The Keys of Solomon (12 page)

Falco rose from the bed and made his way to the desk where Will Caseman had set up the laptop and portable HP printer–fax machine. It was time to file the report.

CHAPTER 8

Boston, Massachusetts

The aide held the phone close to his chest with one hand. With the other, she flashed two fingers, closed her hand into a fist, and then flashed three fingers.

Enrique DeLorenzo felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.
Twenty
-
two million, three hundred thousand dollars, US
. Quite an opening bid for a chunk of wood, but still less than he had expected. Then again, this was far more than some dusty antiquity salvaged from another era. Religious scholars believed such relics contained great power. Power that would one day be called upon in the war against Legion.

There would be no letter of authenticity provided to the winner of this by-invitation-only auction. The players had been provided with results of the exhaustive dating analysis. Potential buyers were provided with a detailed history of the piece as it made its way from an obscure hill near ancient Jerusalem to its current home in Austria. They were allowed close inspection of the yard-long shard of timber, and they used the opportunity to subject the piece to intense scrutiny by highly qualified third-party scientific contractors. Iron nail fragments had been recovered from the wood and deemed consistent with the historical period in question.

Still, the only documentation provided by the seller was the results of molecular X-rays and carbon-14 dating, conducted at the seller's expense, and under the watchful eye of not one but three independent laboratories. All evidence pointed to an authentic and highly coveted class-one relic. The estimated selling price might be considered unreasonable though, were it not for one simple fact: The Order needed it.

Enrique considered the bid for only a moment, then nodded to his aide. The young woman acknowledged the nod with one of her own, then spoke quietly into the phone. While awaiting the next bidding round, Enrique swirled two fingers of brandy inside a Baccarat snifter and considered the report he had finished earlier that afternoon. The news from Malcolm hadn't been good. In fact, it bordered on catastrophic.

Thomas Falco had confirmed it in a later report:
Three members of an advance support element dead. One highly skilled Sword dead. Another sorely injured and awaiting extraction.
How could such a thing happen? How? Thank God this all went down in Phoenix, and not in Boston or Los Angeles.

Enrique made a mental note to call his contacts in Phoenix as soon as the auction was over. It wouldn't be easy, but eventually the police would determine Will Caseman's identity. If they ever stumbled across his background, the investigation would be relentless. The Watchers had powerful allies within various high-level law enforcement and judiciary communities, and at times such as this, those friends would prove invaluable. The deaths were tragic, and the loss of Will Caseman would be felt throughout the entire Order. Yet, that wasn't the catastrophe that Gilbert spoke of in his early-morning fax.

Enrique's thoughts were interrupted as his aide flashed another bid.

The price has climbed by thirteen-and-a-half million dollars in less than two minutes. Quite a price for a piece of blood-stained wood. I wonder if Christ ever imagined we would be bidding for the instrument of his earthly demise? Ah, well … enough.

Enrique held up five fingers, flashed them three times in rapid succession, and waited until his aide acknowledged the bid from across the room. As soon as she gave him a brief nod, Enrique's thoughts returned to the report. The contents were disturbing on so many levels, the greatest of which was that Sam Conner was still alive.

A seventh-generation Watcher, Enrique was the senior-most member of the Order's intelligence branch in the Americas. Though not a member of the Hierarchy, his was a position of tremendous political power and influence, which he wielded with great finesse. More important, as chief legal counsel for the Boston Archdiocese, he had far-reaching access to sensitive information, some of which originated in the secretive confines of Vatican City. Yet, despite his status, Enrique held little personal ambition. Rather, he saw political influence, financial power, and information as common tools to be used toward an uncommon end, weapons to be wielded against the armies of Legion during the End of Days. This was Enrique DeLorenzo's role, his mission in life, to carry the fight to the Enemy. And now, it would seem God had delivered another weapon to the Watchers for use against the putridity that had seeped into the world of man from the despicable plane of Sitra Akhra. A weapon named Sam Conner. An Offspring.

Provided the Hierarchy would approve such a plan. Many of the elders were convinced Offspring were demon-spawn, while the rest simply didn't know what to believe. Despite the ambiguity of the ancient scrolls, not a single Watcher had risen to champion the Offspring as victims of errant interpretations.
At least, not until now.
According to Malcolm's fax, Thomas Falco had all but accepted the role of advocate. How Enrique dreaded passing
that
bit of information up the Watcher chain of command.

*   *   *

Despite the onset of an early winter, Enrique walked outside and thought the night air felt thick and oppressive. The flow of traffic along Long Island's Seventh Street grated on his nerves, and his favorite meal—roasted Monkfish Tournedo—had seemed flat and tasteless. Not even the auction in which he had secured a highly coveted class-one relic could bolster his spirits. The actual value of such a potent artifact was immeasurable and the Hierarchy was well pleased, but Enrique couldn't bring himself to celebrate the victory. He also knew there was nothing wrong with the food, the traffic, or the encroaching Canadian cold front. His black mood had everything to do with the situation in Phoenix.

A quick glance at his watch told him it was nearly time for the call. He motioned for a taxi, then changed his mind and waved off the black-and-white as it pulled up the curb. It wouldn't be the first time he had conversed with his superiors while walking along the streets of Long Island. Enrique traveled less than a block before his cell phone vibrated. He activated the phone, and waited for the signal that indicated a secure satellite uplink. After a few seconds, the phone chirped three times in rapid succession. The call was now safely encrypted.

Enrique answered, “DeLorenzo.”

“Good evening, Rikki. Have you a moment to talk?”

The speech was thick and slightly slurred, as Enrique knew it would be. “Yes, sir. I have all the time in the world, Lord Protector.” Enrique used the honorific title given to the highest-ranking Sword in each country or region, and in this case, the North American continent.

“Ah, so kind of you, my son, but let's dispense with the formalities, shall we? How is your family? Angelina is well? And little Rikki?”

“Yes to both, sir. Thank you for asking. And you? You are well?”

The inquiry was another customary courtesy, for Enrique already knew the answer. The Lord Protector was dying. Nothing short of a miracle would see him through the winter, though only those nearest to him would suspect the truth.

“I'm well enough for an old man with a bad hip and an upstart gall bladder,” Gilbert replied.

Not to mention lymphatic cancer,
thought Enrique.

“You've read the reports from Malcolm, sir?”

“Yes, I've read them. The business in Phoenix is very, very disturbing. Sir Malcolm was en route back to New Orleans when I learned the mission in Phoenix had failed. I rerouted Malcolm and his team to Phoenix, where he now has Falco's hotel under surveillance. Malcolm is prepared to have Falco on a private plane within two hours' notice. A safe house has been notified and appropriate medical staff is on call to attend Falco upon his arrival.

“I assume you've initiated appropriate damage control measures on your end, Rikki?”

“Yes, sir. Caseman is a nonentity. It's as if he never lived. Covers for the deceased members of the support crew are in place. A replacement support team is already en route.”

“Good, good. And what of the Enemy? I understand there's been no further sign of them in Phoenix since the attack on our people?”

Them. If Falco is to be believed, there
was
no “them.” A single monstrous entity cut our people down.

“Our observers report no sign of the Enemy, sir. Although…” Enrique cut short his reply. He was entering dangerous territory now. Dangerous for Thomas Falco, at least. However, he didn't need to finish the sentence. The Lord Protector did so for him.

“… although Falco believes the Enemy has gathered in considerable numbers near Phoenix, is that it? Perhaps a
nest
?”

“Yes, sir,” said Enrique, while at the same time, hoping Falco was wrong. Nests were extremely dangerous demonic strongholds, usually led by one or more greater demons, or worse, a lord. “Thomas believes the nest is located south of the city, almost due south of his hotel.”

“And he has this on good authority … from his guest, young Sam Conner, the Offspring? So, tell me, Rikki! What do you make of Thomas's observations regarding the boy?”

Here we go, straight to the chase.
“I believe Thomas feels he owes his life to this boy. If his report is even remotely accurate, Conner possesses extraordinary powers, the likes of which we've yet to observe in other Offspring. Thomas is also convinced there is nothing demonic about the boy's abilities. He says he detects no hint of demonic presence in or about Conner, and we all know of Thomas's gift for sniffing out the Enemy.

“However, by his own admission, Thomas suffered severe trauma and a serious head injury. It's possible his observations are clouded, or the result of trauma-induced hallucinations.”

There was brief pause, then, “I believe there is one possibility that you've either dismissed out of hand or simply overlooked.”

Enrique's pulse quickened.
Here it comes
.

“I've considered it, sir. There is a chance, however remote, that Thomas is now under the influence of the Enemy. We both know he's questioned his faith before, and as much as I'd like to dismiss the notion of demonic influence, I can't. A moment, sir.”

Enrique moved toward the edge of the walk, making way for a giggling couple. As soon as the pair was well out of earshot, he continued.

“But Falco seems so certain, sir. In his report, he—”

“Stop, Rikki. You've repeated Falco's report almost verbatim. I asked what
you
think. If you truly believe Falco may be contaminated, then you know what we must do, and be quick about it. His knowledge of the Order in the hands of the Enemy would be devastating.”

“I've left him stranded, injured, and alone, just for that reason, sir. And, frankly, it's wounded my very soul to abandon a trusted Sword like this. I—I'm just not sure what to think, sir. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear, but I can't offer a better answer. Not yet.”

“Quite the dilemma isn't it?” said the Lord Protector. “We all know how cunning and treacherous the Enemy can be. It's possible the boy is in fact demonic, and this is a well-contrived ploy to infiltrate the Order. God knows they've infiltrated just about every other institution on the planet. On the other hand, if Thomas is correct, we must find a way to utilize Conner's ability to detect and pinpoint the Enemy. My God, what a talent! Provided, of course, that the Hierarchy will permit such a thing.

“Therefore, this is what you must do. And I say you, because I trust this to no one else, not with so much at stake. You must go to Falco. Interview this Offspring, and see for yourself. Afterward, we will make our recommendation to the Hierarchy.”

Enrique silently thanked God for Thomas Falco's reprieve. An hour ago, he wouldn't have taken fifty-to-one odds on Falco's life expectancy beyond tomorrow.

CHAPTER 9

Vatican City

Inspector Arturo Giannini of the Vatican Corps of Gendarmes made his way through the stunned crowd of onlookers.
So many for this time of night!
At the edge of the lawn surrounding the front of Domus Sanctae Marthae, a pair of nervous-looking security officers stepped aside, giving Arturo a first look at the carnage. In his twenty years as a Vatican law police officer, he'd never seen anything like this. Dio Omnipotente!
God Almighty!

The brutality suggested a mind wound too tightly that had finally snapped. Or perhaps it was a crime of passion brought on by jealousy. Unlikely, but not unheard of. There was another possibility, one too terrible to entertain, yet it was the very reason Arturo had rushed to the scene. It was his covert mission to ferret out infiltration of the Holy See by the Enemy. Arturo lead two lives: one in which he played the stoic, professional police officer, dedicated to the preservation of the law, and one for which he truly lived, a well-kept secret known only to a very few. Arturo Giannini was the eyes and ears of the Watchers inside the walls of the Vatican, in constant vigilance for signs of the Enemy. The crime scene before him could well be such a sign.

Piero Fini, another Gendarmes senior investigator, stood over the first body and snapped several pictures with a thirty-five-millimeter camera. A pair of junior officers, both looking a little green around the gills, knelt beside the bodies. Each held small, metallic rulers near obvious wounds and other evidence for scale. Arturo doubted the pictures would be of much use. Piero's hands shook like an old log wagon on a mountain road. When Piero saw Arturo, he stepped away from the corpse, seemingly grateful for an opportunity to do so.

Arturo reached inside a coat pocket for a stick of gum. Peeling the wrapper, he said, “Do we know their identities?”