The Keys of Solomon (16 page)

The Keys of Solomon, or the
Goetia
, was a text of near mythical proportion, though Kiel knew all too well that the book existed. The biblical King Solomon, son of the legendary David, had used the “keys” or rituals within the book to bind a host of greater demons to his service as a demonstration of the Creator's dominance over Legion. Later, Solomon imprisoned those same demons beneath Mount Moriah. In a very real sense, the Goetia represented the keys to hell on earth.

Orus shrugged. “It would seem Legion has allies in the damnedest places, if you'll excuse the poor pun, gentlemen. I also suspect the Runner played some significant role in the theft of the scroll. Only he would dare to orchestrate such a daring act of heresy on consecrated ground. Seems one of his, a highly placed priest within the Church, used his considerable influence to gain access to the Vatican library, where he managed to secrete away the Lesser Keys. Even now, the scroll is awaiting transfer to Legion. Who knows? Legion may possess the scroll even now, and we all know what this means, don't we?”

Nathan looked from Kiel to Orus, then said, “You can't be serious!”

“Oh, but I am! They intend to use the Keys in order to break the seals that bind the seventy-two greater demons imprisoned by Solomon.”

“What could possibly be of any greater importance?” asked Kiel, in a quiet, somber voice.

“I'll give you a hint,” said Orus, grinning sardonically. “Where are the Seventy-two imprisoned?”

“The Abyss, beneath the Holy of Holies. But…”

Orus sighed. “I'll make this easy for you. Both the Runner and Legion still want to destroy the world. That's a given. Once the Seventy-two are released, the Runner will possess an army to rival any on earth, including that of the Host and Brethren, combined. He'll also have access to the treasures long buried beneath the Temple. Terrible weapons of incalculable strength. And a Veil. Do you begin to see the picture?

“Again I remind you, no demon or Brethren could have entered the vault in which the Keys were kept. That leaves only a couple of possibilities, but at this point, it doesn't really matter, does it? It's done, and that's that.”

Orus refilled his wine cup, while Nathan and Kiel sat in silence. When Nathan finally found his voice, he whispered,
“La fine dei giorni.” The End of Days
.

CHAPTER 11

Phoenix, Arizona

The coffee tasted burnt.
How the hell do you burn coffee?
It was a rhetorical question. As a long-time Watcher field operative, Elliott had endured his share of long stakeouts and bad coffee. From the corner of his eye, he watched his partner as she sipped a diet soft drink through a straw.

“How can you drink that crap? Don't you know diet sodas cause cancer in laboratory animals?” Elliott rolled down the window of the van and dropped the foam cup onto the street. His partner gave him a disapproving look. “It's against the law to litter.”

A ready smile revealed a mouthful of expensive, flawless crown work. “Lighten up, sweetheart. Street sweepers make good money. You want me to deprive them of a living?”

“Heaven forbid,” she replied. “Why don't you torch the car parked in front of us while you're at it? After all, fire fighters need to eat too. Then maybe you could shoot—”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” He cracked open the driver's-side door, leaned out, retrieved the cup, then tossed it into the back seat.

“Better?”

“Much. You get a merit badge for…” The sentence trailed away as Ronni's attention was diverted to the front of the hotel. “Check the man standing in front of the revolving doors. He's wearing khakis and a blue polo shirt. Is it Falco?” As she spoke, she scooted down in the bucket seat by a couple of inches and reached behind her back to caress the grips of the compact .45-caliber Glock.

Elliott turned and looked toward the hotel entrance. The windows of the van were tinted to a shade just above illegal, and he knew he could observe the man with impunity. Unless of course, it really was Falco. In that case, it was even money that the former marine-turned-priest-turned-assassin had already made the van and its occupants. Elliott immediately picked out the man Ronni had spotted. He was the right age. Dark hair and fair complexion were both matches. Elliott thought the man
could
have been Falco—provided he grew another five inches in height and put on an extra thirty pounds of muscle.

“Relax. It's not him.” Although Elliott didn't care for his new charge, he didn't chide her for mistaking the man for the near-legendary Sword. Only three members of Malcolm Reading's personal eight-member team had ever crossed paths with the organization's most effective assassin, and Ronni wasn't one of them. She depended on verbal descriptions, which were generally as useless as teats on a bull, and a standard eight-by-eleven black-and-white mug shot for identification.

Elliott, on the other hand, knew Falco very well. While he would never admit it to Ronni, he secretly hoped very much that Thomas Falco would make the fatal mistake of stepping outside the hotel.

After the botched Conner assassination, Malcolm's team had been flown in and given the unenviable task of holding Thomas Falco and the boy in place until a superior, namely Enrique DeLorenzo, arrived on scene. Neither Conner nor Falco were allowed to leave the hotel without prior permission and at least a pair of armed escorts. If at any time Falco or Conner took it upon themselves to disobey instructions, they would be terminated with extreme prejudice. Falco received those instructions just last night, though Elliott wasn't sure how much the priest understood. Falco had sounded confused and disoriented at times during the conversation. Not that it really mattered to Elliott. He wanted an excuse to kill the man.

Elliott had often wondered about the many rumors regarding Falco's exploits. He suspected many of the alleged deeds were nothing more than pathetic attempts at legend-building, exaggerating one's achievements in order to rise in rank and stature. In his opinion, there was no other answer. No operative could be half as good as Thomas Falco was reputed to be … with the notable exception of Elliott, himself.

He had taken out his fair share of targets over the past couple of years, though not a quarter as many as Falco, if you believed all the bullshit hype. Someday he would call Falco out and confront him about the ridiculous war stories and embellished exploits. How the hell did someone go from Force Recon to the pulpit, anyway?

Elliott also knew he would jeopardize his career if he didn't handle Falco in just the right manner. People loved their legends, even those who were more talk than action, and Falco had powerful friends within the organization. Of course, Elliott wasn't worried. He knew things would work out in due time. Elliott had an ace. No, she was more than that. She was power made manifest, and Elliott's personal benefactor.

Falco would make a mistake, and when he did, Elliott would show them all who was truly the better man. He would kill the legendary Falco graveyard fucking dead. At least Malcolm Reading recognized real talent when he saw it. Hadn't he personally recruited Elliott into his private inner circle? The status carried certain perks, but at times, it also meant he would have his share of distasteful duties. Like now, when Malcolm had him playing nursemaid to a new, untested Sword, and a goddamned wet-behind-the-ears kid, at that. For some unfathomable reason, Malcolm had taken an acute interest in the girl.

Glancing at Ronni from the corner of his eye, he noticed she was busy making additional entries into the surveillance log. While she was distracted, Elliott gave his new partner a bold appraisal.
What the fuck is the world coming to, allowing chicks into the Order as Swords? Israeli commando, my ass. Not with tits like that. Yeah, that's got to be it. She must be greasing the old man's pole. Maybe she brings him warm milk at night. Wouldn't that be a goddamned sight? Old Hugues de Payens is probably turning over in his fucking grave.

Elliott checked his watch and sighed. He muttered, “Another four hours of this bullshit.”

“It's not so bad, you know,” said Ronni. “After all, you've got me for company.”

Groaning, Elliott sunk down in the seat. “Oh, God. I wish someone would just shoot me and end the misery.”

“Easy there,” said Ronni. “You know, my grandmother always said we should be careful what we wish for. You never know when you just might get it.”

“Yeah? Well, I wish your grandmother would just go fuck herself. When does
that
wish come true?”

*   *   *

Reading studied the fax transmittal for several minutes, reading and rereading each paragraph. The instructions were explicit. And extremely disturbing. Malcolm had very personal reasons for waging war on the Offspring, and under most circumstances, he would have welcomed additional resources. Though “bold” and “daring” were the adjectives most often used by peers to describe Reading's exploits, Malcolm operated by using data to carefully analyze events and take calculated risks. He believed in moving with deliberate caution. The Lord Protector's orders violated every rule of covert operations.
Why the urgency? What's happened? How much does the old fool suspect?

A knock came at the door that separated the two suites.

“Come in, Brian.”

Malcolm watched as the youngish-looking Brian King stepped into the room and locked the door behind him. King, a former Australian paratrooper, had served admirably as Malcolm's unofficial number two in recent months. While perhaps not as physically adept as an Elliott Glenn or a Thomas Falco, Malcolm considered King a great deal more reliable. Falco's current situation seemed to bear that out.

“Sir, you called for me?”

“Yes, yes. Come in, Brian, and shut the door.” Malcolm nodded toward the sofa. “Sit down, please. I've received new orders that require immediate attention.”

After King was situated, Malcolm handed him a manila folder. “Two items of business, and you may assume that both are critical. First, Enrique DeLorenzo is en route to Phoenix. He's going to meet with Falco and the Conner boy. I want additional personnel posted around the hotel in case the meeting goes badly. Once inside Falco's room, Enrique will contact us on the hour. If he fails to check in, we are to assume the worst and terminate Falco and the boy. We all know of Thomas's skills, and we've heard several firsthand accounts of Conner's … unique talents. If either Falco or Conner emerges from that hotel without Enrique first clearing it by phone, he dies standing up. No exceptions to the rule. Make sure all operators are informed. Understood?”

King's face was expressionless as he nodded. “Understood, sir.”

“Fine. Next, I want you to select three operators and leave for Sun City immediately. Use members of the support element for the additional manpower. That folder contains maps of the route, maps of the city, and satellite imagery of the residence. Allow an hour for the drive. Unless you encounter unforeseen trouble, you should arrive thirty minutes after sunset. Half moon tonight, so dress accordingly. You are to enter the house and take two females, Amanda and Katherine Conner, into custody. Physical descriptions and recent photos are also in the folder. If they give you trouble, inform them that we have Sam Conner, and any resistance will endanger his well-being. If they still refuse to cooperate, sedate them. Otherwise, take care that neither is harmed, or at least not overly much. Take special care with the child, Katherine. We don't know that she's exhibited any of her brother's special talents, but she
is
a full sister. That alone gives us cause for concern.”

“And after we have them?”

Malcolm paused to fill and light his pipe, then said, “You'll find instructions in the packet. However the short answer is that you'll escort them to an old private airfield once owned by the Asarco Corporation, to the southeast of Casa Grande. It's been closed for years but it can still handle light twin-engine planes like our Piper Chieftain. Primary and secondary routes are clearly marked on your map. Avoid using the secondary route unless you encounter some dire emergency. It'll take you a good thirty miles out of the way and cost precious time.

“A Shield will meet you at the field and fly our guests to the New Orleans safe house. Two of your operators are to accompany them, and wait in New Orleans for further instructions. The remaining two will return here for additional orders. If you encounter any problems, call me at once using the encrypted channel. Have you any questions?”

“A couple, sir. First, what's my window for this mission?”

Malcolm drew on the pipe, then sent a blue-black cloud of smoke spiraling toward the ceiling. “You are to depart Phoenix no later than five
P.M.
You should conclude your business in Sun City and meet the plane in Casa Grande at nine
P.M.
Not a second later.”

King checked his watch. “And if there are additional actors at the residence?”

Although it wasn't a common occurrence, the Watchers weren't new to the business of abduction, and every operative understood the protocol regarding potential witnesses. Brian King was a seasoned operator and knew the rules of engagement by rote. Still, he was no cold-blooded killer. He needed to hear the orders from a superior.

“This mission has Strike priority. Elliott is currently on post at Falco's hotel. Have him relieved from surveillance duty, and take him and Ronni Weiss with you. Once you reach the scene, he'll assume control of tactical operations.” Reading studied the man's expression and saw that he understood. Perhaps Brian King was no cold-blooded killer, but Elliott Glenn was.

After King left the room, Malcolm packed his pipe and struck a match on the windowsill. He touched flame to tobacco, drew hard on the pipe stem, and blew a smoke ring out through the open window. The Runner wanted the Conner boy dead, and it looked as if Malcolm would have a perfect opportunity to fulfill his master's wishes. Malcolm didn't understand the arrangement the Runner had brokered with Legion, and it was just as well. The turncoat Watcher had given over his heart and soul to the Runner, in return for a chance to punish the Creator and his sheep. Whatever sinister designs Malcolm's new master held for the world was fine by him. More than fine, in fact.