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“I’d be honored to read it.”

“Thank you. Would you read it soon, perhaps over the weekend? I hate to give you homework, this being your first day and all, but it’s vitally important that you read it right away.”

The door swings open, the nurse entering. The guard waits outside, watching at the doorway. “Time for your medication, Mr. Gabriel.” She hands him the paper cup of water, then the white tablet.

“Mick, I have to go. It was nice meeting you. I’ll do my best to have my homework done by Monday, okay?” She stands, turning to leave.

Mick is staring at the pill. “Dominique, the relatives on your mother’s side. They’re Quiche Maya, aren’t they?”

“Mayan? I-I don’t know.”
He knows you’re lying
. “I mean it’s possible. My parents died when I was very—”

The eyes look up suddenly, the effect disarming. “Four
Ahau
, three
Kankin
. You know what day that is, don’t you, Dominique?”

Oh, shit
… “I-I’ll see you soon.” Dominique pushes past the guard, exiting the room.

Michael Gabriel places the pill carefully in his mouth. He drains the cup of water, then crumples it in the palm of his left hand. He opens his mouth, allowing the nurse to probe with her tongue depressor and pencil-thin flashlight, verifying that he has swallowed the medication.

“Thank you, Mr. Gabriel. The guard will escort you back to your room in a few minutes.”

Mick remains on the cot until the nurse has closed the door. He stands, returning to the far wall, his back to the window, the index finger of his left hand casually sliding the white pill out of the empty cup and into his palm. Resuming his lotus position on the floor, he tosses the crumpled cup onto the bed while slipping the white tablet into his shoe.

The zyprexa will be properly disposed of in the toilet when he returns to his private cell.

Chapter 2

SEPTEMBER 8, 2012
THE WHITE HOUSE

S
ecretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia stares at his reflection in the washroom mirror. He adjusts the patch over his right eye socket, then pats down the short graying tufts of hair along both sides of his otherwise balding head. The black suit and matching tie are immaculate as usual.

Borgia exits the executive washroom and turns right, nodding to staff members as he makes his way down the corridor to the Oval Office.

Patsy Goodman looks up from her keyboard. “Go on in. He’s waiting.”

Borgia nods, then enters.

Mark Mailer’s gaunt, pale face shows the wear of having served as president for nearly four years. The jet-black hair has grayed around the temples, the eyes, piercing blue, are now more wrinkled around the edges. The fifty-two-year-old physique, noticeably thinner, is still taut.

Borgia tells him he looks like he’s lost weight.

Mailer grimaces. “It’s called the Viktor Grozny stress diet. Have you read this morning’s CIA briefing?”

“Not yet. What’s Russia’s newest president done now?”

“He’s called for a summit between military leaders from China, North Korea, Iran, and India.”

“For what purpose?”

“To conduct a joint nuclear deterrent exercise, in response to our latest tests involving the Missile Defense Shield.”

“Grozny’s grandstanding again. He’s still fuming about the IMF canceling that twenty-billion-dollar loan package.”

“Whatever his motive, he’s succeeding in stirring up nuclear paranoia in Asia.”

“Mark, the Security Council meeting’s this afternoon, so I know you didn’t bring me in just to discuss foreign affairs.”

Mailer nods, then drains his third cup of coffee. “Jeb’s decided to step down as vice president. Don’t ask. Call it personal reasons.”

Borgia’s heart skips a beat. “Christ, the election’s in less than two months—”

“I’ve already held an unofficial meeting with the powers that be. It’s between you and Ennis Chaney.”

Jesus
… “Have you spoken with him yet?”

“No. Thought I owed it to you to brief you first.”

Borgia shrugs, smiling nervously. “Senator Chaney is a good man, but he can’t hold a candle to me when it comes to foreign affairs. And my family still wields plenty of influence—”

“Not as much as you think, and the polls show that most Americans aren’t interested in China’s military buildup. They perceive the Missile Defense Shield as being the see-all, end-all of nuclear war.”

“Then let me be blunt, sir. Does the Republican National Committee really think the country’s ready for an African-American VP?”

“The election’s going to be tight. Look what Lieberman did for Gore. Chaney would give us a much-needed toehold in both Pennsylvania and the South. Relax, Pierre. No decision’s going to be made for at least another thirty to forty-five days.”

“That’s smart. Gives the press less time to pick us apart.”

“Any skeletons in your closet we need to be concerned with?”

“I’m sure your people are already looking into that as we speak. Mark, level with me, does Chaney have the inside track?”

“Opinion polls show Chaney’s popularity stretches across both party and racial lines. He’s down-to-earth. The public trusts him even more than Colin Powell.”

“Don’t confuse trust with qualifications.” Borgia stands, then paces. “The polls also show Americans are concerned about Russia’s collapsed economy and how it will affect the European market.”

“Pierre, take it easy. A lot can happen in forty-five days.”

Borgia exhales. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. It’s a great honor just to be considered. Listen, I’d better get going, I have to meet with General Fecondo before this afternoon briefing.”

Borgia shakes his friend’s hand, then starts for the camouflaged panel door. He turns before leaving. “Mark, any advice?”

The president sighs. “I don’t know. Heidi did mention something at breakfast. Ever thought about replacing that patch with a glass eye?”

Dominique exits the treatment facility’s lobby, the south Florida summer heat blasting her in the face. A distant bolt of lightning streaks across an ominous afternoon sky. Shifting the leather-bound journal from her right hand to her left, she presses her thumb to the keyless entry, unlocking the driver’s side door of the brand-new, black Pronto Spyder convertible, an early graduation gift from Edie and Iz. She places the journal on the passenger seat, buckles her seat belt, then presses her thumb to the ignition pad, registering the annoying microscopic pinprick.

The dashboard computer jumps to life, flashing its message:

A
CTIVATING
I
GNITION
S
EQUENCE.

I
DENTIFICATION
V
ERIFIED.
A
NTITHEFT
S
YSTEM
D
EACTIVATED.

She feels the now-familiar double
dunk
as the axle locks disengage.

C
HECKING
B
LOOD-
A
LCOHOL
L
EVEL.
P
LEASE
S
TAND
B
Y
…

Dominique lays her head back against the leather seat, watching the first heavy drops of rain pelt the polyethylene terephthalate plastic hood of her roadster. Patience is a requirement of the new safety ignition features, but she knows it is well worth the extra three minutes. Drunk driving has become the leading cause of death in the United States. By the fall of next year, all vehicles will be required to have the blood-alcohol devices installed.

The ignition activates.

B
LOOD
A
LCOHOL
A
T
A
CCEPTABLE
L
EVELS.
P
LEASE
D
RIVE
S
AFELY.

Dominique adjusts the air conditioner, then presses the power button of the Digital DJ CD player. The built-in computer processor reacts either to voice inflection or touch to interpret the driver’s mood, selecting the appropriate music from among hundreds of preprogrammed selections.

The heavy bass of the Rolling Stones’ latest album,
Past Our Prime
, begins pumping out of the surround-sound speakers. She backs out of the visitors lot and begins the forty-minute drive home.

It had not been easy convincing Dr. Foletta to relinquish Julius Gabriel’s journal. His initial objection was that the late archaeologist’s work had been sponsored by both Harvard and Cambridge University and that, legally, it would be necessary first to receive written permission from both grant departments before releasing any sort of research documents to her. Dominique countered that she needed access to the journal, not only to do her job properly but to gain Michael Gabriel’s trust. An afternoon of phone calls to department heads at both Harvard and Cambridge confirmed that the journal was more a memoir than a scientific document and that she was free to use it, provided she did not go public with any information. Foletta had finally conceded, producing the two-inch-thick binder by day’s end, releasing it only after she had signed a four-page nondisclosure agreement.

The rain has let up by the time Dominique pulls into the dark parking garage of the Hollywood Beach highrise. She deactivates the car’s engine, staring at a ghostly image appearing on the heads-up display of the windshield. The picture provided by the infrared camera mounted on the front of the roadster’s radiator confirms the garage to be empty.

Dominique smiles at her own paranoia. She takes the antiquated elevator up to the fifth floor, holding the door open so Mrs. Jenkins and her white miniature poodle can enter.

The one-bedroom condominium owned by her adoptive parents is down the hallway, the last apartment on the right. As she enters the security code, the door at her back opens.

“Dominique—so how was your first day at work?”

Rabbi Richard Steinberg embraces her with a warm smile from behind a graying auburn beard. Steinberg and his wife, Mindy, are close friends of her parents. Dominique has known the couple since she was adopted nearly twenty years ago.

“Mentally exhausting. Think I’ll skip dinner and climb into a hot bath.”

“Listen, Mindy and I want you to come over for dinner next week. Tuesday sound okay?”

“Should be. Thanks.”

“Good, good. Hey, I spoke to Iz yesterday. Did you know he and your mother are planning to drive over for the High Holy Days?”

“No, I didn’t—”

“Okay, I gotta run, I can’t be late for Shabbat. We’ll call you next week.”

She waves, watching him hurry down the hallway. Dominique likes Steinberg and his wife, finds them both to be warm and genuine. She knows Iz has asked them to keep a parental eye on her.

Dominique enters the apartment and opens the balcony doors, allowing the ocean breeze to fill the musty room with a gust of salty air. The afternoon shower has chased off most of the beachgoers, the last rays of sun peeking out from the clouds, casting a crimson glow along the water.

It is her favorite time of day, a time for solitude. She contemplates a leisurely walk along the beach, then changes her mind. Pouring herself a glass of wine from an open bottle in the fridge, she kicks off her shoes and returns to the balcony. Placing the glass on a plastic table with the leather-bound journal, she lies down on the lounge chair, stretching as her body sinks into the soft cushion.

The pounding mantra of surf quickly works its magic. She sips the wine, closing her eyes, her thoughts again returning to her earlier encounter with Michael Gabriel.

Four
Ahau
, three
Kankin
. Dominique has not heard the words spoken since her early childhood.

Thoughts slip into a dream. She is back in the highlands of Guatemala, six years old, her maternal grandmother by her side. They are on their knees, toiling in the afternoon sun, working the onion crops. A cool breeze, the
xocomil
, blows in off Lake Atitlan. The child listens intently as the old woman’s voice rasps at her. “
The calendar was handed down to us from our Olmec ancestors, its wisdom coming from our teacher, the great Kukulcan. Long before the Spanish invaded our land, the great teacher left us warnings of disastrous days ahead. Four
Ahau,
three
Kankin,
the last day of the Mayan calendar. Be wary of this day, my child. When the time comes, you must make the journey home, for the Popol Vuh says that it is only here that we can be restored to life
.”

Dominique opens her eyes, staring at the black ocean. Alabaster crests of foam roll in beneath the partially obscured moonlight.

Four
Ahau
, three
Kankin
—December 21, 2012.

Humanity’s prophesied day of doom.