The Lance (The PROJECT: Book Two) (5 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

In a secluded enclave outside of Washington, the Grand Master of the Council sat behind his desk. He took a deep breath of the heady aroma rising from a crystal snifter of Louis XIII cognac in his hand.

The light was fading. The
French doors of the library were open. It was warm even though October was more than half gone. The sound of a fountain came from somewhere in the garden behind the house. The library was filled with books, many in German. Nietzsche, Heidegger, Marx, Engles, all were there. There was even a well-worn, autographed copy of Mein Kampf.

A glassed
gun case of rifles and shotguns stood in one corner. Antique prints of European hunting scenes hung nearby. A painting of Frederick Barbarossa, the Holy Roman Emperor, stared out from the wall behind the desk. His expression was stern.

P
hotographs of the Grand Master with congressional figures, business leaders and Presidents covered one wall. In one photo a blond haired young man stood in cap and gown before the entrance to Yale University. A tall, brittle woman in a blue dress stood next to him.

The floor
of the library was covered with thick Persian carpeting. A maroon Chesterfield couch with two matching chairs was placed near the garden doors. In the far corner, a mounted set of antique armor stood guard.

The Grand Master had the kind of face people trusted. No one could have guessed his real thoughts. No one would have believed them possible.

His encrypted phone rang.

"
Yes?"

The voice on the other end spoke in German. It was exultant.

"The Spear has been found!"

The Grand Master felt a surge of adrenaline.
At last! With the Lance recovered, success was certain

"S
ecured?"

"
Not yet, but a unit has been activated."

"
When will they arrive?"

"ETA
six hours. Further transport tomorrow afternoon."

"
Excellent. Arrange a conference for nine tomorrow evening."

"
As you command."

The
Grand Master set the phone down. He could barely contain his excitement. He went to the painting of Frederick Barbarossa, swung the picture away from the wall and opened a safe. He took out a cracked black leather binder embossed in gold with an eagle and swastika. The binder contained SS Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler's long term plan for after the war.

PARSIFAL.

The Grand Master knew the contents by heart, but it always inspired him to read the vision of the Reichsfuhrer. He opened the binder. The pages were foxed and turning brown. The neat, ordered lines of type were still legible. He read for a few moments. He set the PARSIFAL documents aside and rested his hand on a thin booklet. The cover page was inscribed with the runic letters of the old Germanic tribes.

His father had been one of Himmler's inner circle. All through his childhood and early years, his father had taught him. Prepared him for the day when his father had shown him the binder and told him of PARSIFAL. Of the Grand Council. Then he'd talked about the ritual that had brought German success after success early in the war.

"I was having dinner with Himmler and Heydrich in the North Tower of the Reichsfuhrer's castle." His father had sighed, remembering when the swastika had flown over three continents.

"Heydrich said he had written down the words of the invocation. Himmler was Grand Master of the Council but it was always Heydrich who invoked the power of the Spear. After he was assassinated in '42, things turned against us."

"But the Fuhrer, father. Surely he could have carried it on, or the Reichsfuhrer."

His father had snorted in contempt. "The Fuhrer! In the beginning, he understood. He believed. He had learned. He did what was necessary. He followed the ritual. But he turned his back on the old ways. He forgot where his power came from and became caught in the illusion of his own will. You must never make that mistake.

"Himmler tried to continue, but the power is…difficult…to control. It will not respond unless conditions are perfect. The right day and time. The right setting. Everything must be exact."

His father had held up the booklet with the runes on the cover. "We will study this together. One day we will retrieve the Spear. On that day the Reich will be reborn. If I am gone, it will be your duty to speak these words. If your honor is pure, if your loyalty is true, you will prevail."

"Yes, Father."

He had never forgotten.

The final stages of PARSIFAL were unfolding. It couldn't be coincidence that the Holy Spear had been found just as the forces he'd set in motion were coming together. It was a sign from the gods, a sign he was favored. It was only right, his just due. The Grand Master raised his glass toward the painting of Barbarossa and smiled.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Carter found Arslanian's store on a narrow side street of the Armenian quarter. The metal gate that protected the shop was rolled up. The entrance was stacked with hand crafted Sabbath trays, candlestick holders, plates and ceramics decorated with vivid colors, flowers and animals.

The
shop stretched back from the street through the entire block. The walls were lined with goods. The interior was in shadow. A sliver of daylight came from a door cracked open at the far end.

H
alfway down, someone sat in a swiveled wooden office chair at a desk piled high with papers and pots. The chair was turned away from the entrance. The figure wasn't moving.

Carter's ear began itching. The darkness of the shop didn't feel right. He
slipped his pistol out and held it down by his right side. He moved away from the light at the entrance, toward the figure in the chair, scanning the shadows.

He
reached the desk and turned the chair around. Arslanian's body slumped over and slid to the floor. Something fell from his right hand.

There was a
small hole in his forehead. Blood trickled from his ear and into his beard. His eyes were open. They told nothing about whoever had killed him. The only messages Carter had ever seen in dead men's eyes were reminders of his own mortality.

Arslanian's
cheek was warm, the blood not yet dry. The killer had been here a few minutes before. Probably right after Arslanian opened up for the day.

Nick
bent down to pick up whatever had dropped from Arslanian's dead fingers. A soft sound like a sneeze came from somewhere in the darkness of the shop. A stinging wind passed the back of his skull and a vase exploded behind him. He ducked and fired three quick shots over the desk at the back.

Pottery shattered
along the wall where the rounds hit. The .45 sounded like cannon fire in the narrow confines of the shop. A rapid patter of silenced shots sent broken plates raining down on his head. There was a burst of daylight and the sound of the back door slamming shut. Nick got up and ran to the back. He stood on the side and pulled open the door.

The door opened onto a walled garden. A small fountain trickled under a tree shading a rickety table and two chairs. There was an ashtray on the table. A vase held wilted red flowers. In the far wall was a closed wooden gate.

Nick ran across the garden and swung the gate open. He glanced into the street on the other side of the wall. Two Armenian priests were walking toward the entrance to the quarter and St. James Cathedral. Another priest in an odd hat and black ankle-length robe walked in the opposite direction. Across the way a stout couple looked at postcards. There were shopkeepers, food vendors, strollers. Everything looked normal. There was no way to identify the assassin.

He
holstered the .45, closed the gate and bolted it. He went back into the shop and closed the rear door. A crowd began to gather in front, drawn by the gunfire.

Rivka Stern,
Nick's Shin Bet watcher, came in through the entrance. She had a Baby Eagle nine mil out and held by her side. Her dark, thick hair was pinned up under a pale yellow scarf. She wore an olive green skirt that came to her knees, sturdy sandals tied with thongs on her lower legs and a loose tan shirt of cotton under a light tan jacket. She had wide hips and full breasts bound close under her shirt. Her skin was dusky with the legacy of the Middle East. Sunglasses hid her eyes.

"
What happened?" Her voice was low, tense.

"
I found Arslanian dead. Someone took a shot at me. I shot back. He got away through the rear."

Rivka
holstered her pistol, took out a phone, dialed, and began talking. Nick looked at what had fallen from Arslanian's hand. It was a flash drive. He dropped it in his jacket pocket.

He
looked at his watch. It was only 2:30 in the morning in Washington, but Harker needed to know about this.

"
Yes, Nick." Her voice was full of sleep. She cleared her throat. "What's happening?" She coughed.

"
Arslanian's dead. Someone put a hit on him before we could meet. The shooter was waiting for me but he missed. He got away."

"
You're sure he was after you as well?"

"
Had to be. Arslanian had only been dead a few minutes. The shop was open to anyone and the killer was still inside. When he missed me he got out fast."

"
Who knew you were going there this morning?"

"
No one except Shin Bet and you."

"
That's a short list."

There was a brief silence while Harker thought about that.

"What's your plan?" She coughed.

"
I don't have one. Herzog will think of something. I'm following his lead right now."

"Y
ou'd better watch your step. All right, I'll see what I can uncover at this end."

"
I'll be sending something to you." He fingered the drive in his pocket.

"
Keep me posted." She ended the call.

Ri
vka stood near. He caught her scent, a subtle combination of musk and Judean flowers.

"
Calling your mother?"

"
Yes. Someone knew I was coming. The timing's too much of a coincidence."

"You could be right
. We'll talk it over with Ari."

P
olice showed up and cordoned off the shop. Two more Shin Bet agents arrived. Carter took another look around.  He knew the cops would do a better job of finding anything useful than he would. They left to meet with Ari.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Elizabeth Harker leaned back in her black leather chair.
She took a tissue from a box on the desk and coughed into it. She folded it and dropped it into the wastebasket. She tapped her pen on the desk and thought about Nick.

Two days
on the ground and he was already up to his neck in the madness of the Middle East. It was uncanny how much trouble he drew to himself. She sipped from the cup of coffee she'd brewed and added more sugar. She broke into a fit of coughing, almost spilling the coffee. She waited for it to pass, blotted her lips with a tissue. She excavated an inhaler from her purse and took in a labored breath.

Elizabeth had
been up since Nick's call, running through possibilities. She'd had no reason to think someone would kill Arslanian. She'd had no reason to think someone would try to take Nick off the board. Someone didn't want Arslanian talking to Nick or anyone else.

H
er intuition bugged her, demanding attention. It was something she didn't talk about, intuition. Her male peers would have rolled their eyes if they knew how she operated. Sometimes it made her feel like a modern day Cassandra, warning of disaster and trouble to come.

Something was very wrong
.

Her phone rang.

"
Director, it's Stephanie. General Hood is in Walter Reed. He went down with a stroke last night."

Stephanie Willits was Elizabeth's deputy and right arm. General Hood was the Director of the National Security Agency and Elizabeth's ally.

"What's the prognosis?"

"I
t doesn't look good. He's not going to be able to run the agency. My sources say his successor will be General Dysart."

"
Where are you now, Steph?" Elizabeth heard the sound of traffic in the background.

"
On the Beltway, on my way in. Traffic's bad, like always. Maybe thirty minutes."

"
Thanks for the heads up. Better plan on a long day."

"
Roger that, Director. See you in a bit."

Elizabeth hung up the phone.

The Director of NSA was one of the few who knew about the Project. Part of Elizabeth's job was to review NSA CRITIC briefs sent to the President. She'd had a good working relationship with General Hood. It had made things a lot easier. Now he was out of the picture.

Elizabeth knew Dysart and she didn
't like him. He was a Pentagon power player, conservative and hawkish, allied with several important congressional figures. He was smart, she'd give him that. He was also controlling and patronizing, dismissive of women and others he considered his inferiors. The largest and most secretive intelligence agency in the world was about to come under his sway. The day had just gotten worse.

Her secured desk phone rang. She picked up and covered her surprise at the voice on the other end of the line.

"Director Harker, this is General Dysart. General Hood has been taken seriously ill and I have been ordered to assume his responsibilities. I've been reviewing his files and I wanted to give you a call. You seem to have enjoyed an unusual relationship with him."

Elizabeth kept her voice neutral. "I'm sorry to hear he's ill. General Hood has always been supportive."

"I'm calling to offer a bit of friendly advice. You are currently running a mission in Israel." It wasn't a question.

Her intuition sounded an alarm. How did Dysart find out Nick was in Jerusalem? No one was supposed to know that, outside of the team. Hood hadn't known. Even the President didn't know yet. Dysart continued.

"I believe it's in your best interest to recall your agent. I've been talking to Lodge over at Langley. I realize you have the President's interests to consider, but there is more than enough security in place. You're treading on toes, Director. I just thought I'd let you know."

Director Central Intelligence was another on the short list of those who knew about her unit. Elizabeth trusted Lodge about as far as she could throw the Pentagon across the Potomac.

Dysart had been in charge of NSA for only a few hours at most. He should have more important things to do. Yet here he was, "advising" her to end a sensitive intelligence operation that might affect the President's safety and security. Her intuition waved a red flag.

"I certainly don't want to tread on any toes," she said, in her best "little lady" voice. The voice worked almost every time. She only used it when she wanted someone to think she was compliant, but compliant wasn't an important word in Elizabeth's vocabulary. She wasn't about to let Dysart know what she was thinking.

"I appreciate the call, General. I'll take your advice under consideration."

"Good. You've done some excellent work for NSA in the past, Director. I'm sure we'll be able to work well together in the future." 

Dysart sounded conciliatory, but Elizabeth knew better. She hadn't gotten where she was without developing a fine sense of when she was being conned. Dysart had no intention of working well with her. He ended the call.

She replaced the phone. Why did Dysart want
Nick out of Israel? She didn't believe for a moment it was because of ruffled feathers over at Langley.

At odd times Elizabeth would remember something her
father, the Judge, had told her. Now she remembered an incident that had happened when she was seventeen. She'd been accused of cheating by one of her teachers. Sent home in disgrace.

The Judge had sat across from her at the kitchen table,
a tall glass of bourbon and ice nearby, dressed in an old sweater and jeans. Her mother had been off shopping in town. The Judge was taking a rare day away from his offices in the County Courthouse.

Outside, the snow was almost gone. Spring had arrived on the western slope of the Rockies and color was everywhere. Purple crocuses, yellow daffodils and green shoots lift
ed through the remaining patches of snow. Green leaves had appeared on the aspens in the front yard. But for Elizabeth, spring had been colored by anger.

"
It's not fair," she'd said.

"
No, it's not. What do you think you should do about it?"

"
Can't you do something?"

"
Not really. It has to be worked out between your teacher and you."

"
But she doesn't want to work anything out. She's mean and she's stupid."

"
If that's true, you have to rethink your relationship with her. She's the teacher, she's got the power. But only if you give it away to her. You're the one who really has the power over yourself. You know you weren't cheating, whatever she thinks. Who's right, her or you?"

Elizabeth
had smiled, in spite of herself. "I am."

"
If I were you, I'd put it down to the experience of people, how they can be difficult and unfair, wrong headed sometimes. You'll be graduating in a couple of months. You'll be gone on to college and there won't be anything she can do or say to affect you. Plan your next steps, put her in the past. You can't change people. They are the way they are."

They are the way they are. You can
't change them. Plan your next steps. The Judge's words echoed in her head. He was right. She'd have to wait and see what Dysart was going to do. She needed to prepare in case he turned out to be a problem.

However he'd found out Nick was in Israel, the Project was compromised. 
Elizabeth had a contingency plan for that possibility. She'd never had to use it.

She took out her sat phone and sent a short
, pre-programmed burst. A classified encryption chip broke the message into indecipherable scrambled pieces that were reassembled by a matching chip at the receiving end. Even if intercepted, the message would mean nothing in the wrong hands.

Alpha
Red. 3P.FC.XG.E5.