The Columbus Code (37 page)

“And Germany?”

“Their leaders have met with the European Union. All are in.”

Tejada had a questioning look. “Then why have you come to me looking like death, Philippe?”

“The Russians,” he sighed.

“I thought you had a meeting with Koslov.”

“I did.” Prevost shifted in the chair. The whining, Tejada knew, was about to commence. “I cannot trust him, Emilio. He says Russia is preparing to revalue its oil reserves from dollars to euros, but I hesitated to tell him the EU supports us because I am not certain he is telling me the truth. Koslov says everyone is overreacting to the American situation—that the markets will right themselves when the US makes its first debt payment next week. I explained to him that the US won't be able to meet all of its commitments without credit, but he went on about its three trillion dollars in revenue, its army, etcetera. And we know about their credit-card-fraud operations in the US. They don't want any more eyebrows raised about that.” Prevost's voice fairly screeched. “Even when I told him the dollar has already lost half its value and is still dropping, he was not convinced—”

Tejada cut him off. “Bottom line, Philippe.”

Prevost's miserable gaze fell to the floor. “Koslov said no to our one-currency plan. I did everything I could—”

“Enough,” Tejada snarled. The room fell silent and he stared across the desk at his nephew.

After a few minutes, Prevost finally said, “So what is next?”

“We give it another day of trading,” Tejada replied. “Let the dollar drop further. Then you go back to Koslov.”

Prevost looked as if he would rather be shot, but Tejada's withering glare was enough to make him do anything. Finally, he mumbled his agreement to the meeting and skittered from the office.

When Prevost was gone, Tejada leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. In spite of the way things appeared, all wasn't lost. Not really. There was only Russia to persuade and that could be accomplished. He would have to coach Philippe, but he could do that too. Things could be salvaged. All was not lost.

Then the phone rang and he knew by the sound of the ringtone it was Abaddon's line. He didn't even have to pick it up to hear the Master's words. “Come to me. At once.”

Sophia insisted that Maria go to a bedroom and at least try to sleep for a few hours. Winters knew she was right, but it was all he could do not to post himself outside her door. Of course, he didn't have a weapon, beyond a cast-iron skillet and some kitchen knives. But they were not completely defenseless. They had information and right then, that was what they needed.

While Maria rested, Winters used the time to chart out everything that had happened and the things Maria had told them. A time line, he'd learned, was an important tool for viewing events. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle with several significant pieces missing—pieces he needed if he was going to get into the heads of Tejada and Molina. He had to know how they thought, what drove them, or he couldn't protect Maria or Sophia . . . or himself.

Twenty minutes into the task, Winters tossed the pen on the table and folded his hands behind his head. He could contact the Service, but he had to have more to give them than this puzzle with its gaping holes. He'd also been away from therapy with Julia Archer longer than he'd expected to be, so who knew what kind of reception he'd get if he called Rebhorn?

Winters pushed his chair back and stood for a view of the chart from a different angle.

“How can I help?” Sophia set a steamy mug in front of him and glanced over the chart.

“You can tell me why Catalonia Financial cares about the journal,” he said. “If they consider it the property of Spain or whatever, why not just ask us for it? Why all the subterfuge?” He scratched his head. “Usually when people in power are this desperate for something, it's because it threatens their power. But the journal is over five hundred years old.”

Sophia looked over at him. “Will it do me any good to remind you of the prophecy of the tetrad?”

“You're talking about some Barcelona group being the Antichrist.”

She nodded, still meeting his gaze.

“Catalonia Financial is a multibillion-dollar conglomerate, not a ‘brotherhood.'”

“I'm not so sure about that, Dad.”

Winters turned to see Maria crossing the room bundled in a pale blue terry-cloth robe, her hair pulled into a bun at the crown of her head. She looked so much like Anne he almost gasped. And just as her mother's so often had been, her eyes were bright with an idea she just had to tell.

“Coffee, Maria?” Sophia asked.

“Please.” Maria came around the table to stand next to Winters.

He glanced at her. “What aren't you sure of?”

“That the board at Catalonia isn't a brotherhood. You should hear the chant they recite at the start of their meetings.”

Sophia abandoned the coffee. “Do you remember any of it?”

“You would think I would—I heard it enough times, but it was in Spanish. Something about ‘
Con los antiguos
 . . . and for the future something-something.'” Maria tightened the belt on the robe.
“I know it ended with
‘nuestras fortunas con el maestro'
because I thought that sounded like a dish they served at Los Caracoles.”

“‘
Con los antiguos
' is ‘with the ancients,'” Sophia said. “So ‘with the ancients and for the future of'—we don't know. And then ‘our fortunes to the Master.'”

“What master?” Winters frowned.

Maria shrugged. “I have no idea, but whoever it is, they practically worship him. They spoke the whole thing together and all of them had matching rings. Tejada wore his all the time.”

Winters looked at Sophia. “Is that some kind of Spanish business custom?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“But this isn't just any business.” Maria poured her own coffee and took a seat at the table. “They're all about their history, or at least Tejada is. He showed me pictures of his ancestors—Sebastian Somebody was one of them—he told me that Catalonia goes back to 1382.”

Sophia squeezed Winters' fingers. Maria looked from one of them to the other. “What?” she said. “Does that mean something?”

“It could,” Sophia replied.

Winters let go of her hand and folded his arms across his chest. “Let's not get carried away. I'm sure lots of European businesses go back that far.”

“What's going on?” Maria set the mug down too hard and its contents splashed over the lip of the cup. “I mean, I'm in this just as deep as the two of you. Only I don't know
why
you're in it.”

“It's a long story,” Winters said.

“I've got nothing but time right now.”

His stomach churned. Actually, they
didn't
have time. This whole
thing was becoming more dangerous by the minute. If they were dealing with psychos he was going to have to anticipate every move, and that was impossible to do unless he knew his enemy inside out.

“Dad.”

Winters shook himself and looked up at her. “We'll explain it all to you—we will. But right now, I need you to tell me everything you know about this brotherhood thing.”

Maria gave him one more narrow-eyed look before she said, “Okay—from the fourteenth century on they were financiers, importers, that kind of thing. Tejada called them ‘A group of Barcelona businessmen.'”

Sophia leaned toward her. “Those were his exact words?”

“Yeah. Like I said, he has all these paintings of them and their descendants in his house and some on the walls at Catalonia's office, but they've never published pictures of the board. You can't find them anywhere on the Internet, not even on their website, which I found completely weird.”

Winters found it almost too incredible to believe. But he did.

“I told you about the mystery deal that Snowden was involved in,” Maria continued. “About Elena finding out about it and trying to cover it up—I know that's why Molina had her killed.”

“I am sorry,” Sophia said.

“But I didn't really believe Tejada was part of that, and I still don't know for certain that he was. It seemed like it was all Molina. He was the one I saw with Schlesinger.”

Winters' head came up from the chart. “Schlesinger? CIA Schlesinger?”

“I didn't tell you this part?”

“What part?” He knew his voice was sharp, but the more Maria revealed, the more worried he became.

“After my initial trip over here, I went back to DC briefly. My assistant met me at the airport and we stopped for lunch on our way to the office. Molina and Schlesinger were in that restaurant having lunch together. They were at a table in back. I took notes on my cell phone but I left that in the apartment.” Her eyes opened wide with a look of realization. “Oh,” she gasped. “They've seen that by now.”

“It doesn't matter,” Winters said with a shake of his head. “They're coming after us anyway. Do you remember any of what they were talking about?”

Maria's face had gone pale, leaving only the faded traces of childhood freckles across her nose. Fear rose inside her but she pushed it aside, took a deep breath, and continued. “Apparently Molina had done Schlesinger some favor in Kenya and he was asking Schlesinger for a payback. Something about whatever had been intercepted in Chechnya, something that was now in a secure location.”

Winters fought against the familiarity of this as he strained to hear every word she said.

“Whatever Molina was asking him to do was ‘insane,' at least in Schlesinger's opinion. But it sounded like he'd committed some kind of indiscretion in Copenhagen that involved pictures of him with Danish schoolgirls. That part I learned later, on my own.”

“Molina was blackmailing him,” Winters said.

“He doesn't know how to do anything else,” Maria said. “Except kill people.”

Winters pumped a clenched fist as he paced back and forth at the end of the table. “Did you hear anything else?”

“Yes. Something about someone picking up a suitcase. Someone named Jason Elliot. My assistant looked into that and found a Jason Elliot was killed recently. He'd been shot and then for some reason mowed down by a hit-and-run driver.”

Winters stopped pacing and looked away. “John?” Sophia asked. “What is it?”

Winters' eyes closed and his mind whirred as snippets of information dropped into place. The prophecies—the journal—the ancient brotherhood—the idea of an Antichrist that seemed so outrageous. Until someone believed he was the one. Until he resurrected what had been intercepted in Chechnya on its way from Moscow to Tehran and hidden for forty-five years.

In a suitcase.

“Dad—you're freaking me out,” Maria said.

“I'm freaking my
self
out.” He looked at them with his eyes wide and his cheeks ashen. “I know what they're doing.”

When Tejada arrived in El Masnou, darkness had overtaken not just the somnolent city but Abaddon's room. The old man, seated in his chair, was silhouetted in the window by the thin light of the moon, making it impossible to detect the expression on his face. Tejada was sure that was intentional.

“I came as soon as I could,” Tejada said.

“No, you did not.” Abaddon's voice was not stern, as Tejada had expected, but it had the unexpected edge of excitement, as if something long anticipated had come to fruition. “You came when I summoned you, Emilio. You could have come sooner.”

“When was that, my lord?”

“When you knew that the plan as you saw it would not be fulfilled.”

“I do not know that yet. Another day of trading will—”

“Will do nothing,” Abaddon interrupted.

The fury Tejada had dreaded came alive for an instant but died
in a single breath. Abaddon's next words were soft, coaxing. “You still hold out hope that our one-world currency—our first step to the global government you will rule—will come about by acclamation.”