The Constantine Conspiracy (30 page)

“I don’t know whether or not to believe you.”

Pops fingered his tie. “Okay, Rick,” he said. “Let me come clean here.”

“I’d like that.”

“Well, here’s the truth, believe me if you want, but it’s the best you’re going to get. First, and most important, I didn’t kill your dad. I would never do something like that. Even as much as I disliked, disrespected, Steve, I didn’t murder him or anyone else.”

“Then who did?”

“A rogue,” Pops said.

“Explain that.”

Pops pulled a cigar from the silver case in his suit jacket but didn’t light it. “I am the leader of a group,” he said. “A peaceful league of allies that works to keep church and state separated. Your Ms. Bridge calls us a Conspiracy. Since we’ve existed for over a century, keep a low profile, and work with a multitude of political and religious entities, I suppose you could define us that way.”

“But why, Pops, what brought you into it? I know we’re not religious, but come on, why get involved in this kind of thing?”

Pops shrugged. “Why does a person do anything, Rick? Many motives drive me. I reject the superstition of Christianity for one thing, such nonsense—no intellectual basis to any of it. And I hate the pain that Christians have inflicted on the world in the name of their Jesus—the Crusades, the Inquisition, slavery, Jim Crow laws—they defended all that for hundreds of years.”

“Not every Christian supported those things,” Rick said.

“Granted.” Pops waved off his objection. “Not every believer participated in the atrocities, but the majority did. I fought in Europe, marched into Berlin as the Second World War ended, saw the terrible devastation. And you know what, Rick? The church in Nazi Germany barely made a peep while Hitler carried out his holocaust. Despicable.”

“I understand that,” Rick said. “But it’s still not enough to explain your position.”

Pops stuck the cigar in his mouth and chewed the end. “You’re right,” he said.

“So what happened?”

Pops’ eyes glistened.

“What, Pops? You can tell me.”

Pops dropped his eyes. “Your dear grandmother,” he whispered. “You know a drunk driver hit her, killed her.”

“I’ve heard the story. She lay in a coma for over a month.”

“Thirty-eight days, Rick. Thirty-eight days, seven hours, and fourteen minutes.”

“I know that hurt you, Pops.”

“I prayed for her, Rick. For every one of those thirty-eight days, seven hours, and fourteen minutes.”

“But she died anyway.”

“I survived four years in the war, fighting almost every day, bombs, bullets, disease. I made it home because her love kept me alive. Then she dies because a drunk climbs behind a wheel and runs over her. I needed no more evidence that God didn’t exist than that. I prayed, promised God my loyalty, offered my life in place of hers, laid out every deal I could imagine, but no deity extended a hand to accept any of them.”

“I don’t know much, but I don’t think God works that way.”

“God doesn’t work at all!” Pops growled. “If so, He works in spiteful, arbitrary ways. Do you know about the man who hit your grandmother? Ever hear that part of the story?”

“No.”

“A priest,” Pops spat. “A white-collared, holier-than-thou, drunk priest. He came to me after she died, all broken up, asked for my forgiveness, begged me for it. Wanted me to grant him absolution, just like that, snap a finger, soothe his conscience, and let him off the hook.”

“At least he found the courage to face you. Lots of people never do that.”

“He did it to keep his collar, Rick, I’m sure of it. They didn’t put people in jail back then for drunk driving. But his church threatened to dismiss him, so he got busy making his amends, false as they were.”

“He might have been sincere.”

“Don’t be so naïve. Guess what happened to him? Your stomach will turn.”

“What?”

“They made him a bishop, can you believe that? Less than a year later, they promoted him, said he’d served his penance. Said that his efforts to overcome his addiction made him an example that other people needed to follow. They promoted him!”

“People can change, Pops.”

“Spare me that drivel. People are what they are, no going back, no leopard changing its spots, even the Bible says that. Name me one person who has changed, really transformed their lives.”

“Shannon Bridge did.”

Pops sighed. “Oh, Rick, women will be your downfall, won’t they? I’ve done some checking on Bridge. I’m snooping, I realize that. But since she seems to have such a hold on you, I needed to nose around some. She tell you her story?”

“At least part of it.”

“She says Jesus saved her.”

“Yes.”

“And she serves the Order to make the world a better place.”

“True.”

Pops took out his cigar, studied it for a few seconds then said, “Revenge, Rick. She entered the Order to gain access to information about her parents’ murderer. As we know, she says the Conspiracy did it, according to the Order we’re the root cause of every bad thing that happens on the planet. A car hits a puppy in the highway, the Conspiracy did it. A thug mugs an old woman in Los Angeles, the Conspiracy did it. But Bridge wants one thing, and don’t forget this—she wants the chance to snuff out the life of her parents’ killer. No more, no less. That sound like a true follower of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, to you?”

Rick tried to clear his muddled thoughts. His certainty about Pops had again blurred into a fog of questions. “How did you hook up with . . . the movement?” he finally asked.

“Call it the Conspiracy, I don’t care. My father approached me within a year after Margaret’s death.”

“Your father?”

“He led the group before me, yes. It works that way, the Succession. If an heir accepts the responsibility, then the leadership falls to him when his predecessor leaves the scene. Just men so far. Who knows, maybe a woman someday.”

“So your dad offered and you accepted.”

“Gladly. Anything to rid the earth of the scourge of false belief. After your grandmother’s death, I felt I was doing the world a favor, wanted to stop the snake oil salesmen, the preachers, the purveyors of false hope, the molesters of children. Nothing good ever comes out of Bethlehem, Rick. Frauds, liars, charlatans, hypocrites. When my father approached me, told me of my place in the lineage, I had no reason, no objection, to following in his footsteps.”

“Did you offer it to my dad?”

“No, although it would have been possible. I saw from the beginning that he had no stomach for such as this, no courage to manage it.”

Rick shifted to ease the pain starting in his shoulder. He understood a lot more now, but that only made him more confused.

“It’s your turn if you want it, Rick. I’m sick, will die soon. Time to hand over the sword.”

“A sword actually exists?”

“Yes, it’s quite an artifact—the subject of myths, rumors, even movies—owned originally by Constantine himself. The Council brought it to America from Rome just before World War II.”

“And the knife that killed Dad?”

“A replica of the sword, right down to the rubies in the handle.”

“Which brings us back to the rogue assassin.”

Pops put down his cigar and bent toward Rick, laid a hand on his knee. “He wants the sword, the symbol of the Succession. If no heir exists, the Council of twelve, plus the Master, convenes in Rome, on the site of the same villa where it all began. They make a choice, not exactly the College of Cardinals electing a pope but something like it. The rogue— Charbeau’s his name, by the way—sits at the top of the list right now. He’s a faithful soldier, have to give him that. But since you’re a threat to what he feels is owed to him, he went to Solitude to take you out of the picture.”

“And Dad?”

“The assassin ended up in the wrong bedroom. Steve’s death was an accident caused by a man acting solely on his own.”

“That seems like a big mistake for a professional to make.”

“What can I say, it’s an imperfect world.”

“How did he get the codes?”

“Like you said, he’s a professional. No telling how long he’s planned for this, who he paid for the information he needed.”

“And the motorcycle he rode? Owned by one of your companies.”

“So? I have no way to keep up with things like that.”

Pops leaned back again and Rick stared out the window, confusion etched on his face. The limousine turned left and headed up the street leading to their estate. “I want no part of the Conspiracy,” Rick said. “Regardless of its motives, past or present.”

“You can lead it in any direction you want,” Pops said. “Work strictly within the law, fund what you choose, perpetrate no violence of any kind, just continue the efforts to educate people, help them see the folly of faith.”

“But what’s the harm, Pops? Even if it’s all false, wishful thinking. Faith still helps people cope, right? Makes the world a better place by the good deeds people do when they try to follow Jesus.”

“Oh, Rick, you’re so naïve. It’s charming really, in a way. But wouldn’t you rather have people face up to the truth, stand on their own two feet? You’re saying it’s best to lean on a crutch even though you can walk on your own. We’ve taught you better than that, I know we have, even that sorry father of yours. At least he never gave in to the poppycock you’re suggesting.”

“Christianity isn’t for me. I’m not saying that. But some people find solace, comfort, hope through their religion.”

“You say it’s not for you, but listen to yourself. You’re falling for Bridge’s propaganda, a convert in the making.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Are you falling for her? That’s just as bad, maybe worse.”

Rick tried to sort his emotions. “She seems . . . I don’t know how to describe it . . . real, planted, gathered. So different than other women I’ve met. They seem to want one thing from me . . . well, two actually, but the most important is the money. And they’re so . . . void, like cotton candy. Bright, colorful, enticing but without substance when you bite into them.”

“You’ve done your share of biting.”

Rick chuckled but only for a moment.

“Bridge is dangerous,” Pops continued. “Precisely because she does have substance, I give her that. She believes what she believes, no two ways about it and that’s an attractive quality. You’re not accustomed to a woman like her. But it’s a smokescreen, worse in its own way than what other women show you. She wants something from you too, is using you for her own purposes, just like the rest. It’s just that what she wants is different.”

“I’ve thought of that, but I don’t accept it.”

“Of course you don’t. But mark my words, it’s the truth.”

The limo pulled to the entry of the estate and passed through security. “The money goes with it, Rick,” Pops said. “Hate to break that to you. But everything—the houses, the billions in banks across the world, the properties on practically every continent, all of it belongs to the group, the Conspiracy, if you will. Walk away from your destiny and you walk away from everything you’ve ever known. The money brings the fame, you know. Without it you’re nothing—no more weekends in Monte Carlo, front row seats at the Oscars, villas in the Swiss Alps, no more famous friends or offers for reality television series.”

The limo pulled to the house and stopped. Rick sat still for several moments, his heart pounding with the new revelation. “You’d really do that? Take it all away?”

“Not my choice. The Conspiracy owns everything.”

“I have my own accounts.”

“Yes, you have some money but not that much in the big scheme of things. What? A couple of million? How long will that last in the world where you like to play? And if you go against the Council’s desires for you, they’ll tie that up too, accounts will suddenly have computer glitches, missing funds, mistaken identities.”

“They can do that?”

“For the most part they can do whatever they want. Their reach is long and deep—into finances, law enforcement, politics, academia—name the arena and the Conspiracy has influence in it.”

Rick swallowed hard. The notion of poverty and the anonymity that went with it scared him. “Not sure how I’d do without . . .”

“Your money, you can say it.”

“I’d be lost, a nobody.”

“No doubt.”

“Might be interesting to see what would happen, though, right? Without the money and all.”

“You’d find out who your true friends are, if you have any. But that’s a big chance, isn’t it? One you don’t have to take unless you choose it.”

Rick almost laughed, but it seemed out of place. “I don’t like being threatened,” he said.

“And I don’t like threatening you. But sometimes we’re forced to do what we don’t like.”

“You can’t make me to do it, Pops. No matter what stick you hold over me.”

The limo door opened and a guard stood at attention by it.

“Your decision,” Pops said. “Take the next couple of days. I’m out of town again tomorrow afternoon through Thursday late. Think about what I’ve told you. Once you’re the leader, you can set the agenda. Do as much or as little as you want. Just sit back and let others take the lead if that’s your desire. No pressure on you, enjoy life. Take up with Ms. Bridge if she’ll back away from her personal crusade and accept your favors. Piece of cake, really. What we’ve put in motion will carry things for a generation or more anyway.”

“Sounds significant.”

“I think so.”

“What have you put in motion, Pops?”

“Bridge tell you to ask me that?” Pops’ tone slipped into ominous.

“I’m my own man, just curious really. And you brought it up. What’s so monumental that it’ll affect things for a generation?”

“I exaggerated, Rick, an old man’s grandiose dream. I mean the way things are, the successes we’ve had in the past fifty years, you’ve seen that, right? The slow but steady elimination of Christian expression in public, the marginalization of those who call themselves believers, the media bias against them.”

“I’ve seen it, yes. Never paid it much attention, but now that you mention it . . .”

“We are winning. Shutting down this Christian nonsense step by step. It’s history’s tide and nothing will stop it.”