02 The Secret on Ararat (4 page)

FIVE

IT WAS 1:50
A.M.
when Shane Barrington climbed the steps from the tarmac to his private Gulfstream IV. He was greeted at the door by the copilot.

Carl Foreman touched his hand to his cap, uncertain whether to say anything. In the four years he had worked for Barrington, he’d learned to read his moods pretty well. Barrington demanded obedience, but he was irritated by obsequiousness. During those four years, Carl had seen as many people fired for overt sycophancy as for inefficiency or incompetence, and he put his own relatively long career as a Barrington employee down to knowing just what was required in any given situation. Right now, Barrington’s default expression, an unpleasantly cynical scowl, had been replaced by a look that, on any normal person, Carl would have interpreted as fear. But Barrington was a man who didn’t
fear anything. Which is why Carl was momentarily wrong-footed.

And why he made the first—and last—mistake of his career as an employee of Barrington Communications.

“Are you okay, Mr. Barrington, sir? You look kinda—”

Barrington whirled on him, teeth bared like an animal’s. “What did you say?” he snarled, and for a second Carl thought Barrington was actually going to grab him by the throat.

“I just … I’m sorry, sir. It was nothing …” he stammered.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Foreman,” Barrington continued, more measured now, the initial impulse toward physical violence transmuted into a tone of icy cruelty, “but I don’t believe I pay you to look after my health. Don’t I pay you to fly a plane?” He smiled. “Or should I say I used to pay you to fly a plane. When we get to Switzerland, you’re fired. But don’t worry, they’re always looking for ski instructors out there. I’m sure you’ll make out just fine.”

Carl stood like a statue as Barrington pushed past him to the interior of the plane. Four years up in smoke because of one stupid remark. Because for a moment he’d forgotten that Barrington was one of the world’s most ruthless business operators and Carl had instinctively reached out to him like a normal human being.

As he made his way back to the cockpit, he wondered how he was going to tell Renee. They’d have to change their plans about moving to that big house in the hills, and maybe that would mean she’d change her plans
about the two of them. The twenty-grand diamond engagement ring was definitely out of the question now.

For a moment he fantasized about deliberately crashing the plane into the Alps. That would show Barrington who was really in control. But he knew he didn’t have the guts to do it. No, he thought with a wry chuckle, the only way the plane was going down was if the believers in Christ got snatched up to heaven in mid-flight, like in that book Renee kept telling him to read, and the bad guys like Barrington were left to fend for themselves. Assuming, of course, that he and the other pilot got picked for the angels’ team. And that the devil didn’t decide to help his own and take over the controls himself.

Stretching out his muscular frame in a padded leather seat designed to fit his body perfectly, and to allow him to relax on even the longest flights, similar thoughts went through Barrington’s mind. How foolish to deliberately humiliate a key member of the flight crew before they were even in the air. The man’s fate meant nothing to him, but it was never a good idea to have the pilot of your own plane plotting revenge against you, as he no doubt was at this very moment.

Although he had merely been exercising his ultimate power over the people he commanded, Barrington knew that it had actually been a moment of weakness on his part. He had lashed out at one of his employees because he was scared.

No,
terrified
.

Terrified of the people he was flying to Switzerland to see.

The Seven.

Because although they had helped to make him the world’s richest and most powerful businessman, they could just as easily destroy him.

And he doubted they had summoned him to that grim castle of theirs in the mountains because they were pleased with him.

He spent the rest of the flight going over in his mind every detail of what he had been doing for the Seven, trying to find the weak points, the signs of failure, anything that might be interpreted as disobedience or lack of application. He refused all offers of food or drink—keeping a chef he had snatched from a four-star Parisian restaurant standing idle in the plane’s luxurious kitchen—until he had exhausted every possibility, but by the time the wheels touched down with a bump at Zurich Airport, he was no nearer to knowing the truth.

He would have to wait until he was sitting facing them and they told him how he had messed up. And then they would tell him what they were going to do with him.

He laughed. A sharp, nervous sound like a dog barking. Carl Foreman would get to fly the plane back after all. Barrington was the one who was going to be fired. And when the Seven fired you, they fired you good.

They’d probably have that murderous psychopath Talon on hand to do the deed.

Barrington shuddered as he heard the door being opened. Then he stood up, adjusted his tie, shot his cuffs, and tried to muster as much dignity as he could.
The limo would be waiting, he knew. With that creepy driver behind the wheel, no doubt. The roller coaster had started. There was no way he could get off until the ride was finished.

It was just a question of whether he had enough self-control to stop himself from screaming.

Driving out of the city, Barrington tried to focus on what he could see out the smoked windows. They crossed the Limmat River and passed the stately Gross-munster Cathedral, built by Charlemagne in the 700s. The Holy Roman Emperor. That was power, Barrington mused. In the Dark Ages, the Empire had been the nearest thing to a world government.

And if the Seven had their way, such a thing would be seen again. Only this time they would truly control every corner of the entire globe.

He thought of engaging the driver in conversation, just to see if he could pick up any hint of what was on the Seven’s mind. Then just in time he remembered what was so odd about this particular chauffeur.

He had no tongue.

And Barrington was sure he’d be happy to remind him of the fact by opening his mouth in that awful, empty grin that had so shocked him during their first ride to the castle together.

Soon they were on twisting mountain roads rising higher and higher. The clouds on the mountains were low, and flurries of snow were beginning to stick to the tarmac. In such a landscape it was possible to believe you had left the real world altogether and were now entering
some strange, fantastical realm of witches and demons.

“I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore, eh, Toto?” Barrington muttered.

The driver started to turn his head toward the backseat, and Barrington quickly reassured him. “It’s okay. I know you don’t speak. I was just talking to myself.”

Barrington had his eyes closed when the crunch of the Mercedes’s tires on gravel told him they were pulling up in front of the castle. He was glad he hadn’t watched it loom out of the mist as they approached. The sight of those gothic spires rising like wraiths in a cemetery might have been enough to weaken his resolve.

Remember
he told himself as he stepped out of the car and under the chauffeur’s waiting umbrella,
get to the end of the ride without showing fear. Then they haven’t completely beaten you
.

He looked at his watch. Right on time. Something about being in Switzerland encouraged punctuality, he thought. He glanced at his wordless companion as the chauffeur ushered him toward the giant wrought-iron door of the castle.

And something about working for the Seven, no doubt.

He had forgotten just how large the entry hall was. He was alone except for several suits of ancient armor standing like sightless and lifeless guards of the unknown in the flickering light of a dozen torches set into the walls.

I guess they assume I know the drill
, Barrington thought.

As if he could forget.

Across the darkly lit hall, Barrington saw the large
steel door, a sharp reminder of the twenty-first century amid all the medieval gloom. He took a breath and walked toward it. As he approached, there was a low hissing and it slid open. He entered, and the door hissed closed again. He looked at the two buttons in front of him. He pushed the down arrow, wondering if he would live to push the other one.

The sense of descending was almost imperceptible. Then the doors hissed open and Barrington stepped into a large, shadowy room. The only light was a beam from the ceiling, which illuminated a familiar shape—an ornately carved wooden chair with gargoyles on the arms. Twenty feet in front of the chair was a long table with a blood-red cloth covering it and hanging down to the floor.

Behind the table were seven chairs, occupied by six people—or, rather, six silhouettes. The center chair was empty.

“Welcome, Señor Barrington. It has been some time since we have seen you. Come and sit in the chair of honor,” said a silky Hispanic voice.

As Barrington moved forward toward the chair in the center of the room, he heard a shuffling in the shadows to his right. As he glanced in that direction, he could see a figure emerging from the darkness and walking toward the center chair behind the table. Barrington and the darkened figure sat down at the same time.

Barrington gripped the arms of the chair and waited for the man seated at the center to speak. As the silence stretched, fear turned to frustration. After everything he’d done for the Seven—every lie, every criminal act, every betrayal—couldn’t they treat him with some respect?
Only one thing gave him hope: If they were still hiding their faces from him, then maybe they weren’t planning to kill him.

Then again, maybe they were just messing with his mind. That seemed to be their specialty.

At last the icy voice Barrington had been expecting broke the silence. “You’re a busy man, Mr. Barrington. And so are we—”

There was a feminine cough from his right.

“I beg your pardon. We are busy men
and
women. If you think we would have wasted your time and ours bringing you here merely to … eliminate you, then you still underestimate the importance of the great task we are all pledged to accomplish. No, since we injected five billion dollars into your company, you have performed well enough. We are still a long way from our goal, but our control of Barrington Communications is a crucial weapon in our armory.”

A chuckle came from the speaker’s left. “How else would we be able to fight the good fight?”

The voice resumed, now with a trace of annoyance. “Indeed. But now we need you to perform another task for us. One that will give full rein to your worst character traits—or should I say
skills.”

Barrington started to protest, but the voice cut him off. “You know who Michael Murphy is?”

“Of course,” Barrington said. “The archaeologist. I seem to remember you wanted him dead at one point. Until you thought he’d be more useful alive. So, has he outlived his usefulness? You want him discreetly taken out? And you want me to do it?” He said it as if it
would be a routine task. Just another item on his busy to-do list.

“Not at all, Mr. Barrington,” responded the voice, in a tone that suggested he was speaking to a particularly dim-witted third-grader. “We don’t keep you around for that sort of thing. Although I suppose you could say we want you to make Professor Murphy an offer he can’t refuse.”

Barrington was intrigued. “And what would that be?”

“Why, we want you to offer Murphy a job. A job with Barrington Communications.”

Barrington was confused. “He’s an archaeologist, not a TV reporter. What can I offer him?”

“Money, of course,” came the reply. “Archaeological digs are an expensive business, and Murphy’s thinking is so far outside the mainstream, he has a hard time attracting funds. If he felt he was on the trail of something huge—something irresistible—he might take money even from you, if it meant the difference between success and failure. With your silver tongue, I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade him of the benefits of being Barrington Communications’ archaeological correspondent.”

Barrington stroked his chin. “Yeah, I think I could do that. I might need—”

“You’ll get the necessary funds,” snapped the voice. “Another billion dollars deposited in a special account should be enough to turn the whole of the Middle East into one huge archaeological dig, if that’s what Murphy wants.”

Barrington whistled. “It sure beats thirty pieces of silver. But what’s in it for you? Why do you want Murphy on the payroll?”

A female voice with some sort of European accent cut in. “Yours is not to reason why, Barrington.”

She let him complete the rest of the quotation for himself.

Yours is but to do and die
.

“Quite so,” agreed the icy voice. “But there’s no harm in showing our friend here a little of the big picture. You see, Mr. Barrington, Michael Murphy has a knack for finding archaeological objects that are of …
interest to
us. It might make life a little easier if we were all on the same team. Even if Murphy doesn’t know it.”

There was an appreciative ripple of laughter around the table.

“Keep your friends close, eh?” Barrington said, and this time it was their turn to complete the quotation.

“And your enemies closer
. Exactly,” agreed the voice. “Now, get back to your plane and start planning exactly how you’re going to corrupt Michael Murphy’s soul.”

Barrington rose to go, feeling the tension draining out of him.

“One more thing,” barked the voice, freezing him in mid-stride. “In case you were worrying about that disgruntled employee—or should I say ex-employee—who might have some interesting things to tell the authorities.”

“You mean Foreman?” How the heck did they know about him? “He wouldn’t dare. He knows my reputation better than to try anything.”

“Just to be on the safe side, we took care of him,” said the voice, and just then Barrington noticed another figure, seated in a shadowy corner of the room.