Montaro Caine (37 page)

“What’s the meaning of this, Caine? Have you gathered us here for some kind of laser light show? What kind of trick is this?”

“Not a trick,” Caine said, speaking almost in a whisper. “This is not magic. This is not make-believe. This is real. This is what I experienced myself. I do believe that this man, Matthew Perch, and these
coins are in touch with a reality far beyond our understanding. I believe that these coins represent a level of science completely unknown to us. And after listening to what Matthew Perch has said, I believe that they contain a message. A warning? A friendly gesture? An opportunity? I can’t say for sure, but I feel that within these coins are answers to questions that humans have been posing ever since we had the capacity to ask them: How many other civilizations are out there? How advanced are they? Are there so many that they cannot be counted? Or are we the only ones left in this vast galaxy, this big universe with billions of galaxies?

“One day, perhaps soon, perhaps in a far distant time, our science will come to understand the mysteries embedded in these coins. In them might very well be the history of a civilization, a culture, a language, a people—all waiting in limbo, while the majestic results of their science roam this awesome galaxy in search of a solar system that might contain one planet that will allow them to survive.

“It is my opinion,” he continued, now directing his remarks specifically to Julius Hargrove, “that we are not here to negotiate; we are here to learn, regardless of property rights, ego, or greed. May I suggest that all of you put aside your suspicions and open your mind to possibilities?”

As soon as Montaro Caine stopped speaking, the others in the room began talking, interrupting each other, speaking louder to make themselves heard.

“First of all, I’m interested in learning how my property could have possibly left my vault and wound up in that thing,” said Roland Gabler.

“I would like to know that as well,” Fritzbrauner chimed in.

“You’re the sorcerer here, Mr. Perch. You’re the man with all the answers, right?” Julius Hargrove said.

Hattie Sinclair rose to her feet. “How dare you?” she demanded as Elsen Mozelle came over and took the woman’s hand in hers. “You don’t even know this man. This man saved my life. He saved hers, too. When you insult him, you insult me. And I won’t have it.”

“Neither will I,” said Elsen Mozelle, whereupon Carrie Pittman stood.

“I know babies. I’ve brought hundreds of them into this world,” Pittman said, pointing to the coins resting in the Seventh Ship. “I brought one of those into this world in the hand of one of my babies. That was God’s work, God’s doing.”

“It is destiny that has brought us together.
Destiny
,” Caine said, trying to regain control of the meeting. “The Seventh Ship, the coins, all of us. That’s what Matthew Perch has told us. It’s our responsibility to explore what lies before us, to honor that destiny. The coins belong to no one. Not to me, not to you, not to anybody. There is no boundary that can hold them if they decide not to be held. Kritzman’s vault couldn’t hold them, Roland Gabler’s vault couldn’t hold them either.”

When the confusion and the arguments finally subsided, fading into mutters, then silence, Julius Hargrove turned his attention to Matthew Perch; once again, he was an attorney, questioning a witness as if before a packed courtroom. “Mr. Perch,” he said. “Who, in your opinion, owns these coins?”

Perch did not pause before he answered. “No one does,” he said.

“No one?” asked Hargrove.

“That is the truth,” said Perch. “And truth is all there is.”

“Then who will determine their fate?”

“Those who helped to bring them into this world.”

“Are you speaking of yourself, Mr. Perch?” Hargrove asked.

“No,” said Perch. “I speak of Whitney and Franklyn Walker. Nothing can be decided in their absence.”

Perch cast his eyes upward, almost as if he could see through the ceiling into the delivery room on the floor above where the Walkers were resting with their newborn child. And then he looked down again and reached out a hand to Luther John Doe, who took a deep breath and rose to his feet. Though Perch said nothing, his meaning seemed clear—in the room above, one being had entered this world; here in this room, one being was preparing to leave it. No one was looking at the model of the Seventh Ship as its doors began to close.

A
WEEK LATER
, M
ONTARO
C
AINE HOSTED A DINNER IN A PRIVATE
room at the back of the Beaumont restaurant. Only Tom Lund, Luther John Doe, and Luther’s caretaker were missing from the group that had gathered in the hospital for the baby’s birth. The Beaumont was a dining establishment so opulent that when Franklyn Walker entered the room of gilded frames and glittering chandeliers with his wife and their sleeping, as yet unnamed, newborn son, whom Whitney was wheeling in a carriage, he muttered that he felt as if he were entering the Palace of Versailles.

Julius Hargrove and his team of attorneys were seated at one table with Kritzman Fritzbrauner, Colette Beekman, Richard Davis, Verna Fontaine, and Roland Gabler. At Montaro’s table sat Howard and Elsen Mozelle, Anna Hilburn, Gordon Whitcombe, and Franklyn and Whitney Walker. The only individual who did not sit at either table was Matthew Perch. Dressed in a clean but simple white shirt and dark pants, he sat alone in a corner, observing the proceedings. He ate nothing and drank only ice water. In his pocket, the two coins were wrapped in gauze, awaiting their final destination.

In hosting the dinner, Montaro was finally making good on the promise he had made to Kritzman Fritzbrauner—that he would treat him to a dining experience that would match the one he had enjoyed
at Fritzbrauner’s Swiss estate. And, to Montaro’s mind, this was the loveliest restaurant in all of Manhattan, one where he had celebrated just about every important occasion with his family—his appointment to the position of CEO at Fitzer; his wedding anniversaries; his daughter’s eighth-grade graduation; P. L. Caine’s eighty-fifth, ninetieth, and ninety-fifth birthdays. Perhaps his one-hundredth would be celebrated here next year. The Beaumont’s chefs had prepared a twelve-course meal, but food was hardly the most important item on the menu. After the final course, negotiations that could well determine the fate of the coins and Fitzer Corporation were set to begin.

As they sat in the Beaumont dining room, still dazed by all that had happened and all they had learned over the past weeks, Whitney and Franklyn understood that they now had a vital role to play in deciding the fate of the coins. The responsibility was great, yet perhaps hardly greater than the responsibility they now felt toward the baby they had just brought into the world. Whitney felt overwhelmed, while Franklyn still remained skeptical.

Toward the end of the magnificent meal, Montaro stood to propose a toast. “Kritzman Fritzbrauner, I raise my glass to you,” he said, holding his wineglass aloft. He gestured to Howard to hold up his glass as well. “Howard and I greatly enjoyed the sumptuous dinner at your home, and this setting is as close as we can come to replicating its elegance. We each raise our glass to you and to the better self you see in the mirror of your mind. Know that our toast comes from the better selves we all see ourselves to be in the mirrors of our own minds. We salute you and your beautiful daughter, Colette.”

Colette Beekman Fritzbrauner’s face flushed and she felt the same familiar yet indefinable rush of emotion she seemed to sense whenever she was in the same room as Montaro. Kritzman Fritzbrauner looked proudly upon his daughter, but she did not meet his gaze before he stood and extended his glass toward Caine and Mozelle.

“Montaro,” Fritzbrauner said, “thank you for those very kind words. Montaro and Howard’s presence at my house made for a most enlightening evening. I invited a number of erudite friends who were steeped in science, philosophy, and history and had more than a passing familiarity with cosmology. They all tried their best to stump
Montaro, only to discover how truly well rounded he is, not only in the corporate world, but also in the arts and sciences. You will not be forgotten by those guys anytime soon, Montaro. I drink to your health as well.”

As Fritzbrauner sat and Montaro prepared to continue his speech, a tuxedoed and somewhat flustered maître d’ entered the dining room and approached Montaro.

“Mr. Caine,” the maître d’ said in a hushed voice. “I am sorry to interrupt, but there are some people who wish to join your party.”

“By all means, show them in,” Montaro said; he had, in fact, instructed the Beaumont’s staff to tell him when Tom Lund and Luther John Doe arrived, and he was pleased that Luther, whom he had arranged to have stay in a nearby hotel with Tom, was feeling well enough to attend. But when the maître d’ reentered the room, he was accompanied by Cordiss Krinkle and Victor Lambert. Montaro had never seen Cordiss or Victor before and, from the descriptions he had been given, he would not have recognized them—they wore dark, conservative clothes and Cordiss’s hair was pulled back in a severe bun. But from the reactions on the faces of those who knew Cordiss and Victor, Montaro understood exactly who they were.

Whitney’s hands reflexively flew up to cover her face; a cry emerged from her lips as she remembered the time that she and Franklyn had spent in Alcala de Henarés, essentially imprisoned there. Franklyn felt a surge of anger when he saw the look on his wife’s face. Everyone remained still as they watched Cordiss and Victor move to the center of the room.

Julius Hargrove addressed his remarks to Cordiss; he alone seemed unsurprised by her appearance. “You have something you wish to say?” he asked, prodding her to speak. Cordiss nodded uncertainly, then moved forward a few hesitant paces. As Victor held her hand, she cleared her throat; when she spoke, her voice barely rose above a whisper. She did not seem to be pissing ice water now.

“We apologize for interrupting your dinner,” she said haltingly. “We only wish to say something to all of you, and then we will be on our way.”

Cordiss looked to Hargrove, then to Montaro. But as she looked to
the Walkers and tried to catch Whitney’s eye, she saw only Franklyn’s stern and unforgiving glare. Cordiss took a deep breath.

“We have wronged some of you,” she said. “We have stolen from some of you and sold what we stole to others in this room. We are here to try to make restitution, to the extent that we can. For having wronged you and broken your trust, we apologize. We will pay back every penny of the money we received. We know who the coins truly belong to. I stole the first coin from Dr. Mozelle’s office; that one rightfully belonged to you, Whitney.”

Whitney could not bring herself to look at Cordiss, whose voice buckled as her eyes drifted downward. Cordiss made as if to speak further, but her voice caught in her throat. She turned to Victor, who finished her thought.

“The second act of theft was my doing. It was not my first, but I hope it will be my last,” said Victor. “The victim was that lady sitting there.” He pointed to Carrie Pittman. “We took advantage of you, Miss Pittman. I’m sorry and ashamed. We are both deeply ashamed for what we have done. From this moment on, we will try to make it right.”

Cordiss and Victor stood quietly; they seemed to be expecting punishment or forgiveness, but neither came immediately. For her part, Carrie Pittman assumed that Victor and Cordiss must have heard the voice of God urging them to mend their ways. Some of Hargrove, Hastings and Dundas’s attorneys figured that Victor and Cordiss were merely being practical and trying to avoid criminal charges. Montaro briefly considered whether some otherworldly event had occurred, something akin to the display he had witnessed when the model of the Seventh Ship opened and caused him to view the world and his place in it in a different light. But when Montaro looked to Matthew Perch for confirmation, Perch showed no reaction. Franklyn remained dubious; he refused to be conned again.

Hargrove stepped toward Cordiss. “I think I speak for everyone when I say that I thank you for those remarks, Ms. Krinkle,” he said. “But may I be so bold as to ask what has led to you to this, shall we say, sudden conversion?”

“You can,” said Cordiss slowly, as if trying to regain her composure.

“But I don’t think that many of you will believe me, or that you will forgive me. After all, I still have not been able to forgive myself.”

Again, Cordiss looked to Whitney, but Whitney was still looking down; her husband’s arms were wrapped around her.

“Well, what is it?” Hargrove asked Cordiss. “What miraculous event has happened?”

Cordiss squeezed Victor’s hand tightly, but when she spoke, her voice was so soft that Hargrove had to ask her to repeat herself.

“What’s that?” Hargrove asked. “What did you say?”

“I’m pregnant,” Cordiss said, speaking through her tears, “and I couldn’t bear the idea of raising a child who would profit from our crimes and our dishonesty. Neither of us wants that to be our child’s inheritance.”

At first, no one spoke. Everyone remained seated, almost frozen in their positions. Then, Whitney rose from her chair.

“Oh, Cordiss.” Whitney’s voice trembled. Whitney made as if to walk forward. But Franklyn grabbed her hand and eased her back down into her chair.

“No,” he said kindly but firmly to his wife. “Not again.” He would not allow Cordiss to abuse his and Whitney’s trust anymore. He wasn’t certain of Cordiss’s motivations—whether she was working for Hargrove or for some other men in the room, or whether, as usual, she was merely out for herself. Whatever the case may have been, he didn’t buy Cordiss’s remorse or the story of her pregnancy. It seemed too convenient. His instincts told him that her speech had been staged for his and Whitney’s benefit, to win their favor and somehow gain control of their lives—and the coins—again. When Cordiss and Victor humbly excused themselves from the room and Hargrove moved to the center of the room as if on cue to take their place, Franklyn felt certain that his suspicions had been correct.

“Well,” said Hargrove, facing the Walkers as if he were wrapping up a case, “let me get to the crux of this matter. My clients have instructed me to make you an offer on their behalf—five million dollars for each of the items that you, Mr. and Mrs. Walker, are presumed to have legal rights to. We urge you to consider this offer.”