Second Skin (75 page)

On the other hand, perhaps it was something else altogether. Confronting the crowds milling through Union Square Park, he felt as if he were a swimmer, far from the teeming shore, guided and controlled by winds and currents seen only by him. He experienced this separation even more keenly as he edged his way into the human surf. Secrets had a way of making you feel alone even in the midst of a jostling throng. It was true. The deeper the secrets went, the more profound the isolation. The murmuring of lovers, the chatter of friends, the morse-code conversations of businessmen on cell phones, mundane all, and yet to him they seemed exotic, so far were they from his own life. Of course, this had been his reality for decades, but today his own anxiety had transformed these differences into knife blades whose edges he felt against his ruddy skin like an immediate threat.

He became aware of a tall, emaciated man with an unkempt beard hiding most of his face moving toward him.

“I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, amen; and have the keys of hell and of death!” the man shouted at Shaw, quoting Revelations. His hollowed-out eyes drilled into Shaw’s, as if commanding his attention. “Write the things which thou hast seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter!”

Shaw moved away, but the voice, shrill and hard as cement, followed him: “The mystery of the seven stars which thou sawest in my right hand, and the seven golden candlesticks. The seven stars are the angels of the seven churches: and the seven candlesticks which thou sawest are the seven churches!”

It was the voice of war, the herald of doom. Ever since he had gotten word of the pope’s illness, he’d known with a chill creeping through his bones, even before the murders began. Unless he could find a way to stop it, the countdown to Armageddon had begun.

The nauseating stench of death filled his nostrils, the sight of spilled blood filled his eyes. Shaking off the visions, he made his way through the crowds at the Greenmarket where, moments later, he spotted the Eastern European. He was a Knight of the Field, an operative involved in wet work—that is to say, killing enemies of his organization, of which Shaw was definitely one. A moment later, he had melted into the throng.

At once, Shaw left the market, went into one of the department stores on the south side of 14th Street. There, he spent the better part of twenty minutes, moving slowly from section to section. The Knight of the Field picked him up in housewares, where Shaw perused a display of kitchen utensils. His tail was patient and, if Shaw’s skills hadn’t been honed to razor-sharpness, he might not have noticed him at all. The Knight looked different—he had rid himself of his sports jacket, wore instead a neutral-colored Polo shirt. He seemed fascinated by a set of fine china, then once again vanished, only to reappear in men’s sportswear at the extreme periphery of Shaw’s vision. He never looked at Shaw, not even in his direction. He was very good.

Shaw selected several dress shirts, moved toward the rear of the store where the dressing rooms were located. The Knight of the Field drifted after him, interested because of the emergency exit at the end of the corridor.

The first three dressing rooms were occupied, which suited Shaw’s objective. Keeping his eye on the emergency exit, he kept going. The Knight moved behind him, silently closing the gap. Shaw could feel the man’s approach, and he lengthened his stride. His pursuer, overcompensating, came at him too quickly.

Shaw spun around, threw the dress shirts into the Knight’s face. As he did so, he drew a potato peeler he’d palmed off the display in housewares across the Knight’s cheek. Shaw grabbed the Knight’s shirtfront, slammed him into the empty dressing room on the right, kicking the door closed behind him. No Knight would follow him to where he met with his son, this he vowed.

“What good is this?” the Knight said, wiping his cheek. “Do you think you can stop us?” He laughed. “It’s already too late. Nothing will stop us.”

Shaw hit him in the side, just at the end of his rib cage. The Knight bent but did not break. He half turned, drove his cocked elbow into Shaw’s chin. He’d aimed for Shaw’s throat, but Shaw had just enough room to shift away. Still, the blow made pain explode in his head. The Knight followed up his advantage with a kidney punch. Shaw landed a blow on his sternum.

Beneath the harsh light, their reflections blurred, they fought in silent, intense fashion, striking and blocking like martial artists, feinting and parrying like fencers, using short, sharp, vicious blows dictated by the tiny room.

Until they stood locked together as if in a lover’s embrace.

“You’re finished,” the Knight said. “It’s the end.”

Freeing one hand, Shaw buried his thumb into the soft spot beneath the Knight’s left ear where the carotid artery pulsed. The Knight, seeing his end, fought like a maddened beast, but no matter what he did, Shaw held on, tenacious as a bulldog. At last, the Knight lost consciousness, slipping to the floor.

Shaw took a moment to calm himself while he rearranged his clothes. He thought about what the Knight had said:
“It’s already too late. Nothing will stop us.”
Could it be true? he wondered. Could the Knights be further along than even he knew? The possibility chilled him to the marrow. It was now more imperative than ever that he talk seriously with Bravo. Whatever ill feeling stood between them, they must put it aside.

He stepped briskly back into the corridor. Quickly, with a keen and wary eye toward more possible Knights, he exited the store through the employees’ entrance on 13th Street.

From there, he plunged into the heart of the Village, turning south onto University Place, then west onto 11th Street. Alone again, he might have slowed down, but instead he hurried on at the same alarmed pace. What breeze had existed in the park had died. A midsummer haze bleached all color from the sky, and the air was freighted which, combined with the stillness, clung to him with an unwanted intimacy.

So, despite all his precautions, they knew his location. Perhaps not so surprising, considering the meticulous planning behind the concerted attacks of the past two weeks, culminating with Molko’s capture. Molko had been tortured and, when that proved fruitless, killed—an hour, perhaps even less, before Shaw had mounted a rescue mission.

Terrible luck. He and Molko had discussed the issue more than six months before the first killing. Molko, to his credit, had accepted Shaw’s plan without protest. But within hours of the meeting, Molko had been taken, tortured and killed. Shaw had to assume that the enemy had the second key.

The keys of hell and of death.

He found French Roast, the café Bravo had suggested, and went inside. His son hadn’t arrived as yet so he asked the pale question mark of a woman at the podium for an outdoor table. At the tiny metal table, he sat in the sun, ordered a café au lait and thought of the Knight of the Field, and of the prophesies of Revelations. He knew a lot about prophesies, far more than most people.
“The things which thou hast seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter....”
He imagined that the words spewed out by the religious zealot referred to the war footing on which he found himself.

The café au lait arrived, and he tore open three packets of sugar. Taking the oversized cup in his two hands, he sipped and immediately thought,
Goddamn French coffee. It’s strong enough to strip the lining off my stomach. Where’s some good old Maxwell House when you need it?
Typical of Bravo to suggest this place, he mused. But then Bravo had spent the last three years in Paris, much to Shaw’s dismay. Perhaps some of his colleagues’ virulent anti-French sentiment had rubbed off on him, but that was not the reason for his displeasure.

Pushing the offending coffee away, he glanced at his watch. Where was Bravo, anyway? Twenty minutes late. Well, he was flying in from Brussels. Thank God he had consented to come to the family reunion after all. Jordan Muhlmann, the president of Lusignan et Cie, had sent him to Brussels for an important conference on risk management, but no sooner had he arrived than Shaw had talked him into coming.

“I’m best off not telling Jordan,” Bravo had said from far-off Brussels. “He doesn’t like change.”

“I’m not surprised,” Shaw had murmured.

“What? Dad, speak up. I can’t hear you.”

“I said you’re doing the right thing, Bravo. Emma would have been devastated. Just get on the next plane to JFK and be done with it.”

Truth to tell, Bravo must have wanted to come, because ever since he had informed Shaw that he had accepted the job at the multinational financial consulting firm of Lusignan et Cie, there had been a subtle rift between the two. Not that you could call it a war, exactly, but a certain chill had sprung up between them, their phone conversations shortened, their meetings less frequent. This was not what Shaw had desired—far from it. But experience had shown him that his son was as hardheaded as he himself was. Even though he had made it adamantly clear that he had wanted Bravo to continue his research work in medieval religions, his son instead had taken Muhlmann’s highly lucrative offer. At least Bravo had continued the rigorous program of physical training he had insisted on.

Nevertheless, from the moment Bravo had met Muhlmann, the air had stunk of betrayal, but only to Shaw. While he never stopped loving Bravo, he had blamed his son, and, what’s more, Bravo was smart enough to know it. But then again, Bravo didn’t know the real reason Shaw had been so intent on him continuing his studies. How could he?

Tensely, Shaw watched the waiter navigating with a charming swing of her slim hips the narrow aisles between the round tables. She asked him if he wanted to order and he said not yet.

More than anything else Shaw wanted to mend the rift, more painful to him than he had ever allowed Bravo to know. Today had seemed to him to be the right time to start. The tradition of reuniting every July fourth that had been started by Dexter’s late wife, Stefana, had been continued by their daughter, Bravo’s older sister Emma, at the family townhouse in which she lived. Still, knowing his son as he did, he had been leery of rushing the rapprochement. But now, suddenly, he had run out of time. Circumstances not of his making had determined that he have the conversation he’d always imagined he’d have with Bravo, though not at this time and certainly not in this hurried manner.

Not that Shaw hadn’t done his best to prepare Bravo for this moment. But then Jordan Muhlmann had stepped in and altered everything. Now he was not only Bravo’s boss, he was his best friend. Never mind. Bravo was coming, and in a few moments both their lives would change forever. If Shaw had any doubts about his son, he had pushed them into the recesses of his exceptionally ordered mind.

He had faith that Bravo would be up to the task, no matter how daunting. He had to be. As the waiter moved out of his field of vision he saw a man crossing the street toward him. As he approached, Shaw felt his own muscles tense. The man picked up his pace and raised an arm. Then he was striding past Shaw, smiling, into the arms of a waiting woman, who embraced him with uncompromising passion. Just as Steffi had once embraced him.

Don’t go there,
he admonished himself. But there she was in his mind’s eye in the hospital bed, little more than a skeleton, wasting away while he looked on helpless and enraged. What was life when you waited for death? Could it ever be more than that?

“
I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, amen...”

The words came back at him with the force of a boomerang. If only Steffi hadn’t died, if only.... But it wasn’t meant to be. As his wife lay dying, his heart had broken.

“
The keys of hell and of death....”

Then he saw Bravo coming toward him and his heart leapt. He was sure that what he had done, what he was about to do, was the right thing—the
only
answer to the only question that mattered to him.

“
Write the things which thou hast seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter!”

He had already done that in the way he and Bravo knew best.

From the moment he saw his father sitting in sunlight at French Roast, Braverman Shaw was filled with conflicting emotions. The small boy in him wanted to run down the block, his arms open wide; the teenager wanted to thank him for the designated path he’d insisted on for his son, for Bravo had forgotten nothing of his studies in medieval religion, had lost little of the excitement he’d felt from the first day his father had cracked open the thick, illustrated book he kept by his bedside, introducing the child to the mysteries that would consume him for years to come. But the adult, who felt that he had been manipulated, took on the very attributes he hated most in his father, so that they came together not as father and son but as unstoppable force and immovable object. That term—
immovable object
—was appropriate, Bravo thought, for the man whose life and motives he found ever more puzzling and opaque.

“Dad.”

Dexter Shaw stood. “It’s good to see you again, Bravo.”

They shook hands, formally and rather awkwardly, and sat down.

Braverman Shaw was thirty, taller than his father by a head, slimmer, but with the wide shoulders and long, powerful legs of a swimmer. In his own way, he was just as handsome. His hair was dark and curling, his eyes a blazing blue. He had the singular look of a seeker after knowledge, not of a risk management consultant. Emma had nicknamed him Bravo when she was six and Braverman was four. The name had stuck.

Bravo, eyeing the virtually untouched cup of café au lait, said, “Too much flavor for you, Dad?” He said it in a bantering tone—whether to break the stony silence or as a form of self-defense he couldn’t say.

Either way, it rankled Shaw, ruffling feathers he’d prefer remained sleek and undisturbed, especially now. “Why must you do that?”

Bravo called a waiter over. “Do what?”

“Provoke me.”