The Seventh Stone (43 page)

Neidemeyer held the cop to the ground with his knee and cuffed him. The couple with the stroller still fought each other, oblivious to the danger and their tormented toddler. The poor kid, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, her dolly dashed in agony to the sidewalk, just out of reach. Christa pulled against Braydon as he hurried her way. “I’ve got to help that little girl,” she said.

“
The only way to save her, Christa, is to leave her behind.”

CHAPTER
49

His ears still ringing from the blaring alarm, Daniel could envision the hand of God guiding the speeding SUV, as easily as a boy pushes a matchbox car. Rambitskov was behind the wheel, but Daniel was driving the situation. As the iron gates eased open to let them pass into Contreras’s estate, Daniel imagined the gates of heaven opening for him.

Rambitskov was a moron. He had let the priest and rabbi off scot free. The idiot wouldn’t believe that those two “holy” men had built that underground chamber to hide the Urim and Thummim. Rambitskov hadn’t even heard of Urim and Thummim, the two most sacred stones in history. Worse, he hadn’t caught Fox.

To think Braydon Fox was with Christa now. She’d see him for what he was, a brute, a trickster. She’d know that Fox coerced him into the trap in the secret hallway beneath Saint Patrick’s, in a vain attempt to make him look like a fool in front of Christa. Worse, Fox ripped his best chance to possess the Urim and Thummim from his grasp. It wasn’t the poison that was smoldering inside him, flaming up to thoughts of a justified revenge. He’d smote Fox down.

He’d get Rambitskov, too, for mocking him when he had freed him from the trap. He wasn’t scared, even when Rambitskov threatened to deliver him to Contreras, who had almost killed him in a most excruciating manner with that poison dart frog. That’s just what Daniel wanted. He could have demanded his right to a lawyer. He could plead for mercy. He would have none of that. He would not trade his destiny so readily. He had a plan.

He leaped down from the SUV as soon as it squealed to a stop. Rambitskov’s claw of a hand gripped his upper arm. He refused to wince as Rambitskov dragged him into Baltasar Contreras’s mansion, through the ostentatious foyer, to the library. Rambitskov shoved him over the threshold. Baltasar paced by the window, arguing loudly, although he was alone in the room. Beyond the panes of glass, the wind bullied the barren trees, cracking off branches and thrashing them to the ground. What in hell? It looked like one of Christa’s dark phantoms, pressed up to the window, glaring, ravenous, but the stormy afternoon was too black for shadows. .

Baltasar crossed the room to the wet bar behind the desk. Everything reeked of wealth. Silver tongs to plink three cubes into his crystal glass. The musical ring of fine crystal as Baltasar lifted the topper off the decanter. “Mister Dubler,” he said, pouring himself what looked like Scotch. “You have one minute to convince me not to kill you. Mister Rambitskov, would you be so kind to mind the time?”

The words slapped him in the face. “Kill me?” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. This wasn’t part of the plan. “If the Amazing Hulk, here, hadn’t come barging into the cathedral, I’d have the Urim and Thummim in my possession. The Tear of the Moon Emerald, too.”

“
Fifty-five seconds,” said Rambitskov.

“
We had an agreement,” said Daniel. “You need my expertise in theology and history. Once we restore the Breastplate, I will know best how to use it to communicate with God.”

“
My ancestor, Alvaro, needed no interpreter.”

“
Your ancestor failed,” said Daniel. “He was wearing the complete Breastplate, but he was defeated by a mongrel crew of sailors and a priest. He did not have my foundation of knowledge.”

Baltasar downed his Scotch and poured another. “Rambo, please note that he loses five seconds for each annoying riposte.”

“
You want to restore the Breastplate to create a new religion,” pressed Daniel, “a new world order, ruled by one leader, so that the world will finally be at peace. I’ve seen the Abraxas website. I know you’re the Prophet. You have promised your virtual flock that you would soon communicate to them the true word of God through the restored Breastplate of Aaron. The world needs one leader to attain a global peace. It dovetails with my theory of the ultimate empire. I am part of that vision. You recruited me because I am the only theologian, the only man who can make our vision a reality.”

“
Your hubris is admirable,” said Baltasar, “but I recruited you because I saw you were in the best position to weasel your way into a relationship with the Christa Devlin. Now, Devlin has, how is it said these days, “hooked up” with another man, a far better man, a man against whom you don’t stand a chance. Braydon Fox.”

Daniel stomped towards Baltasar, but Rambitskov yanked him back. “Braydon Fox,” he sputtered. “He doesn’t believe in the power of the Breastplate. He can’t possibly understand the force of history upon the present. Christa Devlin will never see him the way she sees me.”

“
Time’s up,” said Rambitskov.

Daniel crossed to the massive desk and the comparatively small, but so much more powerful, laptop computer. “You are on the verge of starting a new world religion. The catalyst is the restored Breastplate. Your followers are amassed, waiting for the Word, from God, through the Breastplate, through the Internet. You need men, holy men, men schooled in reaching the soul. I stand with you on that threshold.”

“
Threshold,” Baltasar echoed in a whisper. The clink of the ice in his glass splintered through the death-like silence in the room as he set his glass on the corner of the desk. “Best to end with a truth, Mister Dubler,” he said. “You will, indeed, realize your dream to talk directly with God.”

“
I vow to fulfill your destiny,” said Daniel, a huge wash of relief and satisfaction flooding over him, “just as I must fulfill mine.”

“
Your only destiny is a shallow grave,” said Baltasar. “I hope you are ready to meet your maker. Mister Rambitskov, have your man take Mister Dubler out back to the hemlock grove and shoot him. I must dress for dinner.”

This couldn’t be happening, not to him. Rambitskov’s claw clamped down again on his arm. He winced with pain. Rambitskov dragged him across the threshold. “Wait,” he called out. He had to succeed, save his own life for a greater purpose, even if it might cost the life of an innocent little girl. “Percival Hunter has mounted a rescue operation to free Lucia. He’s coming any second with a strike force of retired Special Forces guys. He texted Christa about it.”

Baltasar held up his hand, palm out, to stop Rambitskov. For a long moment, nothing moved. Despite the persistent ringing in his ears, Daniel could hear the howl of the wind outside and the wild beat of his heart thumping against his chest. “Put Mister Dubler in the conservatory,” said Baltasar. “The girl is there, eating her ice cream sundae for dessert. Then meet me in my dressing room. We must be gone before the strike force arrives.”

Rambitskov sneered at Daniel, squeezed tight his grip. “I got no problem mowing down a bunch of old rogues,” he growled.

“
No doubt these “old rogues” have families, friends in the military,” said Baltasar. “They’re the heroic type. They’ll be missed. Killing them on my estate would compromise my endgame. The little girl has been well-played, but sacrificing my pawn is now my best move. I will both seduce my opponent with false hope and divert attention so I can position my bishop to attack from an unexpected angle.” Cunning shone in his eyes, the expression of determined genius that had first earned Daniel’s commitment to his enterprise. “Mister Dubler, perhaps I have use for you yet. Remember your Genesis. If you are to play the serpent, then you must be subtle.”

CHAPTER
50

Percival crouched low and pressed his back against the twelve-foot-high stone wall that surrounded the perimeter of the Contreras estate. Lucia, his little princess, he could feel her presence, beyond the wall, inside that fortress of a mansion. Donohue’s “recon” man reported her “safe.” That guaranteed nothing. Contreras, that madman, he’d kill him if he hurt her. Throttle him with bare hands. But he couldn’t. Contreras had poisoned Liam, still in a coma, his skin pale, his eyes shut. Christa had said what Contreras made her drink was probably the antidote, albeit temporary. He needed that antidote. He’d do anything to buy Liam more time. And Gabriella, he couldn’t let her down. He had to rescue Lucia and Liam and help her, their next best chance at finding the antidote plant.

He shifted the weight of the Kevlar vest that Donohue had forced him to wear. The waiting was excruciating. The twilight, already darkened by the storm, quickly lowered the boom into the black of a December night. Lucia was scared of the dark. He closed his eyes, pictured the stone wall from the satellite photo. Twelve feet high, three hundred foot perimeter, two feet thick. Do the math. Focus on that. Not on Lucia and Liam’s faces and the specter of failure.

Donohue showed no such doubt. This wasn’t the first time the man was leading a covert assault. But that wasn’t some terrorist hive in there, it was his daughter. He raised the eyepieces of the night vision goggles to talk face to face. “With all due respect, Donohue,” he said in a low voice, as the strike force of six men fanned out to either side of the iron gate, “that’s my little girl in there. Once your man cuts off the power, I can get in and get her out, no gunfire.”

“
We stick with the plan,” Donohue said. Suddenly, he raised a closed fist. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

The iron gates to the estate rolled open. A Rolls Royce Phantom cruised through, taking its time, exuding arrogance.

Percival leaned forward. “That’s Baltasar Contreras,” he said, “in the back seat.” Beside him sat a muscular man in a dark suit. “No sign of Lucia.” He scanned the interior of the Rolls frantically. “You don’t suppose she’s in the trunk, do you? She could be in the trunk. We’ve got to stop him.”

“
Steady, Percival,” Donohue said. “My man reports that Lucia is still in the conservatory. I don’t have the manpower to tail Contreras. Mission priority is rescuing Lucia.” He angled his head away, pressed on his earpiece and listened, then faced Percival. “We got the cook cleaning up in the kitchen, the butler neatening up the library, the housekeeper turning down a bed upstairs and a new player, a man in the conservatory with Lucia.” Donohue flicked on his phone, showed him a photo. “You know him?”

“
Daniel Dubler, what is he doing here?”

“
That last email from Christa, she said she was in Saint Patrick’s with Daniel.”

“
That’s him,” he said. “Contreras hired him as historian on Gabriella’s Colombia expedition last summer. Wait, this is good news. He and Christa take the kids to the playground. Lucia, she won’t be so scared now.”

“
So he’s a friendly?”

“
He’s a history teacher, for God’s sake. Contreras is gone. I’ll just go in there and get Lucia out to safety. I’ll not risk her life with gunplay, Colonel.”

Donohue tapped on the tiny microphone on his earpiece. “Man in conservatory is a friendly. Go, go, go.”

The spotlights illuminating the drive and the façade of the mansion flicked out, pitching the grounds into darkness. Percival quickly twisted to look through the bars of the iron gate. The lights in the mansion’s windows went dark. The night was black, with heavy clouds obscuring any light from the moon or stars. When he turned back, Donohue had lowered his night vision goggles. Percival did the same, casting the scene in an eerie green. Donohue tapped his radio button twice.

On either side of him, six grappling hooks arced to the top of the wall. Each man scrambled up with surprising agility, considering they were all retired military and at least in their sixties. He followed Donohue, as the man shimmied up effortlessly. The rope was rough. The exertion demanding. Each of the strike force was outfitted with semi-automatics, but he had a taser pistol in the hip holster knocking against his side. The Taser X26, Donohue had explained, was a “stun gun” with a laser sight and reach of thirty-five feet, the first weapon of choice for this unsanctioned operation. The weight of it was both terrifying and reassuring.

He straddled the top of the wall, the wind slapping him with the branches of the thick evergreens. He slipped to the interior of the wall, hung from his fingertips and dropped into the bed of pachysandra below, the impact jarring his feet and knees.

Donohue raised a closed fist, the stop signal, and checked the position of his men. Donohue crouched next to him. “Stay low,” he said. “Assume that the internal security cams are on an override and are still operational. And assume armed guards in the interior rooms that my man couldn’t see.” Armed guards. As marks on the schematic, they had seemed innocuous. Now, sweat beaded on his brow despite the bitter gusts. He recognized Donohue’s next signal. Advance. The conservatory was at the rear of the mansion, facing the woods. He followed Donohue as the men split into two groups and flanked the mansion on either side.

They rounded the far corner. Percival let out a whimper. His heart lurched into his throat. In the ghastly green monotone of the night vision goggles, Lucia sat at a table just beyond the glass walls of the conservatory, her back towards him. She was looking around in all directions in the pitch black, frightened, anxious. She clutched a Barbie doll. She reached, unseeing, towards the dark, open laptop in front of her, as if willing it to wake up and say hello. Thunder rumbled in the distance, rattling the greenhouse walls. Lucia twisted round, clutching her knees to her chest. She hated thunder. Percival saw Daniel, too, through his night vision goggles, feeling his way around the table in the dark, the man’s arms waving blindly in front of him to guide him.