The Machiavelli Covenant (34 page)

"You're forgetting Peter Fadden," Lowe came back across the room. "He knows about Caroline Parsons, he suspects something about Mike Parsons's death, he knows the Merriman Foxx connection, and he's not buying the official line about what happened to the president. He keeps pushing, the next thing we've got
The Washington Post
right on top of us."

"I didn't forget Peter Fadden, Jake. As soon as we have a secure phone I'll make a call to Washington and make sure he stops pushing. As for the president, maybe we should hope Hap, the CIA, and Spanish intel don't find him at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we would do well to trust that the Reverend Beck has sprinkled enough crumbs for Nicholas Marten to be well on his way to Montserrat in hopes of confronting Dr. Foxx. As we know from the hotel business last night, from the Fadden call this morning, and the little trick with the cell phone in the farm truck, he's doing everything he can to elude us. The only reason for that is because the president is with him. Both have a reason to confront Foxx and if they reach him before Hap finds them—" the slightest smile crossed Marshall's face—"Marten will vanish and we'll have the body of a presi
dent we can fly to the 'undisclosed location' where he 'already is' and where he unfortunately suffered a sudden heart attack or something else Dr. Foxx will deem more appropriate. The whole thing would be much simpler and cleaner that way anyhow, don't you think?"

Lowe looked to the television. A CNN story about a plane crash in Peru was followed by live coverage from Barcelona and the massive ongoing search for the fugitive terrorists in which twenty-seven people had already been arrested and more arrests were expected.

Lowe clicked off the TV and turned to Marshall. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His normally ruddy complexion was pale. Deep weariness was taking hold.

"I'm tired, Jim. Tired of thinking. Tired of this whole damn thing. Make your call to Washington and then grab an hour's sleep. It's what I'm going to do. We need it, both of us."

•
9:00 A.M.

Miguel Balius glanced in the mirror at his two passengers on the far side of the privacy glass, then looked back at the curving country highway in front of him. This was the second rural road he had taken in the last forty minutes, both to avoid roadblocks. The first had come on a major highway leading into the hills toward Tarrasa when he'd seen vehicles in front of him suddenly slowing and then being directed into a single lane by heavily armed police. His solution had been simply to take the next exit and work his way through a network
of suburban streets to the town of Ullastrell and then follow a secondary road south to a highway that swung them north again toward Montserrat. It was on that road, at Abrera, where he'd run into the second roadblock. Here he had reversed course and taken a side road that skirted the town of Olesa de Montserrat and put him onto the curving highway where they were now, headed northwest into the mountains toward Montserrat, a long way around but better than being caught at a roadblock and having the authorities discover that his passengers were the president of the United States and his cousin.

Miguel laughed to himself. He had been told when he'd started that he should expect them to be a little "loco." And they were. But he'd driven people a lot crazier than these two—rock stars, movie stars, national soccer heroes, tennis icons, men with other men's wives, women with other women's husbands, men with other men, women with other women, people about whom he couldn't tell who was either, in sex or relationship—and so this was nothing. He just grinned and went along with it. To him, as the "cousin" called Harold had said, it was "all in a day's work" and if the balding man with glasses and a light growth of beard did somehow look familiar he certainly didn't look like the president of the United States. But if he wanted to act as if he were—the most powerful man in the world taking a day or two off from the pressures of office and asking to avoid roadblocks along the way—it was fine by him.

Did the thought cross his mind once again that these two might be the terrorists the authorities were looking for? Of course, especially when they kept insisting he avoid roadblocks and checkpoints. But on closer examination he felt as he had before, that they hardly resembled the kind of people the world over had come to
expect a terrorist to look like. Moreover, what terrorists rented a limousine, went barefoot drinking coffee at the beach, and then drove around seeing the sights and pretending to be the president of the United States and his cousin while the authorities were everywhere looking for them?

Again he glanced at his passengers. The one called Cousin Harold had taken a pad of limousine stationery and was writing something on it. Done, he handed it to the one called Cousin Jack when he wasn't playing president of the United States. Miguel grinned once more and looked back to the road. What were they doing now, playing tic-tac-toe?

"It's the sign of Aldebaran." Marten indicated the diagram of a balled cross he'd drawn on the limousine stationery and handed to President Harris. "The pale red star that forms the left eye in the constellation Taurus," he went on, repeating what Demi had told him the day before in Els Quatre Gats, in Barcelona. "In the early history of astrology it was considered to emanate a powerful and fortunate influence. It is also called—"

"The Eye of God," the president said.

"How do—?" Marten was astounded.

"I know?" President Harris smiled gently, "I was a Rhodes scholar, Mr. Marten. I studied at Oxford. My major was European history, my secondary study was theology. The sign of Aldebaran figured in each, if not prominently, but it was certainly there if it was pointed out and one had the kind of demanding, detail-oriented professors I did. The sign of Aldebaran is thought to have been used as an identifying mark by a secretive cult of sorcerers that may have held strong political influence in Europe during and after the Renaissance, and
perhaps even in following centuries. It's not known for certain, because the movement, if indeed there was one, left behind no documents or written history, at least that we know of. All that remains is rumor and supposition."

"Let me add another piece of rumor and supposition from the Renaissance era. The Machiavelli Covenant. Do you know of it?"

"No."

"Allegedly Machiavelli wrote an addendum to his famous
The Prince,"
again Marten repeated what Demi had told him. "In it he created the concept of a secret society made powerful by its members' documented participation in a yearly, very elaborate ritual killing. The idea was that deliberate and verified complicity in murder bound them together in blood and gave them license to operate very aggressively, even ruthlessly, as a group knowing they could all hang if what they had done was found out. It would have made for a pretty intimidating bunch, especially if those involved were members of an already powerful and influential group."

The president's eyes narrowed. "What does that or the sign of Aldebaran have to do with—?"

"You said a secretive cult of sorcerers," Marten cut him off. "Were they sorcerers or witches?"

"It depends on where and what era you're referring to."

"What if I said here and now, Mr. President."

"I don't understand."

"Merriman Foxx has the sign of Aldebaran tattooed on his left thumb. Reverend Beck may have one as well. It's not possible to tell without close examination because he has a skin pigmentation disorder. Caroline Parsons's doctor, Lorraine Stephenson, had the same tattoo. So, according to Demi, did her missing sister. These people are members of a secretive coven of witches that takes
as its identifying symbol the mark of Aldebaran." Marten glanced past the security glass. Miguel's eyes were on the road. If he could hear them now—he could have been listening in all along—he gave no indication of it. Marten looked back to the president.

"You said strong political influence, Mr. President? What if this is more than just something between your 'friends' and Merriman Foxx? What if it involves the witches too? What if the Machiavelli Covenant is not some rumored codicil to
The Prince
but real? Something a particular group took as its bible and put into practice? What if your secretive cult of sorcerers actually did exist? What if it still does? And not just in Europe but in Washington?"

President Harris took a deep breath and Marten could see the awful pressure of what was happening beginning to take its toll, both as a man and as president. "If there is truly an answer to that, perhaps Dr. Foxx will be able to provide it." The president looked at Marten for a moment longer then turned toward the window to stare at the passing countryside. If anything, he seemed even more troubled and introspective than before.

"We are going to Montserrat, Mr. Marten, hopefully to find Dr. Foxx and confront him," he said, still staring off. "Never mind what he did as a scientist, the experiments he performed, the weapons he developed—he was also a professional soldier most of his life." Now the president turned from the window to look at Marten directly. "He may be in his late fifties, but from what I've read about him he's fit and strong. And tough. The damnable project we have to know about he's probably been working on for years, developing it to the point where it's now ready for use. Why do we think he will tell us anything about it? There is no reason to believe he
will say anything at all. Why should he? If I were him and in the same situation I certainly wouldn't." A look of despair came over him. "I wonder, Mr. Marten, if after everything, we are not prepared for the adversary we may be lucky enough to face. If he will just laugh at our questions and in the end we will have nothing."

"I think, Mr. President," Marten said quietly and with strength, "it will depend on where and under what circumstances the questions are put to him."

•
HOTEL OPERA, MADRID, 9:22 A.M

"Muchas gracias," Peter Fadden nodded appreciatively to the front desk clerk. Then, scrawling his name on the credit card receipt, he picked up his bag and headed for the front door, already late for his eleven o'clock flight to Barcelona.

Outside, the hotel doorman signaled for a taxi. It pulled up and stopped, then immediately drove off without a fare. Fadden and the doorman exchanged surprised glances; then the doorman signaled for the next cab in line. Like the first cab, it pulled up and stopped. Only this time the driver did not drive off. Instead he got out and looked at the doorman for a directive.

"Aeropuerto de Barajas," Fadden said before the doorman could answer. Then he tipped him, pulled the rear passenger door open, tossed his bag onto the seat, and climbed in after it. Seconds later the taxi pulled away.

•
BARCELONA POLICE HEADQUARTERS, SAME TIME

Hap Daniels and Special Agent Bill Strait were, like the rest of the Secret Service contingent who had flown up from Madrid, physically and mentally drained and feeling grubby as hell from the more than twenty-four hours of intense, nonstop insanity. While rooms had been reserved for them at the Hotel Colón across from the cathedral of Barcelona, temporary sleeping quarters had been set up here in a basement-level meeting room next to the central command headquarters, where a group of thirty-six Barcelona police, Spanish intel, CIA, and U.S. Secret Service agents labored over a communications system jammed with information coming in from checkpoints and search teams. A group overseen by Hap himself.

"Twenty minutes," he said to the command team, flashing ten fingers two times. "Twenty minutes is all I need."

Immediately he motioned for Bill Strait and went into the sleeping area, where a half dozen other Secret Service agents napped on hastily set-up cots and where he planned to lie down and close his eyes for those precious twenty minutes.

Strait came in and Hap closed the door, then walked his deputy to a far corner and away from the others.

"What's going on is not foul play," he said in a sotto voice. "It's not the work of terrorists or some foreign government or agents. This is 'Crop Duster,' the POTUS, trying to get away."

"I don't understand your point, Hap," Strait said in the same low voice. "We've been going on that premise since Madrid. He's ill."

"If he's ill I'm a three-legged donkey. He shinnied out of the Ritz's air-conditioning ducts. Took off a hairpiece we never knew he had and made it from Madrid to
Barcelona without being seen. He found Marten without anybody knowing, and he got out of the damn hotel and out of the city right under our noses. This is not somebody who's ill. It's somebody who's determined as hell not to be caught and is being damned smart about it."

"People do all kinds of things when they're screwed up, Hap. Even presidents."

"We don't know he's screwed up. All we know is what we've been told by Lowe and Dr. Marshall. And unless there's something they're not telling us, they're just guessing. Either that or it's what they want us to believe."

"Want
us to believe?"

"Yes."

Strait stared at him. "You're tired. Tell me that in a half-hour when you wake up."

"I'm telling you right now."

"Okay, then what the hell is going on?"

Just then an agent on the cot nearest them coughed and rolled over in his sleep. Daniels glanced around the room, then led Strait through an adjoining door and into a vacant men's restroom.