Drew blazed. “A private assassination service.”
“We work for major corporations. Sometimes for other intelligence networks. We helped organize the rebels in Nicaragua, for example. That way, there’s less criticism about the U.S. interfering with foreign governments. Because the Agency isn’t officially involved, it keeps Congress from complaining but still fights the Communists in—”
“I don’t care about Nicaragua! Janus, get to Janus!”
Ray took a hand off the wheel to gesture impatiently. “Give me time! I’m—!”
Drew tensed his finger on the Mauser’s trigger. “Put your hand back on that wheel or you won’t be alive when that bomb explodes.”
Ray grasped the wheel again. His eyes darted toward the clicking timer. Two minutes, forty-five seconds.
“Janus!” Drew said again. “Why?”
Ray’s chest heaved. “We have another contract. In Iran. To take out the Ayatollah.”
“Yes.” Drew bitterly smiled. “Our old friend, the Ayatollah. Isn’t it amazing how things keep leading back to him? Who gave you the contract against him?”
“I was never told. A freelance negotiator came to us with the offer. But I always assumed it was Iraq.” Ray became more agitated as the timer clicked. “What difference does it make who hired us? I gladly accepted the contract. The Ayatollah’s a maniac. Something has to be done about him.”
Two minutes, twenty seconds.
“You’d better hurry, Ray.”
“We haven’t been able to get near him. Five attempts. Whatever we do, he seems to know about it. So we tried another tactic. Oh, please, shut off … we wanted to force the West to decide he was so insane he had to be stopped. Something so outrageous that the U.S. and Europe would side with Iraq against him.”
“Janus. What about Janus?”
The timer kept clicking.
“You’d bungled a hit against the Ayatollah. It looked as if you’d become a rogue—that you’d sold out to him. Even if you hadn’t, you’d become too unstable to be trusted with what you knew. I hated to do it.”
“But you tried to have me killed.”
“Tried? I was sure you were dead. Later, after Risk Analysis was formed, after we had the contract against the Ayatollah, I realized a way to use you even in death.”
One minute, forty seconds.
Ray shuddered. “I invented Janus. The two-faced. You. The turncoat, working for the Ayatollah. Since you didn’t exist anymore, the authorities would be chasing a ghost. To keep them on the trail, I used Mike to make an appearance once in a while. Not for anything dangerous. A blurred photograph taken near the site of a job. A conversation with a hotel clerk who’d remember him later when the authorities asked about strangers in the area. Once we’d established Janus, Mike went to ground. He put on a little weight. Changed his haircut. Kept to himself, but maintained a regular schedule. He had alibis. No one could link him with Janus. Then my people did the actual jobs. Drew, the timer.”
“Jobs against the Catholic Church?” Drew burned with such outrage he wanted to crash the butt of his pistol across his uncle’s face. “You killed priests to create a smokescreen?”
“A holy war. We wanted it to look as if the Ayatollah was fighting a jihad against the heathen, against the Church. He’s fanatical enough to do that. A new crusade. But in the reverse. This time not in the Mideast but in Europe.”
Fifty-five seconds.
“Shut it off!”
Drew touched the knob on the dial. “Then you’d publish proof of what the Ayatollah was supposed to be doing. The West would react with outrage and crush him. When the dust settled, Iraq would have gained what it wanted.”
“The world would have gained! I don’t care about the money. What I did was necessary!”
Drew repeated the word, almost spitting it out with contempt. “Necessary?”
“Yes! Now shut it off!”
Instead, Drew shrugged and let the timer click off its final seconds. He smiled. “Goodbye, Uncle Ray.”
Ray gasped. “No! Wait! You’re really going to do it?”
“You’d better start believing in God. If I were you, I’d make an Act of Contrition. Remember how it goes? ‘Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry…’”
With a scream, Ray lunged toward the stern. A wave buffeted the yacht, adding force to his dive. He went over, plunging into blackness.
The timer stopped. A cold wind stung Drew’s face. Waves, splashing the yacht, sent an icy mist over him. He shut off the engine. The night became silent—except for the hiss of the wind and the whump of waves against the hull. He grabbed a rubber flashlight off the control panel and walked to the stern, peering toward Ray, who was struggling to keep afloat in the churning water.
Panicked, Ray squinted at the flashlight’s glare.
“I’d take that overcoat off, if I were you,” Drew said. “It’ll drag you down.”
“The bomb.” Ray thrashed in the water.
“An oversight. I forgot to attach the timer to the detonator. As I said, I didn’t intend to commit suicide.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Here. Take this life preserver.” Drew tossed it to him.
Ray clutched it, spitting water. “Cold.” His voice shook. “So cold. You can’t imagine.”
Drew studied him.
“Please. Pull me in.”
“Sorry. I gave you the life preserver so you wouldn’t drown. That doesn’t mean I won’t let you die from exposure. Drowning’s too quick, and they say it’s even pleasant. But this way…”
“You bastard, I did what you asked! I told you what you wanted to know!” Ray’s face was shockingly white. His teeth chattered. “Please!”
“But you didn’t tell me everything. Those priests Janus murdered. How could you bring yourself to order it? How could you think that good could ever come out of the murder of innocent priests?”
His voice quivering, Ray thrashed in the water. “If those priests were strong in their faith, they went to Heaven. They were martyrs. They gave up their lives to stop the Ayatollah. Anything’s justified to stop him.”
“You claim those priests went to Heaven? But a while ago, you said you didn’t believe in an afterlife. You’ll say anything, do anything, for what you think is right.” Drew paused; certainty filled his soul. “You did kill my parents. For the sake of a principle.” Bile rose bitterly in his throat. He was afraid he was going to be sick.
“But I didn’t! Please … so cold. Get me out of here!”
“We’ll see. It all depends on how you answer my next few questions. Then I’ll decide what to do with you. The monastery. I need to know about the hit on the monastery. How did you find out I wasn’t dead? How did you learn where I was?” Though Drew suspected the answer, close to vomiting because of it, he needed to know for sure.
“Jake.” A wave struck Ray’s open mouth, making him gag.
“What about him? What happened to him?”
His teeth chattering, Ray struggled in the cold, black water. “I caught him investigating Janus. My men picked him up. Under Amytal, he confessed he hadn’t killed you. He told me about the monastery.”
“You had him killed?”
“He knew too much. He couldn’t be trusted. It had to be done.”
“No!” Drew shivered in revulsion. He screamed out his grief.
How could he tell Arlene?
“My arms.” Ray sank, then struggled to the surface. “Cramps. Help me. Cold … in the name of … please! So cold!”
Jake was dead? All along, Drew had realized that possibility. He thought he’d prepared himself to accept it. Now he felt so stunned that he almost didn’t hear Ray beg. But a wave sloshed across the yacht, stinging Drew’s face, shocking him into awareness.
Again Ray sank beneath the water.
Vengeance insisted. It would feel so good to let Ray die. And yet Ray’s death wouldn’t bring Jake back.
Ray didn’t come up. Tensing, Drew understood.
God was testing him. And the consequence would be ultimate. I can’t hope for God to show mercy if I don’t show mercy to someone else.
Drew pulled the rope on the life preserver frantically. But when he tugged Ray to the surface, the body was motionless, mouth hanging open, draining water.
No!
Drew strained on the line. Desperate, he dragged Ray over the side, slumping with him onto the deck.
Ray moaned. Alive!
I have to make him warm!
In search of blankets, hot tea, dry clothes, Drew scrambled toward the hatch that led below deck. No! he realized, appalled. I should take him with me. It’s too cold up here. The mist from the waves will make the blankets wet!
He spun, rushing back toward Ray.
And dove to the deck as his uncle fired.
Ray’s hand shook from the icy water he’d been in. His bullet missed Drew, walloping into the cabin. Ray gripped the gun with both hands, cursing as he steadied his aim.
Drew shot him three times in the face.
And screamed. In rage, in frustration, almost in despair. Too much death. Everywhere. But this time, he’d tried to prevent it.
Pointless. Useless.
And the worst part was, he knew what was coming. He’d have to tell Arlene her brother was dead. He knew what Father Stanislaw would ask of him now. His ordeal wasn’t over yet.
Waves crashed icy mist across his face. The dark closed in.
22
The god of beginnings.
Drew stood in the cemetery in Boston, once more staring down at the graves of his parents, a ritual he hadn’t been able to obey since leaving the monastery. Robert and Susan MacLane. Their birth dates were different, the date of death the same. June 25, 1960. With a flinch, he remembered the segments of his father’s body strewn across the Japanese garden. And the shards of broken glass projecting from his mother’s bloody cheeks.
In my beginning is my end.
It was one day after Uncle Ray’s death. Saying prayers for the dead, Drew had dumped the body overboard and guided the yacht south along the coastline, finding a private dock where after removing his fingerprints he left the yacht unmoored, letting it drift back out to the Bay. In the dark, he headed into Boston.
Now the sun was setting again. As twilight gathered around him, he continued to stare at the gradually dimming names on the gravestones. A cold breeze ruffled his hair.
A figure approached, making no effort at stealth. In the thickening shadows, Drew wasn’t sure who it was, but because the figure was taking care to be obvious, Drew subdued his alarm. He saw a swath of white against a black overcoat. A sling for an injured arm. Father Stanislaw.
The priest came up beside him, his voice respectful. “Am I intruding? If so, I can wait for you at my car.”
“No. Stay if you like. I don’t mind the company. But how did you know I’d be here?”
“I suppose I could pretend to understand you well enough to predict your patterns. The truth is, at the townhouse when you woke up this afternoon, you told Arlene where you’d be. I hope you don’t think she violated your confidence by telling me.”
“Not at all. I trust her judgment.”
“It’s peaceful here.”
“Yes. Peaceful.” Drew waited for the priest to say what was on his mind.
“When we first met—” Father Stanislaw’s voice was resonant “—you asked me about my ring. I told you, one day when we knew each other, I’d explain.”
“About the fraternity of the stone?” Drew’s interest quickened.
“Yes.”
Even in shadow, the ruby was so rich that a subtle fire seemed to glow within it. Father Stanislaw rubbed its insignia. The intersecting sword and cross. “This is a copy of a ring that dates back to the time of the Crusades. It represents history. Are you a student of history?”
“You have my attention, if that’s what you mean.”
Father Stanislaw chuckled. “Palestine,” he said. “Eleven ninety-two. The Third Crusade. With the blessing of the Pope, armies from France and England invaded the Holy Land to capture it from the Muslims, the heathen. But at the victorious siege of Acre, a rift developed between the French and English forces. You see, the English claimed considerable territory in France, and the French king, Philip, grasping the chance to gain an advantage, decided to take his forces and leave the Holy Land, to go home. His purpose was to ensure control of those contested regions in France while the English king, Richard, and his army remained in the Holy Land, continuing the Crusade.”
“Politics,” Drew said with contempt.
“But shrewd. And good came out of it. Before the French returned to Europe, their intelligence officers met with their English equivalents. As a gesture of professional brotherhood, despite their political differences, the French proposed a solution to a growing dangerous problem that the English would now have to deal with alone. The assassins.”
“Yes. The first of their kind. They originated terrorism,” Drew said.
“The crusaders were certainly terrorized. As knights, they were used to a noble code of battle, in the open, face to face. They had no experience with an enemy who considered it equally noble to attack under cover of night, to enter an opponent’s tent and kill him while he was helpless, unarmed, asleep. The assassins took particular delight in cutting off the head of a crusader and setting it on the altar where Mass would take place the next morning. Such barbarism made the crusaders feel that the world had become unhinged.”
“The purpose of terrorism.”
“Precisely. To kill so as to demoralize. But the French intelligence officers, before they left the Holy Land, proposed a solution. Fight fire with fire. Use assassins to fight assassins. Demoralize as they themselves had been demoralized. This proposal met with serious objections from the English. ‘Descend to the level of our enemy? Never.’ But in the end, the English agreed. Because the Christian assassin would not be one of themselves but, instead, a former Muslim. A Palestinian who’d converted to the one true faith, Catholicism. A monk at the Benedictine monastery in Monte Cassino, Italy.
“This monk, because of his heritage, knew the traditions of the assassins. And because he was of their race, he could pass easily among them. An assassin attacking assassins, he would fight terror with terror. But this terror would be different. With the blessing of the Pope, this crusading assassin would be killing for God. His terror would be holy.”
Drew listened with growing distress, the darkness seeming to smother him.
“The monk’s Christian name was Father Jerome. His Muslim name has never been verified, though legend has it that he was called Hassan ibn al-Sabbah, by divine coincidence the same name as the founder of the original Muslim assassins. I take this to be apocryphal. But of his achievements, there is no doubt. He did strike terror into the terrorists, and at the close of his service for God, when the Third Crusade was over, he returned to the monastery at Monte Cassino, where he was given the honor and rewards he deserved.”
“By ‘rewards,’ you mean the ring?”
“No, that came later. In fact, it was first given to someone else, though in time it was also given to Father Jerome.”
The cold night air stung Drew’s face. “If you expect me to play Twenty Questions…”
“Forgive me for being cryptic. The history is complicated. At the end of the Third Crusade, the English king, Richard—he was known as the Lion-Hearted—set out to return to England. Part of his motive for discontinuing the Crusade was his realization of the mistake he’d made in allowing the French to return before him. The French king, Philip, had negotiated a treasonous bargain with Richard’s temporary replacement. Indeed, the acting head of state was Richard’s brother, John. The bargain was intended to settle the dispute about the English lands in France. John agreed to give up England’s claim to the lands in France. Philip in turn agreed to support John’s claim to the English throne—against the rightful claim of Richard.”
“So
Richard decided he’d better head home,” Drew said.
“But he was stopped. On his way through Europe from the Holy Land, he was captured by the Austrians and held for ransom. The problem was how to pay it. Richard’s brother, John, didn’t want his brother released. John did everything possible to prevent the ransom from being paid. He sent agents pretending to be from Richard and had them collect valuables intended to be part of the ransom. But those valuables went into John’s own treasury. Meanwhile Richard rotted in prison. At last, in desperation, Richard found a way to guarantee that his subjects would know which ransom collectors were truly from him and not from John.”
“The ring? Am I right?”
“Yes. The ring. Almost identical to the one I wear.” Father Stanislaw rubbed its insignia again. “Richard gave his ring to a trusted assistant. His subjects had learned to identify the ring with him. By showing it, the assistant could prove that the valuables he collected would help get Richard out of prison and not go into John’s treasury.”
Drew shook his head.
“You see a problem with that tactic?” Father Stanislaw asked.
“To stop his brother, all John had to do was order a jeweler to make a copy of the ring.”
“John had mental limitations. He never thought of it. If he had, he might have gained the throne. Instead, with the aid of the ring, Richard’s assistant collected the ransom, and Richard was released. He returned to England and crushed his brother. Because of his ring. With a slight distinction, this ring. It had importance. It was a password. It possessed a power.”
Drew became more uneasy; he sensed a disturbing undertone to the story.
Father Stanislaw continued. “Richard refused to abide by John’s agreement with the French. He took his army to the mainland and reclaimed his territories. But there, one of his new subjects, a French peasant, saw him walking outside the walls of a castle one day and shot him with an arrow. The wound was in the shoulder. It should not have been fatal, but unskilled treatment made it mortal. Dying, Richard insisted that his attacker be brought before him. ‘Why did you kill me?’ Richard asked. The peasant answered, ‘Because you would have raped my wife and starved my children.’ Richard objected, ‘My subjects love me. All I wanted was the land. I would have let you live in peace.’ But the peasant answered, ‘No, your brother would have let us live in peace.’ And Richard, understanding how this simple man had been used by his enemies, said, ‘God help you. You know not what you’ve done. I forgive you. Let this man go away unhurt.’ It is said that the priest who was present at Richard’s deathbed exhorted him to repentance and restitution for his sins, but Richard drove the priest away and died without benefit of the sacraments.”