The Circle of Eight (28 page)

As the latest member to join The Circle, he was
automatically Number Eight, a position he was certain he would maintain should
a vote have been held two days ago. But now with the Catalyst almost within
their grasp, he had a funny feeling he’d place much higher in the balloting.

And if he played his cards right, he just might become
the most powerful man in The Order.

Then no one would be able to criticize him ever again.

Or delay his plans.

The Founder had taught it was imperative to keep the
world’s population at a safe level. That level had been exceeded in Europe and
the result was the Dark Ages, not ended until the Black Death leveled things
back out. But with advances in science and medicine, the world population had
grown at an alarming rate during the twentieth century, with no diseases able
to gain a foothold and bring the population down to acceptable levels.

Yes, those levels changed with time, the five hundred
million number in his mind too low. His interpretation of the teachings was
that the world population should be at a level sustainable for the planet. With
modern farming techniques, that meant the ability of the planet to feed the
population had grown. The problem was no longer food, it was other types of
resources. The planet was being stripped of its resources to build massive
cities and structures that could never be maintained indefinitely without
outside replacements. Already companies were looking to the moon, Mars, the
asteroid belt. They knew there was no way to sustain this rate of growth.

And once the resources ran out, the entire population,
whether it was seven billion or twenty billion, would suffer, and potentially
wipe each other out in a battle for what remained.

But if the population could be brought under control
before the crisis occurred, there would be thousands of years’ worth of
resources for that smaller, sustainable population. He personally felt one
billion was a reasonable number. It was large enough to maintain cultural and
genetic diversity, to populate the entire planet in reasonable pockets, and to
sustain an economy of global proportions where capitalism could still thrive.

The question for The Order had always been how to
achieve that. Disease had always been believed to be the only way, but he had
come up with a different method that he was certain would work, and could be implemented
within a generation without the public even knowing. In fact, it was already
being implemented, with those on the left and right cheering it on, totally
unaware of how this great advance could be twisted and turned into the greatest
population die off in the history of humanity.

And if he were to lead The Order, he could implement it
within less than five years, leaving the planet with his one billion target,
living in the richest nations of the world, leaving the remainder of the planet
to sustain and improve the lifestyles of those that survived and would flourish
in the new reality, with The Order carefully guiding things in the background.

Rue de la Tour de I’lle, Geneva, Switzerland

“What have you got for us?” asked Dawson, the secure phone on
speaker with Atlas.

“When the professors escaped they managed to steal the
apprentice’s phone. I’ve traced the number they think might belong to Lacroix
and I’m showing his last location at an airport in Rimini, Italy.”

“So he’s flown the coop,” said Jimmy. “Where to?”

“We’ve got a private flight leaving there not even an
hour ago. It’s due to land in Colmar, France in less than an hour.”

Dawson’s head bobbed. “Good. Niner and Mickey should
already be in the air thanks to Professor Palmer letting us borrow her jet
again. Relay the new info to them; they might be able to get there first.”

“Casey’s doing that now, already confirmed that they
should get there about ten minutes before,” replied Atlas. “Professor Palmer’s
plane should then be refueled and back in Geneva within a little over an hour to
pick you up.”

“Equipment?”

“Our French connection is already on his way with
everything we asked for. Should rendezvous with the advance team about an hour
after they arrive.”

Dawson smiled as there was a knock on the door.

“Excellent work,” he said. “Hold on for a second, we’ve
got someone at the door.”

Jimmy and Jagger covered the door as they waited for the
second coded knock.

It came and Jimmy opened the door, Jagger still with his
weapon trained on the entrance until the new arrival was recognized and
confirmed clear. Dawson saw Jagger’s shoulders relax as Wings and Red entered,
closing the door behind them.

“Good news?” asked Dawson.

Red smiled, looking between Jimmy and Jagger.

“I think they’re going to love them.”

Dawson grinned as Jimmy and Jagger frowned.

“Do we
really
need to go that far?” asked Jimmy.
“I’m willing to hike it out if necessary.”

“Hey, you’re the ones who were stupid enough to let
yourselves get caught,” said Mickey with a grin, flopping down on a nearby cot.
“Besides, it’s not like we’re crossing the Atlantic. You’ll survive.”

Dawson turned back to the comm unit sitting on the
table.

“What’s the status on their files?”

“We hacked the system and removed all electronic records
of those two bozos ever having been there along with their prints and mug
shots.”

“Paper records?”

“Swiss policy is electronic records only. Some green
initiative.”

“Thank God for the eco-movement,” said Jimmy. “I’d
really like to come back to this country sometime.”

“Looks like we got lucky,” said Dawson. He pointed to a
pile of supplies sitting on a table, then the bathroom. “Now why don’t you two
ex-cons get yourselves ready?”

“But if there’s no records, do we really need to do
this?” protested Jimmy. “Come on, BD, live dangerously!”

Spock’s eyebrow shot up as Dawson’s head dropped, giving
Jimmy the eye.

“Red, get your knife. I want their heads shaved as
closely as yours.”

Red stood, pulling his Bowie knife from its sheath.

“Fine! Fine!” said Jimmy, waving Red off and grabbing
the bag from the table. “I think you guys just want to see me in lipstick
again.”

“Again?” asked Jagger as he followed Jimmy into the
bathroom. “Do I need to be worried stuck in here with you?”

There was a smack of a hand hitting an ass.

“You’re not my type,” said Jimmy as the door closed,
Jagger’s reply cut off.

“Touch my ass again and I’ll—”

Milton Residence, St. Paul, Maryland

Gregory Milton had sat at the kitchen table since the moment he had
made the call to Fort Bragg. It had been hours, and his newly found sense of
feeling in his legs and particularly his ass were starting to really bother
him. His wife sat at the table with him, silently surfing on her iPad to keep
him company, she quickly having discovered he was in no mood to chat.

His best friend—scratch that, his best
friends
—were
in trouble and he had no idea what was going on.

“We’ll have the professors contact you when we have
them.”

That was the last he had heard.

Surely they would have rescued them by now?

Then again, they were in a different country, there was
travel time, maybe they had their own priorities?

There were dozens of perfectly plausible reasons for not
having heard yet, and every time he reached for the phone to make a call, Sarah
would reach out and place her hand gently over his.

“Give them time,” she would say. “You calling won’t
speed things along.”

He shifted in his chair, his right ass cheek finally
demanding relief.

“Can I get you anything?” the ever attentive Sarah asked.

He shook his head, then stopped as his stomach rumbled.

“Tea biscuits and a glass of milk?”

She winked at him, knowing exactly what he was doing.
Occupying her time. She stood up and poked her head out into the hallway
leading to the stairs.

“Niskha, do you want to help Mommy bake tea biscuits for
Daddy?”

The reply was the pounding of tiny feet on the floor
overhead, then the much less confident footsteps on the stairs.

He’d never tire of hearing those little feet and his
chest tightened a bit as he realized that in a few years, those feet wouldn’t
be so little anymore.

The phone rang and they all jumped as he grabbed it. He
didn’t recognize the call display.

“Hello?”

“Greg, it’s me, Jim!”

He felt a sense of relief wash over him as every muscle
in his body relaxed, including some he didn’t remember being able to feel
anymore.

“Thank God! And Laura?”

“She’s right here beside me.”

“Hi Greg!” he heard her call.

“We’re here with Hugh, still in Italy. We managed to
escape and I think we’re safe now. But we need your help.”

“Name it,” said Milton, grabbing the pen and pad of
paper.

“I need you to find an old photograph.”

“A photograph? What the hell for?”

“Daddy swore!” whispered Niskha to her mother’s leg.

And when it was explained to Milton, he realized the
danger his friends had been in was far from over.

Colmar-Houssen Airport, Colmar, France

Niner stepped onto the tarmac first and shivered. It was damned
cold, and in the too near distance the mountains made it clear why, their
snowcapped peaks lost in the covering of snow stretching down the entire height
into the nearby valley. Mickey stopped beside him, admiring the view.

“Man I love mountains,” he muttered, then stepped toward
the small terminal. Once inside it didn’t feel that much warmer to Niner, which
was something he found quite often in these types of locations, central heating
seeming to be a North American necessity, everywhere else a luxury. A fire
roared in a nearby hearth, and they both walked over to warm themselves as they
waited for their baggage to be brought inside.

The door opened letting in a rush of cold air as a lone
staff member relegated to the outdoor duties pulled their two bags in on a
trolley. One was a bright purple, the other lime green, Red’s idea of a joke.

“Your covers are two gay lovers on a nice romantic
getaway to the mountains for some skiing, hot chocolate and rubdowns in front
of the fireplace,” he had said. “Who knows where the evening could lead?”

Niner had jumped up and down, quickly clapping his hands
together while Mickey had groaned.

“You had to partner me with him on this, didn’t you? You
know he’ll take it too far.”

Red grinned.

“I’m counting on it.”

The man who had brought their luggage in had looked old
enough to be Niner’s grandfather, causing Niner to feel a twinge of guilt until
he witnessed the old man slinging them around like they were filled with
feathers. Instead of offering to help, Niner took a moment to get into
character.

He decided to have fun, channeling Eddie Murphy from
Beverly Hills Cop—hands on the hips, shoulders shoved forward, elbows back,
head cocked to the side with his lips puckered. He turned to Mickey who Niner
was sure had to clench his sphincter to avoid shitting his pants in laughter.

Mickey decided to play the alpha and stepped toward the
lone counter, a woman who might have been the luggage guy’s wife manning it.

“Bonjour, parlez vous Anglais?” he asked.

“But of course, monsieur.”

Mickey pushed his fake passport forward. “You have a
vehicle for us, under Green?”

“Of course, monsieur. It is outside, fully gassed and
ready to go.” The woman held out a pair of keys which Mickey took, handing them
to Niner.

“Thanks, sweetie,” whispered Niner, putting his head on
Mickey’s shoulder.

The woman smiled at him.

Niner flashed her one in return.

“Would you like Heinrich to put your luggage in your
vehicle?” she asked, pointing to the old man.

Mickey shook his head.

“No, I think we can manage. Thank you very much.”

Niner walked over to the two bags and stood beside them.
Mickey picked up his own bag while Niner stared at his, hands on his hips.
Mickey shook his head and picked up the second bag as Niner skipped behind him,
wiggling his fingers at the lady behind the counter in a fabulous goodbye.

Moments later they were in the SUV, the engine running,
a feeble heat pushing through the vents as the cooled engine slowly warmed up.
Niner pointed at a set of landing lights in the distance.

“That must be Lacroix.”

Mickey nodded toward a convoy of three black sedans that
had just arrived.

“I’m guessing those are for him.”

Niner nodded.

“It’s good to be the king.”

On route to Barcelona, Spain

One of the many things Acton loved about Europe was the size. From
Barcelona to San Marino, the Alsace in France to Switzerland, it all fit in the
size of Texas, with heavy populations throughout, which meant plenty of fast,
regular flights.

As soon as his good friend Greg had found the photo, he
was able to use it to track down where and when the auction had been held, then
the Delta guys had been able to find the purchaser located in Barcelona.

After a brief debate, Reading the only dissenting opinion,
they were on a flight for Barcelona, hopefully ahead of their opponents, but
most likely not. The Order would have operatives scattered throughout the
world. Most likely they had already dispatched a team, and perhaps even had the
item in their possession. And if they did, any hope of stopping the
Rosicrucians might be lost.

Acton wasn’t one to believe in magic or special powers,
but he was one to believe in science and the fact some knowledge was lost over
time. A prime example being Damascus steel. An advanced form of sword making
employed for centuries, now lost, no one knowing how the swords were made, or
what made them of such strength, the gun having replaced the need.