our coordinates.”

  Nick turned, his mind reeling. “But it doesn’t make sense—Adrian already knows exactly where she is.”

  “It’s a threat,” Lawrence said. “A warning not to interfere” He stopped and stared up at the monastery bell tower. “Everything is going precisely to plan.”

  “To plan!” Jason exploded. “What do you mean, ‘to plan’? Who has our coordinates? What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

  “A forty-eight-digit identification number,” Dylan Weaver said softly. “Readable by a chip scanner radio frequency, enabling the carrier to be tracked in real time with the global positioning system. The information is transmitted wirelessly to the Internet. The carrier’s vital signs, movements, and location are collected and stored.”

  “I thought he was an IT guy.” Jason gestured to Weaver, who was swiftly disappearing down the corridor.

  “Weaver has worked for the past fourteen years for the Directorate of Science and Technology, CIA,” Lawrence replied. “One of the masterminds of its golden age of technical innovation—2014 onwards.”