Bones of Angels (5 page)

They were now seated, although they had no idea where they were. The three men of Beta Team assumed they were being brought to yet another location for interrogation. A loud engine roared to life, and their bodies rocked gently from side to side. Were they in the back of an eighteen-wheeler?

A loud horn blasted, and all three realized at once that they weren’t on the highway. The unmistakable odor of dank water was in the air.

“Get up!” ordered an angry male voice that sounded as if its vocal cords had been scraped raw by years of smoking the fabled red and white cowboy killers.

Large calloused hands hauled the three agents from their sitting positions and led them up a short metal stairway. A damp chilly wind blew over their bodies as their captors removed the hoods and blindfolds.

They were on the deck of a tugboat. To the rear were the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the bejeweled skyline of New York City. Ahead was total darkness. The tug was plowing roughly through choppy, black waters into Upper Bay, directly below Manhattan. The air on deck smelled of oil and smoke from the tug’s noisy engine room. The sounds of bustling New York Harbor faded with each passing second.

The three men looked at each other in alarm, faces white with panic. Their mission had been a sacred one. They were now to become martyrs, although they would not be burned or crucified. They would die “Gangland-style.”

Men in oil-smeared jeans and T-shirts, muscular biceps adorned with lurid purple ink, began winding chains around the body of each agent.

Weights.

From ankles to shoulders, the men were bound tightly by the heavy metal links.

“God help us!” screamed one of the agents. “Please!  Have mercy!”

Beta Team was thrown into the bay, one at a time. The men descended into the darkness, holding their breath as their metal burial shrouds carried them deeper and deeper.

A minute passed, then two. They could hold their breath no longer. The reflex to inhale was too strong. The foul waters from the East River above, mixing with the salty, cold Atlantic, filled their lungs. A few small bubbles escaped their mouths and drifted to the surface, invisible in the churning wake of the tug.

They had been searching for an angel. If such a being was anywhere near them on this night, it had not intervened on their behalf.

It took only a few minutes for the lifeless bodies of Beta Team to reach the bottom of the bay.

The Gallery

Aboard the Alamiranta

The Gallery aboard the Alamiranta was Catherine Caine’s two-thousand-square-meter private sanctuary. It was a three-tiered hall bordered by glass walkways, staircases, and walnut and mahogany bookshelves. A tasteful, elegant combination of library and museum, rare books and artifacts from around the world adorned the space. At its far end was a conference table.

Hawkeye sat at the table. Quiz, Michael Zoovas, and Mrs. Caine were waiting for him in their respective seats. Zoovas was the Alamiranta’s main security chief. Also present was a cleric in a black suit and white collar. A gold pectoral cross rested against his chest. He was in his late fifties, and his short salt and pepper hair crowned rugged, handsome features. He looked more like a middle-aged GQ model than a member of the clergy.

Catherine Caine was a tall blond with a shapely build for a woman in her fifties. Her exotic beauty, however, never overshadowed her game face when business demanded her full concentration. At times, her angular features could look almost severe in their appeal.

“This is Archbishop Peter Donovan of the Anglican Church,” Caine said by way of introduction.

Hawkeye squirmed uneasily in his chair. As evidenced by his exchange with Shooter, organized religion made him uneasy. Any religion, in fact, made him uncomfortable. He was a man who lived by the hard realities of combat. He dealt with what his eyes could see and nothing more.

The death of his father the previous year had left him even more disposed to regard the concept of a benevolent God as a fairy tale.

“Archbishop Donovan and the Church of England have previously used the services of both Caine Industries and Titan Global,” Caine continued. “He is here to ask our help for a rather unique mission. I told him he can expect our full cooperation.”  Caine looked squarely at Hawkeye as she spoke. “Archbishop, I’ll let you explain the matter more fully.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Caine,” the Archbishop said affably.

He focused his attention on Quiz and Hawkeye.

“Please direct your attention to the video screen behind the conference table,” the Archbishop instructed his listeners. “The face you see, and not a pleasant one at all, is that of Father Emile Deschamps Reynard. He was formerly the Catholic bishop of Genoa until five years ago, at which time he was removed from that position. Later, he was excommunicated from our brothers and sisters in the Catholic faith.”

The scarred face of Reynard stared from the screen as if it had been photographed for a police mug shot.

“What did he do to piss — excuse me, to offend — the Catholic Church?” asked Quiz.

Donovan’s features had grown more serious by several degrees.

“When Reynard was Bishop of Milan, he used to preach sermons on angels. Specifically, he began to tell his congregation that he and his little sister, Francesca, had seen an angel when they were very young. The angel allegedly saved Francesca from drowning. This raised a few eyebrows at the Vatican, but it was not considered an egregious offense. Angels have always figured prominently in Christianity.”

* To doubt the existence of angels would be very foolish. *

I need to concentrate right now. Let’s listen to the man.

* Very well, but watch your language. *

“Bishop Reynard became positively obsessed with the subject of angels,” Donovan explained. “He preached of nothing else. He conducted retreats and seminars on angels, teaching people how to communicate with their own personal guardian angels. In fact, he declared to the diocese of Genoa that he was in constant contact with his guardian angel. He said he was God’s special instrument, and that the Lord was speaking directly to the church through his sermons. That’s when Rome summarily removed him from office. He was stationed in a small parish, but he continued to rant about the world of angels. He was sent to a psychiatric facility, but when released, he resumed his tirade. That’s when he was excommunicated.”

The video screen now displayed the photograph of a church obviously ravaged by fire. It was a mere skeleton of charred wood. Within its frame were a few blackened pews and statues missing heads or limbs.

“In a rage of vengeance, Father Reynard entered this small cathedral on the outskirts of Genoa one night and burnt it to the ground. As you can see, the fire consumed virtually the entire structure. Incredibly, Father Reynard emerged from the burning church as fireman fought the blaze. A crowd had gathered. Reynard was unharmed except for severe burns to his face. His former followers regarded it as nothing short of a miracle.”

Hawkeye sighed heavily, clearly exasperated.

“Is there a problem?” Archbishop Donovan asked, turning towards Catherine Caine.

“You will give your full attention to the Archbishop, Mr. Hawke,” said Caine. “You should regard this as a mission briefing. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Hawkeye.

Donovan resumed his report.

“Reynard was recruited by a radical apocalyptic sect of Christians called the Council of Nine,” he said. “It has thousands of underground followers, but it is ruled, as the name implies, by a council of nine men, most of them present or former clergy members from various denominations. In time, Reynard became second-in-command of the organization.”

“Who is the leader?” asked Quiz.

“I wish I knew,” said Donovan, “but our team of covert agents has never been able to uncover his identity.”

“You have a team of agents?” Hawkeye asked in a chastened manner.

“Actually, we have several teams. Our Beta Team was recently collaborating with Quiz’s grandfather, Charles Whittington. We’ve haven’t been able to contact Beta in over three hours.”

Quiz nodded. He apparently knew of his grandfather’s more esoteric pursuits.

“Excuse me, Archbishop,” said Hawkeye, “but why does a church need intelligence operatives?  And what were they working on, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“All churches have many enemies, Mr. Hawke,” Donovan replied. “It pays to know when there’s going to be a controversy before the matter hits the newspapers and Internet. But more to the point, we also investigate matters that are a bit off the beaten path, shall we say. Let me give you an example. When the Catholic Church begins investigations into whether miracles have been performed in answer to prayer, it does so very discreetly. The same applies to when it looks into the many claims that the Blessed Virgin has appeared somewhere in the world. Lack of discretion is what Bishop Reynard displayed, and it’s what got him into serious trouble with the Vatican.”

Hawkeye rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “May I infer, Archbishop, that the Church of England is currently investigating a very sensitive matter, one unknown to the general public?”

“You infer correctly,” said Donovan. “We seek exactly what Father Reynard and the Council of Nine are frantically looking for: the bones of St. Michael the Archangel.”

Hawkeye’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry. I probably didn’t hear you correctly.”

“No, you heard me correctly,” said Donovan. “The bones of an angel. Skeletal remains and ancient texts were discovered by a Crusader named Godfroi St. Omer in 1098. Please address your attention to the screen.”

Onscreen, the bones discovered beneath Mount Moriah over a thousand years earlier were now visible in the conference room.

“My church and its operatives are not sure when or where this photo was taken, although photographic experts have naturally been able to use a bit of forensics in determining that it was taken within the last sixty years.”

“How can an angel have bones?” asked Hawkeye.

Donovan remained silent for a moment, his eyes focused far beyond the conference table, and then spoke. “I wish I had an answer, Mr. Hawke, but I don’t. That is precisely why the Church of England wishes to find the bones. Father Reynard, however, has a different agenda.”

Hawkeye took a deep breath. “This is going to be good, so let me have it.”

“The Council of Nine believes, based on many ancient texts, as well as its interpretation of various biblical prophecies, that the discovery of the bones will herald the end of the world.”

“It sounds like it would be better not to find this artifact,” said Hawkeye wryly. “Not that I’m willing to believe this alleged prophecy.”

“I appreciate your skepticism, Mr. Hawke,” said Donovan. “For what it’s worth, the Anglican Church does not necessarily agree with the Council’s claim either, but we wish to study the bones for ourselves. For the sake of scientific accuracy, if nothing else. Extraordinary claims require that extraordinary standards be applied.”

It was Michael Zoovas who spoke next.

“I was a police officer in New York City for many years,” Zoovas began. “My son Eddie is currently a detective there. He notified me that a man — Archbishop Joseph Connolly — was tortured and crucified in the Roman style about thirty-six hours ago. He called Mrs. Caine to tell her that a neighbor of Connolly’s saw men in gray robes and cowls entering his Manhattan residence. Mrs. Caine and Quiz subsequently did a bit of research. This has all the earmarks of the Council of Nine. They will use any methods to obtain their goals.”

The video screen showed the horror enacted on St. John’s Cathedral Campus in Manhattan.

Hawkeye let out a low whistle. Zoovas shook his head in dismay.

“Connolly was a friend of my grandfather,” Quiz said, swallowing hard. “Charles Whittington lives on Long Island at Whittington Manor. I’ve been unable to contact him for the past twelve hours. My grandfather Charles was very interested in the bones Archbishop Donovan speaks of. He’s a tad eccentric, but he’s also brilliant. I believe his life may be in serious danger.”

Hawkeye was already nodding his head as he glanced at Mrs. Caine. “And you want Titan Six to go to Long Island to rescue Whittington and capture Father Reynard.”

“No,” said Caine. “I want you and Quiz to go to Long Island and make contact with Charles Whittington. The manor has a very complex architectural layout and history, but Quiz lived there for many years. We’re not going in like storm troopers. We’re going to do a little recon first.”

“But what about this Reynard character?” asked Hawkeye. “I may need some firepower and backup if he’s lurking anywhere near Manhattan.”

“We’ll monitor you from the Ops Center as usual,” Caine answered. “You’ll have all the usual support provided by your tactical and sensory suit. The Alamiranta has already passed through the Strait of Gibralter into the Atlantic. The sat-com link will be hot when you get to New York.”

“Quiz isn’t trained in the use of our gear,” said Hawkeye. “Nor has he ever received any BioMEMS injections from Dr. Nguyen.”

Caine merely smiled. “Quiz will do just fine. DJ has been giving him private training.”

Hawkeye smiled broadly. “I’m sure Quiz and DJ have been quite aggressive in their tr — ”  He paused.

Archbishop Donovan cleared his throat.

“Understood,” said Hawkeye.

“Very good,” said Caine. “You deploy in two hours. You’ll be flown to a U.S. carrier group nearby. From there, you and Quiz will be flown to New York, where you will be deposited on the Whittington estate by stealth helicopter.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Hawkeye said, standing.

Archbishop Donovan stood and shook Hawkeye’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Hawke. And if you could also try to locate my Beta Team, I’d appreciate it. They’re good men.”