The Constantine Conspiracy (25 page)
“The Order likes their people to obtain military training.”
“But most of the military isn’t particularly religious,” Charbeau said.
“Doesn’t matter. The Order sends them in for the training, it saves them the cost of providing it. Pretty smart. Then the Order sent her to Montana to keep an eye on the Carson family when they visited there.”
“After a year of their indoctrination. She’s been a ranger since last summer.”
“I assume they have other operatives watching over us in Atlanta, New York, Rome, wherever we go.”
“I expect so,” Charbeau said. “They do thorough work for their limited assets. You’re definitely on their radar.”
“So they suspect me.”
“No surprise there.”
“No matter. They’re powerless to stop what’s going to happen.”
“We’ll keep an eye on them.”
“Good.” Augustine wiped sweat off his forehead as another surge of pain pierced his ribs. “You’re moving forward on Domino?”
“Full speed ahead. Things are falling into place rather nicely.”
“You really feel we can make this happen?”
“Does the pope wear a funny white hat?”
Augustine laughed lightly in spite of his pain. “I’m a sick man, Nolan, you do realize that, don’t you?”
“I’ve had my suspicions—you’re old as dirt. Nobody lives forever.”
“This will be my crowning glory; the reason for my entire life.”
“I’ll make it happen for you, count on that.”
“Why do you do it, Nolan? Is it simply the money or do you really believe in our cause?”
Charbeau hesitated for a moment. “I do it for a lot of reasons, I guess. It fits me, you know, my skills, instincts. And yeah, I like the money, but more than that I love the thrill, living beyond the law, beyond what normal folks do every day. Plus, there’s nothing out there, Mr. Augustine. My whole life has taught me that, you most of all. Nothing but here and now, so I live for what is, not what will be.”
Augustine paused to sift his next words, because he knew the power they carried, the possibilities for good or ill unleashed in them. Yet, he felt confident speaking them, almost compelled. “If we complete Domino, the Succession will come into place, you know that, right?”
“I expected it, yes.”
“And you also know that I must offer the leadership to my grandson.”
“It’s the tradition and I accept it.”
“But if Rick refuses the Succession, the Council will choose another to take my place.”
“The Council gets to pick whoever they want if there’s no direct heir.”
“Do you believe you deserve the Succession?”
“I’ve put in my time in the trenches. If somebody brings more juice to the table, go with him. But I don’t see it, do you?”
“You are not a sophisticated man, Nolan. Your critics in the Council know of your work, but they will use your lack of, how can I say this gently, your lack of polish, against you. How should I respond in Council if such failings come to light against you?”
Nolan licked his lips. “You want me to be straight with you, Mr. Augustine? Just between the two of us?”
“Man to man, Nolan, tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s furry backside about the traditions of the Council, the gentilities of folks who make decisions in shadowy rooms. So what if I slurp my soup and prefer a good chew over your hundred-dollar cigars? Fine manners didn’t feed the goose. For that matter I don’t care much for all the anti-religious mumbo jumbo either. My momma practiced Cajun voodoo in the backwoods of Louisiana before she passed on, but I got no truck with Christianity if that’s what somebody wants to follow. Let folks believe what they want, I figure, so long as others do the same for me. So I don’t want the Succession for any of your traditional reasons—I want it for the power it brings, the ability to control. Course I know better than to speak to anybody but you this way. The Council wants zealots for its ranks, and to become Master of the Council demands the most zealotry of all.”
“Your candor refreshes me,” Augustine said, “But I have to confess it gives me pause when I think of pushing your candidacy. Why should I champion you in Council if you don’t share my hatred for the teachings of the church?”
“Because you know I don’t fail,” he offered strongly. “My record shows I get the job done. If you want some public relations pimp who looks good in a suit, tap someone else. But if the Council—and you most of all—want to finish what those first thirteen men started a long time ago, if you want to shove what’s left of the Jesus junk into the closet forever, I’m the best man for the job. That’s my selling card, the only one I’ve got.”
Augustine cleared his throat, pleased to have had the conversation with his top lieutenant. “You make a strong case for yourself, so I want you to hear this from me. If Rick refuses his destiny and you complete Domino, I will bring my full power to bear to demand that the Council offers you the Sword of Constantine.”
“If it comes to me, I’ll take the Sword and swing it till my arms fall off or I’ve cut the head off the last believer out there.”
Augustine eased to a chair and slid into it. “Go now,” he said, waving his spent cigar at the video monitor. “Handle Shannon Bridge. Then go full bore at Domino, then let the chips fall into place one after another. The end is almost here.”
“Just to be clear, we’re talking last measures with Bridge?”
“Regrettably, yes, but she’s shown her true colors, understands the risks. Take last measures.”
Charbeau signed off and Augustine snuffed out his cigar, then pulled the silver case, a gift from Margaret on his twenty-first birthday, from his pocket and ran his fingers over the engraved monogram. “Love always, Margaret.”
“I miss you, dear,” he whispered, kissing the monogram. “My life ended when yours did.”
Putting the case away, he stood, balanced for a moment on the edge of the chair, then moved to the wall to his left. A grandfather clock stared out from the center of the wall, and he touched the face, the spot in the center of the six, and stepped back. The wall clicked, then spun open, and Augustine walked into the large room behind it, a room filled with books and pictures and artifacts from many ages. Twelve candles flickered in the shadows of the vaulted room and an oblong table sat in the center of it. Twelve people surrounded the table, each one standing, each one hooded, only their faces visible to him.
Augustine gazed at each person until he’d searched the eyes and recognized each one in the room. Mohammed Al Baroque, Susan Britt, Hui Lee Chan, and nine others—two more Americans, one of them a U.S senator, the other, a fellow billionaire. One man from Russia; one each from England, France, and Germany; two from South America; and the last one from Rome itself. All of them were his allies, all sworn to secrecy, all with individual motives for supporting their ancient cause.
“The time draws near,” he said. “Are we all agreed?”
Each of the Council nodded in agreement.
Augustine stepped to an attendant who waited in the corner, held out his arms, and slipped on his robe. After pulling the hood over his head, he strode to the head of the table and braced himself before it. Then he turned to face the wall-length mirror directly behind him. The candles flickered and he took a deep breath, then repeated an ancient phrase, a phrase he hadn’t heard or spoken in over fifty years, a phrase only he of all men on earth had the right to speak.
“With this sword, conquer.” His father had spoken these same words to him in a room similar to this one when he completed the Succession the year Augustine turned forty, three months before he died of the same cancer that now clawed away at Augustine’s body.
As the last word rolled from Augustine’s tongue, the mirror seemed to quiver, then shift. Seconds later it flipped and disappeared into the wall below. An open vault appeared before Augustine, and he reached in with a quivering hand and touched what lay inside. The smooth, sharp blade of the Sword of Constantine glistened in the light, the same sword his forbearers had touched in the villa outside of Rome centuries before. The Council had packed the sword in a locked case and hauled it across the Atlantic as the clouds of World War II gathered across Italy. They had agreed at the time that America would dominate the next century so they needed to set up base camp there, use their money to expand into politics, the military, publishing, and media. If they could destroy the faith in the United States, they determined, they could eventually crush it everywhere on earth.
So they had chosen his father as Master—a loyal soldier in the movement to that point, a communistic atheist from Italy with a PhD in international relations who had immigrated to New York with his wife and son just as World War I began in Europe. Augustine had shifted the central location to Atlanta in the 1960s, focusing on the Bible Belt South, the home of evangelical religion in America.
Lifting the sword, Augustine turned and faced the Council again. “We have made much progress,” he said to the gathered group. “The Judeo-Christian consensus of the past millennium now rests on the dust heap of history, replaced by a post-Christian culture in most of the Western world.”
The Council nodded in assent as Augustine continued. “We have two times as many atheists in America as we have Episcopalians.”
A couple of the Council actually smiled, their lips barely visible as their hoods crowded in around their chins.
“Sixty-eight percent of Americans say that religion has less influence in their lives this year than last. An equal number say that tolerance of all others is more important than publicly proclaiming one’s own beliefs. I could go on and on with the changes that have happened—we all know and celebrate events such as these.”
Augustine paused for effect, his pleasure rising, and then continued. “We are like a stone mason pounding on a large rock. For a while, the mason sees no effect from his efforts. But then, with one last mighty blow, the mason slams his hammer onto the rock and the rock splits into a thousand pieces. Today, my friends, I am here to announce to you that we are poised for the final mighty blow!”
The Council murmured their approval.
“Then,” shouted Augustine. “Then I will pass from this earth and another man will take the oath and speak the words and protect the sword that guards us all!”
“As you wish!” called the Council. “The time for Succession is at hand!”
Monday
C
harbeau spent the rest of Sunday and all day Monday managing two jobs. First, he put into motion a scheme to settle the matter of Shannon Bridge; second, he went into overdrive with the arrangements for Domino. He brought in a husband-and-wife team skilled in technology and explosives to finish up the Bridge job and ten others, all men, to complete preparations for Domino. As always with tasks as sensitive as these, he enlisted only true believers to carry them out, people with all manner of personal axes to grind against the church. Although he didn’t tell his crew the ultimate goal of either of the two actions, he said enough to assure their full loyalty and most dedicated efforts.
His timetable called for the set-up of the two events to run simultaneously in two different cities but the actual fulfillment to occur separately, with Bridge dying late on Monday and Domino unfolding three days later on Thursday afternoon.
The couple assigned to Bridge’s demise went to her hotel on Sunday night and detected, then disconnected, the three cameras that kept watch over the place. Next, after the sun rose on Monday, they disrupted telephone service so the hotel phones shut down. Finally, they responded within thirty minutes to the service call the hotel manager placed on his cell, showing up in crisp uniforms and driving a fully equipped van from the FoneAir Corporation. Since they were the ones who had fouled up the reception in the first place, it didn’t take them long to isolate the problem and communicate the resolution to the manager. Pleased with their quick service, the manager handed them a master key and told them to do whatever was necessary to make repairs.
The woman, a boxy redhead with a crooked grin and a mole in the center of her chin, said they’d get right on it, should finish the sixty-four rooms within an hour or so since they’d called in an extra technician.
Charbeau drove up within minutes in a van identical to theirs, and the three of them split up and went to work, moving room to room in the enclosed hallways, pretending to reset the landline of each phone inside. Within the hour Charbeau reached the third floor and knocked on Bridge’s door. Nobody answered, so he slid the master key into the lock, opened the door, and stepped inside.
“Nobody home,” he whispered to himself. “Easy as a drunken coed on spring break.”
It took less than three minutes to set the C-4, a malleable plastic explosive, hidden with gloved fingers in the cavity of the telephone receiver with a minuscule detonation device rigged to explode twenty seconds after someone picked up the ringing telephone. An old favorite in Charbeau’s line of work but still extremely effective—enough C-4 to take out Bridge’s room plus a couple of extras, collateral damage that was regrettable but necessary.
Pleased, Charbeau set the phone back in its cradle and conducted a quick search of the room but found nothing worthwhile, so he slid out the door and down the steps to the bottom floor. A couple of minutes later, he and his coworkers hopped into their trucks and drove off the premises. One job down, Charbeau grinned, an even bigger one left to complete.
Alone with his thoughts, Charbeau examined Domino from all angles, looking for risks, probabilities, potential pitfalls. If all went well, he and his team would accomplish something unparalleled—a deed disruptive enough to alter the future in unimaginable ways.
He pulled out his cell and punched in a number. His on-site manager of Domino picked up the encrypted line.
“What’s your status?” Charbeau asked.
“Since the pre-work still looks good, we’re way ahead of schedule. Less than a quarter of a mile to reach the target, and at the rate we’re progressing, we should finish with time to spare.”
