"Again I apologize for the delay, Victor. It took some time for the final arrangements to be made."
"It's alright, Richard, I understand. Some things get complicated, don't they?"
"Yes, they do, Victor. Now here are your instructions. Train number 243 leaves the Gare du Nord for Berlin at 8:46 tonight. There is a first-class ticket being held in your name at the customer service window. You can be on the train, Victor, can't you?"
"Yes."
"Good. You will arrive in Berlin at 8:19 tomorrow morning. At 12:52 in the afternoon, train number 41 will leave Berlin for Warsaw and arrive at 6:25 in the evening. A very nice room has been reserved for you at the Hotel Victoria Warsaw. I will call you there before midnight. Is that satisfactory, Victor?"
"Yes, of course, Richard. I always do as you ask. That's why you depend on me, isn't it?"
"Yes, Victor, you know it is. Have a safe trip, I will call you tomorrow."
"Thank you, Richard. And good night."
"Good night, Victor. And thank you too."
106
• LA IGLESIA DENTRO DE LA MONTAÑA,
THE CHURCH WITHIN THE MOUNTAIN, 5:55 P.M.
Demi's room was like that of a convent, sparse and very small. A simple dressing table was near the door, a hand mirror and washbasin resting on it. To the right was a commode with a fold-down top. A view of the sky through the tiny window near the ceiling told her it was still daylight. The single bed was hard and had no sheets, only a pillow and two blankets. On it she had set her two cameras and small equipment bag in which she had packed a small plastic bag containing her toiletries and another that held her camera accessories—extra memory cards and battery charger for the Canon digital and two dozen rolls of color film for the 35mm Nikon. What was not there, and what she was certain she had brought with her when she left the Hotel Regente Majestic in Barcelona that morning and had checked again when she arrived at Montserrat, was her cell phone. Somewhere along the way it had vanished, thereby severing any private communication she might have with the outside world.
Or so whoever took it undoubtedly thought.
Taking the phone was an action that earlier would have served as a harsh reminder of the warnings of her father and Giacomo Gela and raised an anxiety level that could easily have run away with her because of the monks, the extreme isolation of the church, and the fact that she had been drugged for her hallucinatory journey to it.
Instead, discovery of the missing phone strengthened her resolve and sharpened her senses, prompting her to remember that she was very nearly to the end of a desperately long and almost impossible journey. One that she had dedicated her life to and one she had so privately vowed to her mother she would complete whatever the cost. Fear or the threat of violence would not cripple her. Not here, not now.
Moreover, she'd not been wholly reckless or her plans without forethought. Beneath the man-tailored shirt she wore under her blazer and just above her waist was a specially tailored belt that to all intents resembled some kind of delicate undergarment but was, in fact, a lightweight nylon carrier for a smart phone; a combination phone/camera with broadband access and special software that made it possible to use it in wireless conjunction with the her Canon digital to instantly upload photographic images to her Web site in Paris. She had done it successfully across Europe and in the U.S., and most recently in Malta and Barcelona. Her main concern here had been connectivity, not just because of the isolated mountain location but because she was inside the church itself. But that worry had disappeared the moment she'd seen Beck talking on his cell phone in the church nave. It answered her question about connectivity and meant whatever she photographed could be transferred to Paris in a millisecond.
As a test, she took a photograph of her room, sent it to her Web site, then took out the smart phone and dialed her number. It took a moment to connect. When it did, she brought up what she had just photographed: the photo of the room she now stood in. The system worked perfectly.
She was about to take a second photo as a system confirmation when there was a sharp knock at the door.
"Yes," she said, startled.
"It's Cristina."
"Just a moment." Quickly she slid the phone back into its holder under her shirt, then went to the door and opened it.
"Are you rested?" Cristina smiled gently.
"Yes, thank you. Please come in."
Cristina still had on the long white dress she had been wearing when Demi arrived. She carried a similar dress over her arm, the only difference was the color, not white but deep scarlet. She handed it to Demi.
"This is for you, to wear tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"What is to happen tonight?"
"The beginning of forever."
"I don't understand."
"You will . . . ." Cristina stared at her in silence and then turned for the door, "I will return for you in an hour."
"Before you go—"
"Yes?" Cristina turned back.
"May I take your picture?"
"Now?"
"Yes."
"Alright."
Demi went to the bed and picked both cameras from it. Three minutes later she had a complete record of Cristina, in her white dress and with the background of Demi's room. Half of it shot with the Nikon on 35mm film, the other half with the Canon digital, the images recorded on its memory card and at the same time transmitted to her Web site in Paris.
"Is that all?" Cristina smiled her warm gentle smile.
"Yes. Okay."
There was a pause, and once more Cristina stared at Demi, her look deep and penetrating, as if she were studying her for some very personal reason. Then abruptly her gaze shifted. "See you in an hour," she said easily, and then was gone.
Demi closed the door after her and then stood motionless against it, a ghostly chill creeping through her. Only once in her life had she seen the look that had been in Cristina's eyes those few seconds before.
Only once.
And that had been in the lone photograph taken of her mother just days before she disappeared; her eyes, like Cristina's brown and intense but at the same time calm and very peaceful. Cristina was twenty-three. The same age her mother had been when she vanished.
107
• 6:18 P.M.
Marten and the president moved forward in the pitch black of the tunnel as if they were blind, following the old ore-car rails by the touch of their feet, the same way they had for nearly an hour and a half.
They walked close together, single file, the one behind still gripping the belt of the man in front of him. Four times they had stumbled over something and nearly fallen. The man behind doing his job by tugging on the front man's belt, keeping them both on their feet. Once they'd both fallen together. That time Marten had been in back, and the president, thinking he saw a gaping hole before them, suddenly twisted away, sending Marten crashing down on top of him and forcing out a loud grunt as he fell hard over one of the ore-car rails. After that they began shifting off more often so the front man didn't bear the brunt of the unknown for too long and begin to think he was seeing things when he wasn't or fear that the man behind would suddenly stumble and knock them both to the ground instead of concentrating on where he was going.
• 6:20 P.M.
Once again they shifted, this time with Marten taking the lead. In the past hour the president had said little or nothing and Marten began to worry that he had been hurt in the fall.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Fine. You?"
"So far."
"Good, let's keep going."
And that was as far as the conversation went. It was then Marten realized the president was not hurt but thinking, and probably had been for a long time.
Another five minutes and they switched places. Another six and they switched again. Their dialogue the same each time. Okay? Yes. Good. Keep going.
• 6:37 P.M.
"Today is still Saturday," the pre
sident said suddenly, his voice hoarse from the dust and dryness. "Other than the day my wife died, this has been the longest of my life."
Marten didn't know how to reply and so said nothing. A full thirty seconds passed and then the president spoke again.
"I think it is safe to say that by now my 'friends' or their representatives will have found Foxx's body and realized the explosion was a fail-safe aspect built into Foxx's master plan to keep anyone from discovering what was practiced in that lab.
"If they knew I was with him—which we have already assumed—by not finding me they will presume I am somewhere in the shaft, either dead or hopelessly trapped inside it. It means that soon, if not already, the vice president will take charge and authorize the Warsaw killings.
"Once those murders take place the next part of their plan will be put into action. French and German elections will be called for very quickly. Their people, the people they want in power, however they have arranged it—and they have arranged it, because they told me so and I believe them—will be elected, thereby guaranteeing full support from both countries in the United Nations. After that it is only a matter of time, maybe even days, before the genocide against the Muslim states begins.
"On the beach this morning I told you about the annual gathering of members of the New World Institute that is taking place right now at the Aragon resort in the mountains not far from here. I also told you the original plan was for me to be the surprise guest speaker there at Sunday's—tomorrow's—sunrise service, and that that was my destination when I left Madrid. My full intention was to address them as scheduled and tell them the truth about what has happened and warn them about what is yet to happen. I still have that intention, Mr. Marten."
Marten said nothing, just kept walking, his right foot touching the edge of the right-hand rail, leading the way, keeping them on track.
"Achieving that goal is not impossible, Mr. Marten. I've flown over these mountains before. I know where the resort is and in relation to Montserrat. I used to fly crop dusters in California. I know what things look like from the air. Unless we got completely turned around when we entered these tunnels, and I don't think we did, we've been pretty much going in a straight line away from the monastery and toward the resort."
"How far might the resort be, the way the crow flies?" Marten asked.
"Fifteen, eighteen miles. Twenty at most."
"How far do you think we've come in here?"
"Four, maybe five."
"Mr. President, Cousin," Marten suddenly stopped and turned to face him. "Good intentions aside, we have no map, no way to know where these tunnels lead. They could curve without us being aware of it and suddenly we're going in a whole different direction. Or maybe we're not going in the direction you think we are and are on some spur line going north, south, east, or west. Even if we are on track there is no way to know if there are rockfalls ahead blocking the shaft in any number of places. And even if it does run straight and clear we have no idea how much farther it goes. It could end in a half mile or twenty. And the resort could still be another forty miles overland after that. And that's assuming there's a way out at the end. If these tunnels are as old as they seem, with the rails as rusted as they are, they will have long ago been sealed off to keep the public out."
"What are you trying to tell me?"
"What neither of us want to hear, let alone think. That hopeful as you are to address those people, the reality is we may never get out of here. All along I've been trying to find an air current that would suggest an opening. A crack, a crevice, anything we could try to break open or squeeze through to the outside. We've passed several but none large enough or with air current strong enough to make me think it was worth using up what energy we still have.
"If we reach the far end of this shaft without finding something more promising, we will have to come back and look for a side tunnel we might have missed in the dark, if there are any. After that if we still haven't found something, I don't know. I'm sorry to rip up your hopes, Mr. President, but at this stage there's not a damn thing you can do about those people you want to address or the killings at Warsaw or the genocide itself. Right now the only lives that matter are ours, and if we don't find a way out there's a very real chance we'll die in here. With water I give us maybe ten days, two weeks at best."
"Light a match," the president said abruptly.
"What?"
"I said light a match."
"Mr. President—we're going to need every match we have left."
"Light it."
"Yes, sir," Marten reached down and fished the matchbox from his pocket, then took out a match and struck it.
The flame lit the president's face like a torch. His eyes were frozen on Marten's.
"It is not yet seven o'clock Saturday night. Sunrise tomorrow is a long way off. There is still time to get to Aragon and address the gathering there. Still time to stop the murders at Warsaw. Still time to stop the genocide in the Middle East. This president will not die in here, Cousin. He cannot and he will not. Far too much is at stake."
In the flickering light Marten saw a man racked with exhaustion; clothes torn, face and hands ripped and bloodied and scraped raw, every pore, every strand of hair, from beard to head, coated with dust and dirt and grime. A man who might well have been beaten but who wasn't.
If he wasn't, neither was Marten. "You will not die here, Mr. President," he said, his own voice as hoarse as the president's. "Somehow we will find a way out. Somehow you will address those people."
The president's eyes held on Marten's. "I won't let you get by with just that."
"What do you mean?"
"I want your promise. Your word."
The flame on the match dwindled to nothing. What seconds before had been a staggeringly noble idea, an impossible dream, or just a plain crazy hope Marten had bought into, the president had suddenly turned into a deeply personal pact. Raising the level of the game so that the task before them became more than a commitment of mind and body, it became one of the soul.
"You are a stubborn bastard," Marten whispered.
"Give me your word."
Marten hesitated and the match burned out and once more the dark invaded everything.
"You have it," he whispered finally, "you have my word."
108
• EL BORRÀS, 6:55 P.M
Hap Daniels gritted his teeth as the motorcycle bounced down a narrow dirt path and Miguel followed two other motorcycles toward the Llobregat River. Of the three machines only Miguel's had a sidecar. The others were straightforward Hondas. The first was ridden by Miguel's nephew, Amado. The other carried José and Hector, two of Amado's friends. None was older than eighteen, but they had lived in El Borràs all their lives and knew the mountainous territory, with its air shafts, natural chimneys, and entryways to the caves and old tunnels, and the tunnels themselves, inside out. Hap hadn't liked the idea of the others coming along, but Miguel had assured him each young man was completely trustworthy and would say nothing of what they were doing or whom they were looking for even if they were stopped.
"Believe me," Miguel told him, "even if we are lucky enough to reach the president, they won't recognize him—you might not either. To the boys he will be a missing American friend who was exploring the caves and got trapped inside the mountain when the big rock-slide or earthquake or whatever it was hit."
The three machines slowed, then stopped as they reached the river. The Llobregat here was probably fifty yards wide, muddy and fast-flowing from the runoff of winter rains. Miguel looked at Hap in the sidecar.
"There's a gravel buildup beneath the water. It looks deep but isn't. Still, anything could happen."
"Cross it," Hap said without expression.
Miguel signaled Amado, and the first two motorcycles started across, Amado first, then Hector driving the second machine. Partway across Hector nearly lost it in the rush of water. Then he gained control, gunned the engine, and made it across, stopping to
wait with Amado. A half second later Miguel twisted the throttle, the motorcycle inched forward and entered the water and started across. The rush of swift water threatened to sweep them away but Hap's weight in the side car steadied it and with a bounce and roar of the engine they crossed to the others. Again Miguel signaled Amado, and the young man led off, taking them up a steep gravel trail.
Rough as it was on Hap, the motorcycle had been the thing to use. They were going up into the foothills and then to mountain trails beyond. A car was useless and walking would take far too long. Moreover, Hap hardly had the stamina to walk very far anyway.
• 7:10 P.M.
The sun dipped over the mountain ridges just above them, putting the dirt trail they climbed into full shadow. Hap was leaning forward, trying to find some way to ease the pain in his wounded shoulder as the motorcycle bounced mercilessly over the rough terrain, when his BlackBerry sounded. He took it from his jacket and looked at the source of the call. When he saw it was Bill Strait, he clicked off, then turned off the ringer. In that instant he thought of the encrypted text message Strait had sent him at 4:10 P.M.
Hap. Trying for hours to reach you. Where the hell are you? Chief of staff reports at 4:08 P.M. from Madrid that Crop Duster was not, repeat NOT, at the monastery at Montserrat. CIA ops took brief hostile fire from unknowns at monastery office of a Dr. Merriman Foxx. Our mission to Montserrat aborted mid-flight. Returned to base at Barcelona. CNP and Spanish intel investigating hostile fire. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? ARE YOU OKAY?
Hap glanced at Miguel as he guided the motorcycle up a narrow rain-rutted trail in the increasing darkness. Until a few hours ago he had never seen this man in his life. Now he was trusting him and three young Spaniards with his life and that of the president, if he was still alive. It was something he should have been able to call Bill Strait for; order him to fly a full contingent of Secret Service, CIA, Spanish intel, and Spanish police out here on the double to scour the hills and mountaintops looking for any passageway that would give them access to the areas below where Miguel believed the president and Nicholas Marten might be, and at the same time demand a demolition crew be sent to blast through the rock from inside Foxx's office complex.