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 miserable. He supposed some weather forecaster would blame it on El Niño or something like that. As if it made a bit of difference on the ground.
He’d been out here for weeks now, following some priest who was supposedly looking for the Kulkulcan Codex. His masters believed the priest would find it faster than the Hunter could. They, of course, were reckoning without adequate knowledge of the Hunter’s exquisite interrogation techniques. But then, they wanted the priest, too, as if they suspected him of holding some special information apart from the Codex.
His finely honed sense of people told him the priest was nowhere near finding the damn Codex. Even if that had been Lorenzo’s mission, affairs had pushed him onto another tack. The Hunter hadn’t experienced the least difficulty learning the story, even after all this time. These Indios had little to occupy them other than work, religion and gossip. They loved to talk about almost anything, but they particularly liked to talk about injustices against themselves and their fellows. The story of what had happened at Dos Ojos was beginning to take on all the proportions of an epic myth. Some were even murmuring that the bruja at Dos Ojos had made all the survivors invisible.
The Hunter knew better than that. They were invisible, all right, but there was no magic involved. It was simply that they knew the ways of these mountains better than he ever could. No matter what he did, he always seemed to be two or three days behind these people.
And as he plotted each campsite he discovered on his map, it began to seem to him they were moving in circles. Very big circles, but in no particular direction, unless you counted the miles they had put between themselves and Dos Ojos.
He bit into a piece of jerky and watched the rain drip from the narrow brim of his olive-drab pork-pie hat. He prided himself on his skills, smarts and utter ruthlessness. But right now he was beginning to wonder if a bunch of ignorant natives were going to outsmart and outrun him forever.
Neither his employers nor his masters would accept that. Either he found the priest and the Codex, or he died trying. There were no alternatives. Cursing silently, he pressed on into the jungle.
Frankfurt, Germany
Jonathan Morgan was pleased with his suite. While the Steigenberger Hotel was comparatively new, especially in a country where businesses proudly proclaimed centuries-old heritages, it offered both luxury and convenience, and had a well-earned five-star rating. Had he been merely a tourist visiting Frankfurt, he might have thought he had tumbled into a traveler’s delight.
But he was not on a tourist visit, and as he surveyed the faces of the other men in the room, he found himself unable to relax in the posh comfort of his accommodations. This was business, pure and simple. And it was an ugly business, at that.
“So,” the German said, “is your president prepared to use nuclear weapons?”
“He seems resigned to the prospect,” Morgan replied. “But this is hardly an easy decision for any man to make. He is a bold man, however. Once he accepts that there are no alternatives, he will move forward with our plans.”
“Make sure he does not move too quickly,” the Londoner replied. “You must remember that our plan depends on a confluence of events. The Vatican will doubtless object to the use of nuclear weapons, and the Catholic Church still has great sway in many quarters of the world. We need to preempt that objection.”
“Our friends are on the cusp of finding the Codex,” the Austrian added, nodding. “Its revelation will be major news, despite all that is happening, much as was the St. James Ossuary a few years ago. This, however, will be much greater—proof that Mary Magdalene was the wife of Christ, and that her grandson brought the true gospel of Christ to pre-Columbian America. That will demolish the voice of the Vatican in world events and leave us with an open field in which to operate.”
“I am familiar with our plans,” Morgan said, trying to contain his displeasure at being lectured. Would Europeans never accept that Americans were not recalcitrant children who needed to be reminded at every step of a process? “But you must understand the nature of American politics. While Harrison Rice is ours to control—to a point—have no doubt that he and he alone is the president of the United States. He and he alone has the power to authorize the use of nuclear weapons. Do not expect him to totally cede that authority, not even to us.”
“Hold on,” the German said. “You told us that if this worked, we would—in your son’s words—own the President of the United States. We took grave risks in underwriting Edward’s plan. Were it not for our contacts in your news media, the conspiracy to assassinate Grant Lawrence—and your son’s involvement—would have been exposed for the world to see. Now you are telling us that, despite those risks and the ultimate success of the plan, we cannot rely on President Rice to do what he is told, when he is told?”
Morgan paused to light a cigar, both because it allowed him time to frame his response and because he felt it necessary to make them wait for his answer, in order to regain the initiative. He was not accustomed to being interrogated, and the fact that the three of them had obviously prepared privately for this meeting did nothing to make him more amenable.
“Yes,” he said, finally, “that’s exactly what I’m telling you. He holds the most powerful elected position in the world. It takes little time for the import of that to settle upon
