Reckoning (36 page)

Dark smoke drifted faintly from the chimney, but the windows were shut, the doors closed. No cars were visible, although a large log garage was built next to the cabin, a small hallway connecting the two buildings. The garage was expansive, almost as large as the cabin itself, easily large enough to hold three cars and a lot of equipment.

Cold crept from the muddy ground through Kertzman's coat, his shirt, soaking his chest. His elbows were wet with mud while the taller grass, dried by the constant breeze, waved around him.

He was confident that he couldn't be seen from the cabin, not unless someone looked directly at him and studied the area for a few minutes. He was still over 100 yards out, not moving.

Slowly, a plan began to dawn. He studied the terrain,
measuring. If he worked down the ridge he might be able to ...

A twig snapped behind him.

Instantly, by a reflex that surprised even him, Kertzman kept himself from reacting.

A quick man would leap at the sound, spinning. A good
professional would roll, drawing his weapon. But Kertzman was in the combat flow now, sharp and alive with fighting instinct, and he didn't move at all. Because in the space of time between when the sound reached his mind and his body could react, he identified the noise.

It was not natural or accidental. Nor was it animal or the muffled, subdued snap of the wind breaking dry limbs. Rather, it was sharp, clear, and close
– a message.

A warning.

The presence was right behind him, had come upon him without any sound until it had chosen to announce its arrival and experience told Kertzman that he was in the sights. He didn't question it. Didn't blink. He knew it would be impossible to roll and clear before whoever it was simply squeezed a trigger.

Heart pounding, breath fast, Kertzman waited, the cabin forgotten, everything forgotten except the presence behind him.

"You can stand up," a man said.

The voice was calm, disturbingly familiar with the nature of the command. It was a voice at home in the dangerous arena of men at war.

Kertzman put his hands to the side, flat against the ground, began to rise.

"That's good," the voice said. "Real slow. Keep your hands where I can see them."

Kertzman stood, turned slowly.

Stared into the face of Jonathan Gage.

Kertzman's gaze dropped to the rifle, a lever-action .30-30 leveled evenly at his chest. He was recovering, but was still winded from the surprise, the shock. Gage looked much like his photograph but leaner. He was dressed in blue jeans and a blue T-shirt, with a waist-length leather jacket. He wore ankle-high leather hiking boots. A haggard paleness in the face suggested to Kertzman a distinctive weariness, or fatigue.

Kertzman blinked, focused, thinking furiously behind his stone-faced gaze. It was a situation he hadn't faced for a long time, and he'd forgotten how fast the mind can work. Instantly he scanned the forest behind Gage. Saw nothing. It appeared that the ex-Delta soldier was alone.

Kertzman decided to trust his instincts that the soldier was as confused as he was.

“I’m a federal agent, Gage," he said sullenly. "You can check my ID."

The gray eyes revealed nothing. Kertzman couldn't be sure of anything. "I'm telling you the truth."

Somber but with faint amusement, Gage nodded. "I figure."

"I need to talk to you."

Gage laughed shortly, almost friendly. "I figure that, too." The rifle gestured to Kertzman's waist. "Open your coat. Just do it real careful. If you're a federal agent, you know how it's done."

Kertzman opened his coat, turned his side slightly so that Gage could get a clear look at the .45.

Gage nodded, smiled.

"That's quite a hogleg you got there."

Kertzman could tell that Gage purposefully allowed a slight trace of respect in his tone.

"I'll take it," Gage said. "For now. And don't get crazy about it. You can have it back later if you're really who you say you are. I give you my word."

Kertzman reached carefully for the .45. Saw Gage's hand tighten almost imperceptibly on the .30-30. He removed it from the holster and held it out, butt first.

"Just toss it."

"It might discharge," Kertzman said gruffly.

Gage smiled, laughed lightly. "It ain't gonna go off, partner. Just toss it."

Kertzman tossed it to the grass at his feet.

Still keeping his eyes on Kertzman, Gage bent, picked up the .45. He held it in his right hand, dangling it towards the ground while keeping the rifle leveled with his left. Then he knelt down, motioned with the rifle for Kertzman to follow the movement.

Kertzman followed the command, expressionless. Watched Gage lay the rifle across his knees, almost careless. But Kertzman knew the man wasn't careless.

To the ignorant, Gage appeared relaxed, almost indifferent. But Kertzman knew the relaxed stance was simply the practiced guard of a man who knew exactly how much tension was required for a moment, a man who wasn't ruled by his emotions but by a cold passionless mind that had long ago perfected every skill necessary for physical combat. Kertzman knew if he tried to pull a hidden backup weapon, which he didn't have anyway, he'd be dead before he could clear leather.

"Alright," Gage began carefully, "show me your ID."

Kertzman removed it, tossed it to him. Gage caught it and flipped it open, scanning quickly. He tossed it back.

"I know you don't believe me," Kertzman began. "I know you've got ID, too, that says you're a federal agent and a CIA agent and everything else. But I'm really a federal agent. I'm an investigator with the Pentagon, but I'm temporarily reinstated with the Bureau for this case. I came here to talk to you, Gage. I'm not here to hurt you. Or them."

Gage's eyes gleamed, impressively dangerous.

"Who's them?" he asked.

Kertzman's face was impassive. "Malachi
Halder. Sarah Halder. Bartholomew O'Henry."

He waited a moment to see Gage's reaction. There was none.

"You need to trust me, Gage." Kertzman grew bolder, knowing that truth was his greatest ally. "Do you see a rifle? No. All I got is that little ol’ peashooter for protection. I didn't come to fight. And I'm no hitter. I came to find you – to find out what's going on. We need to talk." Kertzman waited for that to settle. "You can believe me or not."

Gage's face revealed a tendril of doubt. Kertzman knew he was a man accustomed to making split-second life-and-death decisions about whether people could be trusted or not. He waited, allowing his cooperation and courage to speak for him.

Gage's eyes scanned the woods beyond Kertzman.

"There's nobody but me," Kertzman said coarsely, throat cold with wind. "I came by myself."

Gage smiled, nodding. "Yeah, I can see that." He waited a minute before speaking again. "You're in No Man's Land, Kertzman. You're not supposed to be here."

Kertzman wasn't sure what that meant. He hesitated, deciphering. When Gage said nothing else, Kertzman's natural
attitude began to assert itself. It was an impulse that he didn't try to suppress. Because in the back of his mind, just in case Gage did decide to pull the trigger, he wanted to die with his hackles up.

"No
Man's Land?" Kertzman growled. "What does that mean?"

"That means you're off the beaten path, old son." Gage laughed. "It means you've got no backup. And that means you're doing something you're not supposed to be doing. The Bureau wouldn't send one man in here to do surveillance on me. That is, if they knew I was here. Or even if they suspected that I was here. They'd send fifty agents or more. Special Response, probably. But you're here all by your lonesome, taking a big chance, trying to find
ol’ Gage. Hoping you don't get killed doing it. And that takes guts and something more." He paused. "What do you want?"

Kertzman didn't hesitate. "Somebody's set you up to die."

Gage's wary gaze narrowed over an accepting smile. "I figure."

"It's somebody inside."

Gage studied him. "And who might that be, Kertzman?"

Kertzman shook his head. "I don't know. Not yet, anyway. But they're coming and they mean to see you and everybody else in that cabin dead. So we'd better talk before they get here, figure somethin
g out."

Gage was silent. Then suddenly and without warning Gage tossed Kertzman the Colt
.45. Kertzman caught it, staring, awestruck at the leanly muscular soldier as he slowly rose to his feet. Kertzman also stood, glaring at the Colt, at Gage.

"I could be a shooter, Gage."

Gage laughed. "You ain't no shooter, Kertzman. I know what you are. You're lost. 'Bout like me." Gage walked past him. "If you want to talk, come down to the cabin. We'll talk."

Kertzman turned and watched, astounded, as Gage walked down the hill, towards the cabin.

"Gage," he said, feeling the weight of the .45 in his hand. "You're being pretty careless."

Gage stopped and turned, peering carefully at Kertzman. A whispered laugh escaped him. Kertzman recognized it as the sound of a man too long on the edge.

"No," he said, eyeing Kertzman carefully. "I don't think so."

He turned and walked away.

Kertzman stared after him, blinking stupidly. The Colt dangled in his hand as the soldier moved slowly down the slope. Everything collided in his mind; suspicions and questions, doubts and certain-ties, as he searched for where the truth lay hidden in the nightmare.

Kertzman started forward, knowing that his first step down the hill was the first step into the heart of this madness.

* * *

T
HIRTY-FOUR

Kertzman had heard it all.

It was midnight, and he had listened for over six hours. He understood what had happened to Gage in the Negeb, had put it all together from the professor's townhouse to the seminary to the Cathedral of St. Thomas. And then back again to a mansion in Westchester, New York, where Gage had witnessed Father Simon's murder.

Bartholomew, or "Barto" as they called him, was an eyewitness to much of it with Malachi and Sarah Halder corroborating the additional facts.

Sometimes, in their eagerness to confide to a true law enforcement officer, they had spoken at once, but their stories never contradicted each other.

It wasn't the best way to catch up on things. Usually, it was best to question everyone separately and then check statements, not allowing multiple witnesses, or suspects, to keep a story straight. But this crew had plenty of opportunity to build an elaborate lie before Kertzman arrived, and the usual methods of interrogation had pretty much lost their usefulness.

Anyway, Kertzman knew he was a pretty good judge of character. And he calculated that the solemn, dignified Malachi
Halder would not lie.

Gage made a telephone call, postponing his flight to a location in Italy where the manuscript was hidden. He wouldn't say where, and Kertzman didn't push.

The manuscript was the only thing that kept Kertzman continuously off-balance. It seemed to be the central element in this affair but he couldn't accept the significance of the book.

Together, like some kind of secret conclave, they sat around the kitchen table. Gage kept the rifle close, and Kertzman kept his .45.

Barto held a Marlin across his lap, surprisingly at ease with a weapon. And two of Gage's old buddies from Black Light were in the hills, watching.

After midnight, when there was nothing left to say about the series of events, Kertzman turned again to the subject of the
manuscript. He looked at the professor.

"Now, Professor
Halder," he began, as courteously as possible, but not knowing where, exactly, to go with it, "just why in blazes is this old book so important to somebody? It don't figure to me. Not at all. It's not worth men dying for, is it?"

Malachi
Halder maintained a somber and steady air. "Men have already died for it, Mr. Kertzman," he said. "For two thousand years men have died for it. You see, the book is said to contain a prophecy, a valued prophecy, and supposedly contains the name of the Beast, the Antichrist. It began in the fiery days following the destruction of Herod's Temple in Jerusalem. An aged priest, one of the old masters of Egyptian sorcery who commanded a particular allegiance from the demon-god Set, recorded the name and the year of birth of the Beast, the biblical Antichrist, in a manuscript. But the scribe supposedly died soon after penning the prophecy and the manuscript was lost. Countless emperors and popes and kings have searched for it from Constantine to Hadrian. Legend held that it was last seen when it was sent from Rome by a centurion, bound for an unnamed city deep in Egypt, possibly Alexandria, where it was to have been hidden away for two thousand years by a secret cult of Set. But the manuscript never reached its destination. So from the days of Titus Flavius Vespasian, Emperor of Rome in 70 A.D., the followers of Set have searched to reclaim the prophecy which will reveal to them the name of their king, the God-Man who will come and bring the entire world into dominion for them." He gazed gravely at Kertzman. "Yes, for two thousand years blood has been shed in search of this manuscript, Mr. Kertzman. No one could ever find it. Until now. Until Simon and I unearthed it in the Negeb, and surrendered it to the power of Clement."