Reckoning (49 page)

FORTY-EIGHT

Kertzman gazed out over Rome's sprawling city lights that pulsated dimly in the mid-darkness of night. He was all too aware of Sir Henry Stephenson, composed and patient, standing beside him.

"So," said Kertzman, with a trace of gathering anger. "Stern is MI6."

Silence.

"He
was
MI6," Stephenson replied finally, like a man constantly pained to speak with exactitude. "As I said, he disappeared from operations over six years ago. At first we suspected that he might have defected, as Philby. Then we came to a more thorough understanding of Stern's philosophical principles and we reached quite a different conclusion. Since that time we have searched for him throughout America and Western Europe."

Kertzman didn't look at the Englishman. "But now you know that Stern has gone to work for someone else," he said. His voice wasn't friendly. "And you're trying to find out who. That's why you came to New York. You weren't there to make arrangements for Maitland. You couldn't have cared less about Maitland. You were there trying to figure out what your man, Stern, is up to nowadays."

Stephenson replied quickly and easily. "Yes."

Turning fully to face him, Kertzman's tone became genuinely angry. Hostile. "Does my government have all this?"

Stephenson held his ground against Kertzman's imposing force. Then, finally, he shook his head, noncommittal. "Who can say, Mr. Kertzman?" He sighed. "This profession can be somewhat tedious. But I would presume that, yes, they do know. I, for one, believe that
someone
knows everything."

Nervously Kertzman clenched his empty left hand, wishing he'd brought the .45.
But International jurisdictional disputes had interceded and he was forced to leave his hogleg in Washington.

Technically, if Gage would come in, Kertzman was supposed to escort him "without incident" to the American Embassy. Or, if
Gage refused to come in, Kertzman was supposed to pinpoint his location and notify the Embassy's resident FBI special agent who would, in turn, notify the Italian police for an official pickup order. The official word was that if Kertzman or any other Bureau special agent used a weapon on Italian soil while searching for Gage or Sarah Halder they would be prosecuted as an American civilian in violation of and under the jurisdiction of Italian law.

In reality everyone knew that there would never be any prosecution of an American federal agent for using a weapon on Italian soil, even if the weapon was used without permission. But the political repercussions would be profound, far-reaching and, though the situation certainly wouldn't come to imprisonment, it would assuredly end in a prompt and sacrificial termination once the agent returned to the States.

But as far as Kertzman was concerned, Sarah Halder was priority, and if he needed to use a weapon to get her back, then he'd use a weapon. If he could get his hands on one.

Gage had become a secondary issue. Kertzman didn't know if the Delta commando would come in, not with the situation as dirty as it was. And, somehow, he felt that Gage wouldn't live long if he did, indeed, come into protective custody. He almost wished that the soldier would take to the high country, get clear of it all. But Kertzman knew that he wouldn't; Gage had to finish this. He had to bring an ending to this part of his life, and the only way to truly do that was to come in, to testify.

And as bad as things were, they would get a lot worse before it was over. Kertzman couldn't remember a time when he wanted a gun as badly as he wanted one now.

He met Stephenson's even composure.

"So why didn't you tell me about Stern earlier?" he asked coarsely.

With a disappointed air Stephenson answered, "Mr. Kertzman, we do not flag our defections and disappearances before the scornful winds of the intelligence community. At the least, it is embarrassing. At worst, it could profoundly injure relationships."

"But you said it wasn't a defection."

Stephenson took out a silver case of long, thin cigarettes, offered one to Kertzman. Kertzman shook his head, took out a pack of Marlboros. Stephenson lit his cigarette with a small gold lighter. Kertzman used a match.

"No," the Englishman said somberly, exhaling. "No. Not a defection."

"Then what was it?" Kertzman rumbled, releasing a cloud of blue smoke.

Stephenson regarded him carefully. "What I'm about to tell you—"

"Yeah, I heard that part already," Kertzman growled, smoke drifting from his nostrils. He spat out a piece of tobacco. "Just tell me."

Stephenson's face revealed a pleasant amusement, but he continued in a serious tone. "For more than twenty years the man you know as Charles Stern was England's top counterintelligence operative for Western Europe and South Africa. During his tenure in MI6 he penetrated virtually every major intelligence network in his section of the globe. An astonishing feat, to say the least. And even more astonishing because he relied so heavily on live sources who could continuously process data for verification, a type of intelligence work, I might add, that is greatly superior to the simple data collection system used by your NSA satellites." He took an almost depressed draw on the cigarette. "All of Stern's work was consummate, and he had the highest clearance. At the time of his disappearance he had risen to the ninth most powerful position in Special Branch. Then he quite simply vanished. Disappeared without a trace while holding the keys to virtually all of our government’s most carefully guarded secrets. Not a scandal, mind you, but sufficient cause for a decided panic."

Kertzman listened patiently.

"Upon the alarming occasion of his disappearance," Stephenson continued, "I was assigned the morbid responsibility of locating him, dead or alive. But there were only denials from the Soviets and East Germans. And our informants argued that Stern had not defected. So I began to explore other avenues to explain his disappearance, such as kidnapping by a foreign power, or assassination. Yet nothing developed to substantiate those suppositions, either. Finally, I began to investigate the possibility of a sort of private defection, a self-imposed exile initiated because of some mysterious interworkings of his own mind."

Understanding, Kertzman nodded. Then he pulled again on the Marlboro and released it patiently, letting it drift with
Stephenson’s words.

Stephenson thrust a hand into the pocket of his black
overcoat. His left hand held the cigarette, which he gestured with, abstractly.

"For a time, I was unable to explain why he might commit such an act," the Englishman continued, exhaling. "Then I began a careful perusal of the books in Stern's private library. And I began to understand, or perceive, a distinct pattern of thought; a pattern of thought that led me to investigate the possibility that Stern
might have shared certain philosophical ideals with a few of the world's more infamous megalomaniacs, ideals which would have made him... fundamentally unstable."

Cigarette forgotten in his hand, Kertzman held the
Englishman’s gaze.

"You see," continued Sir Stephenson, "I discovered that the man you know as Charles Stern possessed an almost pathological obsession with, ah, how shall I describe it, the selection of species."

"Superior beings," interjected Kertzman, with a touch of scorn.

Stephenson smiled benignly. "Yes, Mr. Kertzman. You might say that."

"So all that stuff you told me in the church was true," Kertzman asked gruffly. "Stern and whoever he's working for consider themselves to be some kind of master race. Superior. 'Cept their buddies ain't chosen by the color of their skin or hair or their nationality. They're chosen by how good they are at killing."

"As far as Stern is concerned, yes," Stephenson offered, with a nod. "He works only with the purest predators. During past years I have confirmed that Stern heads a secretive private group known as The Sixth Order."

Beneath his anger, Kertzman was confused. "What does that mean?"

Stephenson gestured vaguely with his cigarette, gazed out over the city a moment. In contrast to Kertzman's implacable anger, the Englishman appeared faintly disturbed.

"It is a rather nebulous concept," Stephenson explained patiently. "But to put it into few words, it is a term taken from modern spiritism."

"Explain it to me," said Kertzman.

Stephenson nodded. "Yes, of course. It shall help you under-stand what you are facing. And then we will proceed with other matters."

Kertzman glanced at his watch. "I ain't got long, Stephenson."

Deliberate and calm, the Englishman continued, "Stern serves a man who considers himself to be some type of immortal being, a sort of modern Pharaoh who holds, within himself, the keys of eternal life."

Frowning, Kertzman took another drag, then released it with the stolid, ponderous, and thoroughly unfriendly gaze of a dinosaur. "What's this guy's name?" he asked.

"We do not know," Stephenson answered, shaking his head. "We only know that Stern does, indeed, serve this man." He continued, "This man, whoever he is, has established seven orders for mankind so that man may reach his own state of godhood, each stage being slightly more enlightened. The first stage, or the first order, is total ignorance. The second stage is the beginning of knowledge. The seventh order is when man can transcend, ah, flesh, and reign as a type of god." He paused. "Now, the sixth order, of which these men are known, is considered to be 'perfect man.' Perfect physically. Perfect mentally. Perfect psychically. Perfect spiritually."

Kertzman was unimpressed. His voice was brutally sarcastic. "So let me guess. These guys are supposed to be perfect."

Stephenson didn't laugh. "Oh, more than that, Mr. Kertzman," he replied with a steady and serious gaze. "They are part of a special group known as The Sixth Order. And the men in this group are considered perfect soldiers, perfect assassins."

"And this Sixth Order is this nut's enforcement arm, right?" growled Kertzman.

The Englishman nodded.

"And how many guys are in this little group?"

Stephenson shook his head. "Five, not including Stern. His inclusion brings it to six."

Kertzman moved ahead of it. "There ain't six no more, Stephenson. They've lost three, for sure. The Russian, the Nigerian, and Maitland."

"Yes," the Englishman agreed. "Only three remain. Stern, Carl Zossen, the German, and the Japanese known as Sato."

Struck by the name, Kertzman asked, "What's the story on the Japanese? Where does he come from?"

After a slow draw on the thin cigarette, Stephenson replied, "He was a counterterrorist for the Japanese Secret Police, working mostly against the Koreans or Chinese. But unlike most of his countrymen skilled in similar methods of warfare, Sato has always shunned working for Yakuza. He considers himself to be above an Oyabun. Until recently he has served only his country, so records of him are still highly classified and incomplete to our sources. But to be reasonably objective I must say that he was quite accomplished at virtually all forms of terrorism and counterterrorism. He was also highly paid by his very grateful country. Until he became involved in this particular form of spiritism, moving his talents beyond the arena of international industrial sanctions. His obsession with this, ah, enlightenment, is quite extreme." He paused. "As are his methods."

Stephenson's gaze strayed to Kertzman's bandaged arm.

Face impassive, Kertzman waited.

"So that you might estimate how formidable a foe he truly is," continued Stephenson calmly, "I can tell you, rather accurately
that Sato has committed no less than one hundred fifty sanctions in his time. Now, mind you, not all of them were initial targets. But because he prefers to use, ah, how shall we say, rather primitive methods, he is usually forced to get within close physical proximity of his target. Which necessitates the removal of numerous security personnel, and so forth." He shook his head. "It becomes quite tedious to recount."

"Forget it," said Kertzman, indifferent. "Let me finish what you were going to say." He took a deep breath, stepped forward. "Some spiritual psychopath, identity still unknown, has this army of so-called supermen killing people all over the world because they want this manuscript. They believe that this thing reveals the name of the Antichrist." He paused, shook his head. "This guy is obsessed with it. 'Bout like Hitler was obsessed with ancient
artifacts that would give him some kind 'a power over the Allied forces. And Black Light was used by Stern and his boss to build their financial base, in case they could prepare the way for this... whatever it is. Just like Stern has probably used the military units of a dozen other countries for the same thing. He just paid whoever it took, got the orders cut to do the hit, and passed it to the military. It only worked 'cause soldiers don't ask no questions. They're trained to take orders, do their job. They didn't know that someone inside their own government had sold them out, was using them to build an empire for a psychopath."

"Yes," Stephenson agreed easily. "I believe that you have
correctly summed up the situation."

Kertzman stepped forward, angry, growling. "Well, I hope you don't mind me saying it, Stephenson, but it sounds to me like Stern and whoever he's working for are crazy
.”