The Keys of Solomon (5 page)

Gilbert ran his fingers through his thinning silver hair. “The greatest minds of our Order have pored over the documents for centuries and never reached a consensus. What if … what if you're wrong?”

Malcolm refilled his pipe before answering. Striking a match, he looked at Gilbert from the corner of his good eye and said, “If I am wrong, we have several options. We can ignore them and pray the entire lot slips back into anonymity. Or we can always offer an alliance, bring them into the fight on the side of God. After all, there will soon come a time when all creatures, great and small, will have to make that decision.

“But I ask you, what if I'm right? Gil, you carry a tremendous amount of responsibility, both as overseer of a massive archdiocese, and in your life as a Watcher Lord Protector. But when you appointed me to the position of Third Sword, you passed some of that responsibility to me. It's my duty, my obligation, to coordinate our offensive strategies on this continent. Would you suggest I concentrate on Legion and ignore the Offspring, only to find that we're besieged on two fronts a year from now on?”

Gilbert looked away toward the window, refusing to answer the question. It was an old topic between them. Gilbert represented a small but growing faction of the Watchers that urged caution and an open mind when dealing with the Offspring, while Malcolm and the vocal majority would see the bastard children eradicated and the bloodline extinct. However, despite Gilbert's personal opinions, his first and foremost responsibility was to the preservation of the Order. Not even his papal vows superseded his commitment to the ancient Order of Watchers.

Malcolm softened his tone and said, “This we do know: The Offspring have awakened en masse. Through our agents and collaborators, we have identified more than two hundred around the world. Far too many to ignore. Certainly you can agree with that.”

Collaborators my ass,
thought Gilbert.
Prisoners of the Order, that's what they are. Bewildered people, newly come into a strange, terrifying legacy, and in search of understanding and succor. Instead they find fear and loathing, followed closely by tranquilizers and false imprisonment. My God, what have we become?

Malcolm continued. “Whatever the catalyst for this sudden emergence, and regardless of their collective intent, the Offspring are still an abomination. We cannot ignore or abide their potential for aggression. Remember, Gilbert, what we do, we do in the name of God and for the sake of His children, and there is no higher calling under the sun.”

Gilbert sighed and allowed the matter to drop for the moment. He had his own suspicions about the Offspring and the ancient scrolls that foretold of their awakening, but he was powerless to act. It would require a decree from the Watcher hierarchy to abate this witch hunt. Gilbert tried to remain objective and knew he could be very, very wrong about the half-breeds. They could be every bit as dangerous as Malcolm maintained. Would they know the truth before it was too late? Unfortunately, time wasn't a dependable ally.

He poured two fingers of brandy into the snifter, then glanced at the mantel clock. If Falco was successful, news of the bishop's assassination would spread like a California brushfire. Local, state, and federal law enforcement would soon be involved and the media would descend on the St. Louis archdiocese by sunup. Boston's Cardinal Parelli would send word, offering his assistance,
tsk
ing in that maddening manner while nosing about for details. The man was entirely too full of himself.

Eventually the Vatican would call, probably before noon, demanding details and explanations. The Watchers had a well-rehearsed cover story and would deliver the doctored account through its well-placed operatives within the St. Louis archdiocese. Gilbert knew how the Vatican would respond to the truth that a coadjutor, a vicar general no less, had surrendered his immortal soul to Legion in exchange for a short time of unlimited wealth and debauchery—and that life on this planet as they knew it was now measured in scant years or months rather than millennium because Legion had gained a niche within the Church, and several equally powerful secular institutions.

Sure, he could tell Rome that an ancient religious order, the Watchers, had reemerged and formed assassination squads in order to counter the threat posed by Legion. That as we speak, those squads were purging Mother Church of demonic influences. Yes, indeed, wouldn't they just love the truth?

Gilbert finished his brandy, then prepared for the final bit of business with Malcolm. “I believe you wanted to talk to me about Ronni Weiss and her promotion? Since you can't stay the night, Malcolm, let's discuss that issue now. I assume she still has your full support?”

Malcolm nodded. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, then said, “Damned warm for November, don't you think? But in answer to your question, yes.

“She is a bit younger than the selection committee would like, but highly disciplined, intelligent, and resourceful, though not especially diligent in her studies. Having served six years in the Israeli military, she has some of the secular talents of a Thomas Falco or Anthony Johnstone. What's more, she's certainly trainable. While I concede that a person of more experience may prove a better choice for this promotion, I maintain she's the best of the four candidates.”

Gilbert stared for a long moment at his longtime friend, searching for signs of resolute conviction in Reading's eyes. The promotion of a woman to Sword team leader wasn't unheard of in other Watcher districts, but it was a rare move for Malcolm.

Finally, Gilbert said, “In some ways, her youth and inexperience may actually serve us well. The other three candidates are older, yes. But because of that, they may not prove as malleable in some regards. Leadership opens the door for new knowledge, and often the newly promoted learn things that challenge most all that they've ever believed true about the Church and the supernatural. An open mind is a prerequisite for both success and survival. However, despite all of that, the fact remains that she's young and untested. So many are, these days. You've built a formidable force in the Americas, old man, but with a few exceptions, the bulk of your Swords haven't been tested by fire. Answer me this, Malcolm.”

“If I can,” said Malcolm.

Gilbert leaned forward in his chair and locked eyes with the hunter of demons. “During preliminary training, have you ever had call to question the faith of your young charges?”

Malcolm looked into the archbishop's dark gray eyes, eyes of smoke and glass, eyes that could strip away flesh and bone and leave nothing but the exposed soul … He flinched involuntarily under the intense scrutiny.

“Come, Malcolm. We've known each other far too long for such a display. I'm merely asking a question.”

Malcolm recovered quickly. “Pay no attention to me tonight, Gil. Jet lag has me by the balls. In answer to your question, no. Our instructors and evaluators are always vigilant for any sign of shaken or false faith.”

Gilbert nodded. “Good. Has a Sword candidate ever given you cause to question his moral convictions?”

Malcolm seemed puzzled by the question. “Are you asking me if these candidates are brave, or if they're righteous?”

Gilbert walked back to the open window and breathed deeply of the night air. Looking out over the rain-soaked streets he thought he saw a pair of elongated shadows disappear between buildings across the street. Looking over his shoulder at Malcolm, he said, “Both.”

Malcolm hesitated before answering. “I don't believe it's possible to ever really know such things until they're put to the test, Gil. However, I stood for every one of these candidates during the selection process. I still do.”

Still facing the window, Gilbert muttered, “Good enough … for now.”

Malcolm waited several seconds, then said, “You mentioned three questions. What is the third?”

Gilbert's expression was stoic and unreadable. “How are the grandchildren, Malcolm? I haven't seen them in a couple of years.”

From the uncomfortable expression on Malcolm's face, Gilbert knew this question had taken the old hunter by complete surprise. Just as Gilbert intended.

“They're all fine, but why would you ask about them now?”

Gilbert ignored the question and said, “I imagine Barbara must be … what? If memory serves, a few months shy of seventeen. Am I right? And Raymond … why, he has a birthday this month! I almost forgot! Where does the time go, Malcolm? It's such a shame that Elizabeth couldn't have seen her grandchildren grow up.”

Malcolm's face blanched at the mention of his deceased wife. These thirty years later, her loss still burned a hole through his soul. Or what little was left of it.

Looking toward the window, Malcolm said, “And your point?”

“Trust, Malcolm! Trust is the point. Without trust, we have nothing and our best efforts mean less than a weak piss into the face of a hurricane.” Gilbert turned to his friend, his own expression now hard and cold.

“The Enemy is everywhere, Malcolm. They stalk the streets of New York, Los Angeles, and a
thousand
cities and towns in between. Once, they kept to the shadows, searching for the vulnerable. Now they hunt in broad daylight, taking victims and claiming thralls. They … are … Legion!

“Hell, man, our Order plods along as if we dictate the terms and conditions of this supernatural war. And under our very noses, the tide turns. We're no longer the hunters, Malcolm. We're the hunted. Make no mistake, the demon lords are intelligent and cunning beyond our greatest capacities for either. They possess intellects that shame our greatest minds, masquerading as revered philosophers, economists, military strategists, teachers, and lawmakers. And all the while, they advance their cause, loosing their minions and thralls on the innocent, sapping man's will and resolve. No, Malcolm. Never, ever assume we are in control of this war. Never.”

Gilbert's voice dropped to a level just above a whisper. “And there are so few of us. So few. Malcolm, if mankind is meant to survive this onslaught and endure until the Creator calls us home, we must ask of ourselves … no,
demand
of ourselves three things. First, we must have faith in Almighty God, and the belief that what we attempt is possible. Next, we must have courage of a kind not seen since Daniel strolled into that Roman zoo.”

Nodding, Malcolm tried to interject, but Gilbert cut him off. “Finally, and you listen well, old friend, we must each of us have absolute trust in our brethren. Implicit trust, without hesitation or reservation. And that is the final question, Malcolm. Would you entrust the lives of your children, your children's children, to this current crop of candidates? Would you?”

Malcolm drained his snifter, then stood. He paused, and Gilbert knew the man was carefully choosing his words. When the hunter finally spoke, his tone was soft but even, and he spoke with conviction.

“Gil, we've been friends a long time. You know me as well as any living man. You know my record of service to the Watchers, and
still
you presume to lecture me. Ordinarily, I'd tell you to go bugger yourself, but tonight I'll humor you. The answer to your question is yes, I do trust all of the Swords under my command.”

Gilbert nodded and smiled. “That's good, Malcolm. That's very good. Before this fight is finished, trust and faith in Almighty God and one another will be all the ammunition we possess.”

*   *   *

Malcolm was still fuming as he pulled into the airport parking garage.
So, Gilbert presumes to lecture me. Me! He even uses Elizabeth's memory against me! I could kill him for that alone. Trust and faith in Almighty God, he says to me. Me! I had faith in his God once upon a time. And what did I receive for my service? Abandonment and grief! But I serve another now. It's your God against mine, holy man, and may the right of might win out!

Phoenix, Arizona

Falco closed the door and set the deadbolt. The suite was large and roomy, with a full kitchen, a living room, separate bedrooms, and a bath. He wasn't accustomed to such accommodations while in the field, and found it a pleasant change. Entering the bedroom, he tossed his keys onto the dresser, then took a seat in one of the room's plush armchairs. Across the room and sprawled across one of two identical beds, Falco's newest partner, William Caseman, head-bobbed to a tune playing through the headset of his iPod. Will gave Falco a short, casual salute, then resumed his head-bobbing.

“I don't think I mentioned how much I appreciate your choice of accommodations, Will. This is a nice change from the roach motels I've been sleeping in. How're you going to expense this out?”

Will flashed a quick grin. “No worries, Thomas. My birthday is tomorrow. I figure as long as we have to be in the field, I may as well treat myself. The bosses can't fault a lad for doing it up on his birthday, now can they?”

The stereotype of a British marine, Will had ice and black lager in his veins. Usually a friendly, mischievous sort with a ready smile, he was rock steady and hard as nails when shit hit the proverbial fan. He was also something of an enigma, having recently developed a serious affinity for country music, especially the older stuff.

At the foot of Will's bed lay an assortment of gear, carefully packed in waterproof canvas bags. The former SAS Commander was already locked and loaded for the upcoming mission. Falco checked his watch, then arose from his chair and proceeded to his side of the room. His own gear was also bagged and ready, but Falco bordered on obsessive when it came to preoperational equipment checks.

Kneeling, he pulled a heavy polymer case from beneath the bed and opened it. Inside the case, cushioned by several layers of egg-crate foam, laid a Swedish-made SIG SG 550-1 sniper rifle chambered in the accurate and flat-shooting .223 caliber. While perhaps not the preferred sniper tool of most professionals, the gun and ammunition did have certain advantages. For instance, moving at an astounding 4,200 feet per second, the hand-loaded sixty-nine-grain copper-clad hollow-point bullet delivered an incredible amount of energy to the target while leaving behind little evidence for forensics investigators. Due to the extreme velocity, configuration of the hollow points, and resultant fragmentation, there often wasn't enough of the bullet left for an accurate ballistics test.