The God Machine (49 page)

“The Tesla schematic is not the last piece.”

“What did you say? Why would you think that?”

“The map's incomplete. The four pieces don't work. There's another schematic. Where is it?”

“Let me go,”
Savita demanded.
“Let me go, please, I'm begging you. Please!”

There was a blood-chilling, bottomless scream. And then silence.

Koster hung his head in his hands.

“Mr. Robinson,”
the recording continued.
“You know what I want. The last piece of the map. Sajan's fragment. An even exchange. We can meet at the Little Red Lighthouse, at the foot of the GW Bridge. Let's say, tomorrow morning at ten.”

“Go to hell.”

Koster looked up. Robinson was smiling as he listened intently to his own voice on the recorder.

“You're bluffing,”
it said.
“Kill her if you want to. Joseph doesn't have any final schematic. He doesn't know what you're talking about.”

Robinson reached out and turned off the recorder. “Does he?” he asked.

Koster sighed. He sagged in his chair.

“That was Michael Rose and his partner,” said Robinson. “I believe you've already met Sister Maria. Her boss, Archbishop Lacey of the Knights, seems to have met with an unfortunate accident while trying to enter a God machine that was…” He searched for the word. “… incomplete.”

“Okay,” Koster said. “Okay, Nick, you win. I'll give you the last piece of the map.”

“Where is it?”

“I memorized it.”

“That's impossible.”

“Do you want it or not?”

Robinson frowned. “If this is some sort of trick…”

“It's no trick, Nick. Sajan drew it. I memorized it. It's that simple. There's only one catch. If you want the map, you'll have to help me rescue Savita. You have to be there when we do the exchange. But not at the Little Red Lighthouse. Too remote. It has to be somewhere more central, more public. Like… like the Cathedral of
Saint John the Divine. That isn't too far from here. Well, Nick? Will you help me? I can't do this alone.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Robinson. “You'd be picked up within minutes, as soon as you stepped out of this place. And then where would you be? Let's face it, Joseph: They'd get the schematic out of you sooner or later, and Savita would still be their prisoner.”

“You've thought of everything, haven't you, Nick? Pawn takes rook.”

“My clean room is ready and waiting. My technicians are at your disposal. We only have until morning, so you'd better be quick.”

Koster hesitated. “I thought you just wanted the fragment.”

“I need to make sure that it's genuine. You might… misremember. That's the deal, Joseph. Take it or leave it. You help me complete the God machine. If you do, I'll help you hand over the final schematic, in exchange for Savita. Do we have an agreement?”

“What prevents you from changing your mind about helping me once I've completed the chip?”

Robinson grinned. “You're just going to have to trust me, Joseph.”

“That's not much consolation. On the other hand,” Koster added with a curl of the lip, “you won't know how good my memory is until you step through that portal. What exactly happened to Archbishop Lacey?”

“You misunderstand me,” said Robinson. “Perhaps I wasn't quite clear. As much as I've dreamed of this moment, since I was a boy, it's
you
who's been granted the privilege of being first through the God machine, Joseph.”

I
T WAS LATE AFTERNOON WHEN
V
ICE
P
RESIDENT
L
INKLETTER
finally made room in his schedule to chat with the Vatican delegate. It had been an unscheduled visit and Linkletter was not in the mood to be flexible. When the man finally appeared at his door—ushered in by Sally his secretary—Linkletter was startled to find that he was only some Jesuit Monsignor, of little importance.

“I can give you two minutes, Monsignor Poggioli,” he said, without getting to his feet.

The monsignor was a thin man with close-cropped black hair, hunched shoulders and glasses that seemed to magnify his shiny black eyes. He took off his broad-brimmed black hat and replied pleasantly, “More than enough time, Mr. Vice President.”

“Enough time for what?” Linkletter had been hoping to get out of the office at a decent hour for a change. He had yet to finish tying that last batch of egg-sucking leeches before his next fly-fishing trip to Alaska. The Vice President pointed at a chair and the monsignor sat down.

“As you know,” said Poggioli, “the election of a new Pope is imminent. The Pontiff's health, I'm afraid, is far worse than we've admitted to the press. In short—John Peter is dying. Our Holy Father will not live out the week.”

“And?”

“The German cardinal is reviewing his candidacy. You're familiar with what happened to Archbishop Lacey, I'm sure.”

“I barely knew the man. Died in some kind of industrial accident, as I hear it.”

The monsignor smiled thinly. “Yes, something like that. Quite… unfortunate, God rest his soul. The point is, the cardinal feels things have—how can I put it?—somehow gotten out of hand. In his view, this whole operation has become far too expensive.”

“Not to mention how embarrassing it would be if the cardinal's connection to Lacey should ever be publicized.”

“It's a sensitive time, to be sure,” agreed Poggioli. “Archbishop Lacey made a number of enemies in the South through the years.”

“Votes your candidate needs to become Pope, I presume. You have one minute left, Monsignor.”

“The cardinal wants the operation suspended, the program shut down.”

“Why don't you just tell Sister Maria?”

“There's been some resistance in the field,” said Poggioli. “And Michael Rose… He is a difficult man to reason with.”

Linkletter smiled thinly. “I see,” he replied. Then he laughed. “It's difficult to stop things,” he said, “once they've been put into motion.” He swiveled in his leather chair. “I can't make any promises. And you're out of time, I'm afraid.” The Vice President climbed to his feet.

But Monsignor Poggioli remained seated. Linkletter glared down at the little man, trying to burn a hole in his forehead.

“We understand,” said the monsignor, “that Michael Rose may be privy to some delicate information.”

He spoke so softly that Linkletter had to lean over his desk just to hear him. “Excuse me?”

“Please. It is not an accident that J. Edgar Hoover preferred agents who were trained by the Jesuits. There is little that passes without our regard.” He waved his left hand and his small, thin fingers closed like a fan.

“They say G. Gordon Liddy was trained by the Jesuits. A lot of good it did him.”

The monsignor stared up at Linkletter. His eyes sparkled in the late afternoon light. Then he shifted his head and they vanished as the lenses of his glasses caught the glare of the sun. “You needn't be concerned about what Michael Rose knows, Mr. Vice President.”

Linkletter rounded his desk. “I don't know what you're talking about. Your time has expired,
Monsignor,”
he sneered.

Poggioli slid to his feet. “Yes, just so,” he replied, glancing down at his watch. “Nonetheless, I would urge you to send a man out to chat with his father.”

“His father? What's Thaddeus Rose got to say about this? I've been trying to call him, but he's still away on some religious retreat.”

Monsignor Poggioli replaced the black hat on his head. As he turned to depart, he concluded, “Seek him out, Mr. Vice President. He'll give you the answers you're looking for.”

T
HE STORM SETTLED OVER THE CITY LIKE A SHROUD
. Franklin sat in the rear of his carriage, bouncing pain fully on bad springs as the calèche wound its circuitous way back to Passy. He stared out the window, through the rain-spattered glass, trying to ignore that odd tingling in his toes that told him another bout of the gout was approaching. In the distance, the inky black sky shimmered with lightning, shivered and shook. If the coachman didn't hurry, Franklin thought, he might miss his last chance of the season. And after fifty-plus years, he was tired of waiting.

Franklin pulled an old blanket up over his legs. He had just returned from the Lodge of the Nine Sisters, where he had attended a memorial service for the venerable Voltaire, and the hall had been particularly drafty and cold. Worse, many of the famous philosopher's friends, including Condorcet and Diderot, had avoided the ceremony altogether, dispensing pathetic excuses. Diderot had once said, “Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.”
But the truth was that he hadn't attended because he was just too afraid.

It was strange to think of Voltaire dead. The writer, essayist and philosopher had become such a symbol of the French Enlightenment, such a force on the intellectual scene in Paris, that he had seemed, well… immortal. Legendary for his wit, a rabid defender of civil liberties, freedom of religion and the right of all citizens to enjoy a fair trial, Voltaire had been a true social reformer, and had frequently made use of his works to criticize ecclesiastical dogma. As a result, he had incurred the powerful enmity of both the king and the Church. So, too, had the Nine Sisters Lodge, to which both Franklin and Voltaire belonged. Franklin had met the literary celebrity only twice, truth be told: the first, just that February, at a ceremonial visit to Voltaire's home; and then two months later, at the Académie Royale. Both had been rather stuffy affairs, highly staged. Franklin and Voltaire had been urged by the crowds that surrounded them to embrace in the way of the French, with a kiss on each cheek, and that act had been likened to Solon hugging Sophocles, so great were their mutual reputations.

Franklin smiled wryly as he looked out the window. But no matter how great the mind, he considered, how monumental the intellect, no matter how influential or famous, none vanquished time. All became worm food eventually. He wrapped the blanket more tightly about his legs and replayed the ceremony in his head.

The Lodge hall had been draped in black crêpe, lit only by flickering candles. There had been songs and long speeches and polemical poems attacking the clergy and Church. Voltaire's niece had presented a bust of her uncle by Houdon; a lifelike, wigless affair with a haunting, wry smile. They had lighted the sacred flame, revealing the painting of the transcendent Voltaire emerging from his tomb before the goddesses of Truth
and Benevolence. Franklin had taken the Masonic wreath from his head and laid it at the foot of the painting. Then they had retreated to an interminable banquet, where the first toast had been hoisted to Franklin himself, with “captive Thunder by his feet,” and to the newborn American nation. But Franklin had left the Lodge early. He knew that the storm was approaching, and he could think of no better tribute to Voltaire and the Age of Reason than to return and complete his experiment.

It had been almost inevitable that Franklin and Voltaire should have come to know one another, and to join the same Lodge. Unlike most of the Lodges in America, Freemasonry in France had evolved into more than just a businessman's social club. Claude-Adrien Helvétius, a freethinking philosopher and one of France's fifty Farmers-General, had first envisioned the creation of this Paris-based super-Lodge as something populated by the nation's most celebrated artists and thinkers. When he died, his widow, the irrepressible Mme. Helvétius, had fulfilled his vision and funded the venture. Thus, the Lodge of the Nine Sisters was born.

Franklin sighed. The Lodge may have been dedicated to the nine Muses, but to Franklin, Mme. Helvétius was the tenth. He smeared the condensation on the glass with his hand. It was always like this, every time he thought of Anne-Catherine Helvétius. He had spent many a long afternoon at the widow's estate in Auteuil. Though sixty to his seventy-two, her delightful manner and free-spirited nature had captivated him. Her salon had none of the pretensions and formality found in most noble French households. She surrounded herself with a coterie of bohemian artists and animals, a joyful menagerie filled with banter and intellectual irreverence. “In your company,” he had once told her, “we are not only pleased with you, but pleased with one another and with ourselves.” Franklin had a mind to propose
marriage to her, though in a half-serious way, and had already penned a bagatelle called “The Elysian Fields” in which he went to heaven and talked about the match with his dead wife, Deborah, and Anne-Catherine's late husband, Claude-Adrien, who had themselves married each other in heaven. But rather than deliver the bagatelle to her personally, which would have imbued it with a terrible seriousness, Franklin planned to publish the tale on his press. After all, he considered, it was safer to be a public clown than a private fool.