The Machiavelli Covenant (36 page)

"Sí," the man said, "sí," and stood up.

•
WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION, GENEVA, SWITZERLAND. 10:27 A.M.

Dr. Matunde Ngotho, executive director of the WHO/OMS Human Genetics Program, had just left a Saturday-morning investigative conference and was entering his office on Avenue Appia when his cell phone rang.

"Matunde here," he said, clicking on.

"Matunde, it's Peter Fadden."

"Peter!" the research doctor smiled broadly at the voice of his old and dear friend. "Where are you? In Geneva I hope. Yes?"

Matunde waited for a response. He got none.

"Peter?" he said. "Peter, are you there?"

Peter Fadden stood frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the tall crew-cut man standing just behind him at the street corner public telephone. For some reason he felt cold though the temperature outside was nearly eighty degrees. Now the crewcut reached in and lifted the receiver from his hand and hung it up on the phone's cradle. Vaguely Fadden remembered reaching his old college roommate in Geneva. Remembered hearing his voice and at the same time feeling a sharp pain near his right kidney, as if a needle had suddenly been inserted and then withdrawn. He saw an umbrella in the crewcut's hand. He wondered why. It wasn't raining. In fact there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

•
10:30 A.M.

Nicholas Marten stared vacantly out the window as Miguel Balius maneuvered the limousine over a narrow bridge spanning a muddy river. A full minute passed and then two, then Marten's focus abruptly sharpened as if he had just completed a thought process. With a glance at President Harris, he touched the intercom button.

"Miguel?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must have been to Montserrat before."

"Many times."

"What's it like?"

"Like? Like a small city built into a mountainside half a mile straight up from the valley floor. A feat of incredible engineering."

The president sat forward, suddenly aware that Marten was gathering information and in the process working on a plan for what they might do when they got there.

"There are many buildings, some centuries old; the basilica, a museum, a hotel that has a restaurant, there's a library, a refectory, too many to list." Miguel bubbled with the enthusiasm of a tour guide, alternately looking at Marten in the mirror and watching the road in front of him as he drove. "You can drive to it or reach it by cable car from the valley floor. A funicular railway takes you higher into the cliffs if you want. All around are pathways that go off in every direction. Some have ancient chapels along the way, but most are long abandoned and nothing but ruins. The saying goes there are 'a thousand and one paths that crisscross the mountain.' You won't be disappointed. But be warned, it will be crowded. It always is. Montserrat has become as much a tourist stop as a religious retreat."

"There's a chance we might meet some friends there," Marten dug deeper. "You said there's a restaurant. If we wanted to have lunch, is it just a sandwich shop or is there more to it?"

"No, not a sandwich shop. A regular restaurant. Tables and chairs, everything."

"Do you know if they serve soft drinks? Colas, mineral water, things like that? I ask because one of the gentlemen has a personal medical situation and has certain needs because of it."

"Sure, colas, mineral water, coffee, wine, beer, anything you want."

The president listened carefully. Marten was asking
very specific questions, as if he knew precisely what he wanted.

"Is there a restroom, you know, a toilet, nearby? I wouldn't want to suggest something that wouldn't be appropriate for his condition."

This part Harris understood. Marten was trying find a public place where Merriman Foxx might meet him and then a place not far off where they could get him alone.

"I think, yes," Miguel kept his eyes on the road. "It's in the back, near the door where they bring in the supplies."

Marten perked. "A door that leads outside?"

"Yes, sir."

"This door, is it near any of the thousand and one pathways you mentioned? Say if we wanted to take a walk after lunch."

"Right you are, sir," Miguel beamed, his Australian accent and his years there creeping through, clearly enjoying the part of helpful host. "One way goes down to the loading dock, the other up the hill and into the mountain trails. In fact one of the old ruined chapels is right up the trail from it."

"You paint a wonderful picture, Miguel."

"It's my job, sir. Besides, Montserrat is wonderful. At least for the first fifty visits or so."

Marten smiled, then clicked off the intercom and looked to the president. "Before, I suggested the way to get answers from Foxx depended on where and under what circumstances the questions were put to him. If we play it right and we're lucky we can get him up that path to the chapel alone. After that it might have to get physical."

"Go on."

"We get to Montserrat and let Demi find us. When she does I'll arrange to meet Foxx and suggest the restaurant. If he agrees, the two of us will come in and find a table
near the back. Meantime you're already there, at a table near the door to the rear pathway. You've got your big hat on, you're drinking something and have your head down, maybe reading a newspaper. He doesn't even look at you. Or if he does he has no idea who you are. Hopefully no one else does either.

"Foxx and I sit down, look at the menu, talk about nothing for a few minutes. Then I tell him I'm not comfortable having a serious exchange in public and suggest we go for a walk alone outside. The door's there, probably with an exit sign. I ask the waiter where it goes. He tells me. I ask Foxx if it's okay with him. Even if he's got people with him he'll agree because he wants to know what I know. We get up and go out the door. Thirty seconds later you follow. By then we should be up the path and nearing the chapel."

"You think he'll go? Just like that?"

"I told you, he wants to know about me and will have no reason to suspect anything. Montserrat is his call not mine. If he's nervous I'll tell him he can frisk me, I have nothing to hide."

The president studied Marten carefully. "Alright, so everything works and you're alone on the path with him and near the chapel."

"We see you coming up the trail behind us. I suggest we go inside, have our talk in there in case more people come."

"What if he doesn't want to go? I told you before, he's been a professional soldier most of his life. He's tough and wary—he's not going to do something he doesn't want to."

"This time he will."

"How do you know?"

"He won't have a choice."

Again the president studied him, was ready to ask what he meant and then decided not to push it. "Then what?"

"You used to work on a farm, didn't you?"

The president nodded.

"Ever try to hold down a reluctant pig or calf while the vet gave it a shot?"

"Yes."

"Were you able to do it?"

"Yes."

"Well, it'll be sort of the same thing here. And it's going to take two of us, the vet and the handler. I'm afraid you're going to have to get your hands a little bit dirty."

"I have no trouble with the manual-labor part, not in this situation." The president cocked his head. "I just don't get what you mean to do. We have no access to drugs or hypodermic syringes. Even if we did there's no time to—"

"The restaurant, Cousin. Everything we will need will either be on the table or on the menu."

•
10:37 A.M.

They were twenty minutes out of Barcelona, heading north and west on the A2
autopista
. The van was white. Its driver, a large man named Raphael. Painted on its doors in a black scroll were the words of its origin and destination:
Monasterio Benedictino de Montserrat
.

Reverend Beck and Luciana rode in the seats directly
in back of Raphael. Demi was behind them, alone in the third row of seats, her camera gear and equipment bag beside her. She was looking off, trying not to think of Nicholas Marten and the president and what she had done. Or rather of what she'd decided she had no choice but to do.

Ever since Marten's confrontation with Dr. Foxx in Malta it had been clear that both Foxx and Reverend Beck had been upset. In turn she had been afraid it would spoil, even end, her relationship with Beck. And she thought it had when he'd so unexpectedly left the island the next morning, but then the concierge had called with the reverend's apology and his invitation to Barcelona.

Shortly after she had arrived at his suite at the Regente Majestic and been introduced to Luciana. He had surprised her by saying he understood that her interest in him was due not to his religious vocation but to his association with the Aldebaran coven, which he guessed was the real subject of her book, and not the purported photo essay on "clerics who minister to prominent politicians." Moreover, he'd told her he believed the reason she had tagged along on his European trip was because she knew he was coming to the coven's yearly gathering.

But instead of demanding she leave immediately he surprised her once more, telling her he had discussed her with the coven's elders and they had agreed to open up their proceedings, even allowing her to take photographs. In truth, there was nothing at all evil about the coven and at this point in history they felt there was no reason to keep their rituals secret.

Still, they required a quid pro quo: Nicholas Marten.

"As you have suspected," Beck told her, "Dr. Foxx is a member of the coven. He is currently at the monastery
at Montserrat preparing for the coven's assembly. His falling out with Marten in Malta over his congressional testimony in Washington is a situation he is still upset about. He would like to clear the air before any more time passes and before any of it finds its way into the press."

If Marten would come to Montserrat, Beck would arrange a private meeting between the two, something he was certain Marten would agree to: "Otherwise he wouldn't have followed you to Barcelona and then taken you to lunch at Els Quatre Gats. Undoubtedly he thinks you might bring him and Dr. Foxx together."

If Demi was startled by Beck's knowledge of her meeting with Marten, she didn't show it. As for his revelation that she knew about the Aldebaran coven and his involvement with it, he seemed content with the idea that her interest was merely professional, a writer and photographer's search for a story. Moreover, all he had asked was what Marten himself had asked, that she tell him where Dr. Foxx would be and when.

What she had not known at the time, nor had she told anyone since, was that a second person would be accompanying Marten to Montserrat: the president of the United States.

•
BARCELONA POLICE HEADQUARTERS
SPECIAL COMMUNICATIONS ROOM. 10:45 A.M.

Hap Daniels had just come in from his twenty-minute catnap. He was pulling on his headset and looking around for Bill Strait, anxious to know if he'd reached Spanish intel in Madrid and arranged the electronic tap on Evan Byrd's phones, when a familiar voice crackled through his earpiece.

"Hap, it's Roley." It was Roland Sandoval, the Secret Service special agent in charge of Vice President Hamilton Rogers's protective detail. Daniels knew Rogers had secretly arrived in Madrid a short while ago and gone directly to the U.S. embassy to join White House Chief of Staff Tom Curran for a scheduled private meeting with the president of Spain to discuss the disappearance of President Harris.

"Yes, Roley."

"We've just cleared the vice president for a wheels down at Barcelona at thirteen-hundred. After that he has an hour tour of the area."

"Tour of the area? Why? Why the hell now?"

"That's direct from the chief of staff. Acting White House wants to show the country's concern for the terrorist situation even while POTUS is 'out of touch.' Afterward he'll come back to Madrid and spend the night at Evan Byrd's home before his meeting with the Spanish prime minister tomorrow."

Daniels bit his tongue in outrage and for the longest moment said nothing. Finally he answered with a simple.
"Okay, Roley, we'll coordinate this end. Thanks for the heads-up."

There was distinct click as agent Sandoval signed off. "What the hell?" Daniels swore under his breath. The VPOTUS. Tour of the area. That meant media coverage. Sound bites and photo ops. Then as quickly Rogers would be on his way back to Madrid and to Byrd's residence. Something was going on, but he had no idea what it was.

Again he looked for Bill Strait. If Vice President Rogers was spending the night at Evan Byrd's, they had to get an electronic eavesdrop on his phones.

"Hap," Bill Strait's voice came over his headset.

"Where are you?"

"In the cafeteria. Got time for a cup of good Spanish coffee?"

"Damn right I do," Hap clicked off and was starting to remove his headset when another voice came on.

"Agent Daniels?" The voice was male and had a British accent.