The Fraternity of the Stone (50 page)

"Someone, for one of those twisted motives, did! Maybe it wasn't you. But you were ready enough to have me kill that boy and his parents in France. To me, you're no different than the self-righteous bastard who did kill my parents. If I'm a sinner, you're a sinner. And I think it's time we atoned for our sins, don't you?"

Ray stared again at the time. Less than five minutes now.

"Drew. For Christ's sake... "

"Yes, that's right. Now you're getting it. For Christ's sake."

Suddenly exhausted, he felt himself tremble. The yacht rumbled farther into the blackness of the Bay. Behind, the blaze of the house had diminished to a glow.

"You don't think I'd blow myself up with you?" Drew asked. "The way I feel right now, I can't think of a reason not to."

"No." Ray's eyes flickered with sudden hope. "You can't. You don't dare. It's suicide. You'd automatically damn your soul to Hell."

"Of course. But I deserve to go to Hell. Certainly you do. Because of the hit on the monastery. Because of Janus and the attacks on the Church."

"But wait a minute, Drew. There isn't really a Hell. What are you talking about?"

Drew's exhaustion intensified. He could hardly listen.

"There's no God, Drew. You've got your mind confused by superstition. Shut off that timer. Please. Let's talk."

"We are talking. No God? No Hell? Do you feel like gambling, Ray? What do you say we find out?"

"No!"

"That's too bad. Because I'm in a gambling mood. I have to be honest, though. You're right. I don't intend to commit suicide."

"Then you'll shut off the timer?"

"No. I've got something else in mind. A test. Just before the yacht explodes, you and I are going over the side."

"We're miles from shore! That water's freezing! We'd never be able to swim to - "

"Maybe. That's what I mean by gambling. There was a time, back in the Middle Ages, when they tested to see if someone was a sinner by throwing that person into freezing water and forcing him to stay there for hours. He passed the test if God allowed him to live. What I'm thinking is, if we die in the water, God wasn't happy with us. But it wouldn't be suicide. Because God's in control now. If He allows us to survive, if He lets us make our way to shore, it'll be a sign that He isn't angry. He'll be giving us the chance to save our souls."

Ray trembled. "You've gone crazy." He stared at the cold, dark water. At the timer. Almost three minutes. "What do you want to know? Just turn off the - !"

Aiming the Mauser, Drew shook his head. "It depends on what you've got to say. I'll even be generous and help you get started. Scalpel, Ray. In 1980, because you'd exceeded your authority, because the program was dangerously out of control, you were forced to resign from the government. Scalpel was disbanded. So you founded the Risk Analysis Corporation."

"How did you learn - ?" Ray stared at the timer. "All right, yes, a private intelligence service."

Drew blazed. "A private assassination service."

"We work for major corporations. Sometimes for other intelligence networks. We helped organize the rebels in Nicaragua, for example. That way, there's less criticism about the U.S. interfering with foreign governments. Because the Agency isn't officially involved, it keeps Congress from complaining but still fights the Communists in - "

"I don't care about Nicaragua! Janus, get to Janus!"

Ray took a hand off the wheel to gesture impatiently. "Give me time! I'm - !"

Drew tensed his finger on the Mauser's trigger. "Put your hand back on that wheel or you won't be alive when that bomb explodes."

Ray grasped the wheel again. His eyes darted toward the clicking timer. Two minutes, forty-five seconds.

"Janus!" Drew said again. "Why?"

Ray's chest heaved. "We have another contract. In Iran. To take out the Ayatollah."

"Yes." Drew bitterly smiled. "Our old friend, the Ayatollah. Isn't it amazing how things keep leading back to him? Who gave you the contract against him?"

"I was never told. A free-lance negotiator came to us with the offer. But I always assumed it was Iraq." Ray became more agitated as the timer clicked. "What difference does it make who hired us? I gladly accepted the contract. The Ayatollah's a maniac. Something has to be done about him."

Two minutes, twenty seconds.

"You'd better hurry, Ray."

"We haven't been able to get near him. Five attempts. Whatever we do, he seems to know about it. So we tried another tactic. Oh, please, shut off... We wanted to force the West to decide he was so insane he had to be stopped. Something so outrageous that the U.S. and Europe would side with Iraq against him."

"Janus. What about Janus?"

The timer kept clicking.

"You'd bungled a hit against the Ayatollah. It looked as if you'd become a rogue - that you'd sold out to him. Even if you hadn't, you'd become too unstable to be trusted with what you knew. I hated to do it."

"But you tried to have me killed."

"Tried? I was sure you were dead. Later, after Risk Analysis was formed, after we had the contract against the Ayatollah, I realized a way to use you even in death."

One minute, forty seconds.

Ray shuddered. "I invented Janus. The two-faced. You. The turncoat, working for the Ayatollah. Since you didn't exist anymore, the authorities would be chasing a ghost. To keep them on the trail, I used Mike to make an appearance once in a while. Not for anything dangerous. A blurred photograph taken near the site of a job. A conversation with a hotel clerk who'd remember him later when the authorities asked about strangers in the area. Once we'd established Janus, Mike went to ground. He put on a little weight. Changed his haircut. Kept to himself, but maintained a regular schedule. He had alibis. No one could link him with Janus. Then my people did the actual jobs. Drew, the timer."

"Jobs against the Catholic Church?" Drew burned with such outrage he wanted to crash the butt of his pistol across his uncle's face. "You killed priests to create a smokescreen?"

"A holy war. We wanted it to look as if the Ayatollah was fighting a jihad against the heathen, against the Church. He's fanatical enough to do that. A new crusade. But in the reverse. This time not in the Mideast but in Europe."

Fifty-five seconds.

"Shut it off!"

Drew touched the knob on the dial. "Then you'd publish proof of what the Ayatollah was supposed to be doing. The West would react with outrage and crush him. When the dust settled, Iraq would have gained what it wanted."

"The world would have gained! I don't care about the money. What I did was necessary!"

Drew repeated the word, almost spitting it out with contempt. "Necessary?"

"Yes! Now shut it off!"

Instead, Drew shrugged and let the timer click off its final seconds. He smiled. "Goodbye, Uncle Ray."

Ray gasped. "No! Wait! You're really going to do it?"

"You'd better start believing in God. If I were you, I'd make an Act of Contrition. Remember how it goes? 'Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry...' "

With a scream, Ray lunged toward the stern. A wave buffeted the yacht, adding force to his dive. He went over, plunging into blackness.

The timer stopped. A cold wind stung Drew's face. Waves, splashing the yacht, sent an icy mist over him. He shut off the engine. The night became silent - except

for the hiss of the wind and the whump of waves against the hull. He grabbed a rubber flashlight off the control panel and walked to the stern, peering toward Ray, who was struggling to keep afloat in the churning water.

Panicked, Ray squinted at the flashlight's glare.

"I'd take that overcoat off, if I were you," Drew said. "It'll drag you down."

"The bomb." Ray thrashed in the water.

"An oversight. I forgot to attach the timer to the detonator. As I said, I didn't intend to commit suicide."

"You son of a bitch!"

"Here. Take this life preserver." Drew tossed it to him.

Ray clutched it, spitting water. "Cold." His voice shook. "So cold. You can't imagine."

Drew studied him.

"Please. Pull me in."

"Sorry. I gave you the life preserver so you wouldn't drown. That doesn't mean I won't let you die from exposure. Drowning's too quick, and they say it's even pleasant. But this way... "

"You bastard, I did what you asked! I told you what you wanted to know!" Ray's face was shockingly white. His teeth chattered. "Please!"

"But you didn't tell me everything. Those priests Janus murdered. How could you bring yourself to order it? How could you think that good could ever come out of the murder of innocent priests?"

His voice quivering, Ray thrashed in the water. "If those priests were strong in their faith, they went to Heaven. They were martyrs. They gave up their lives to stop the Ayatollah. Anything's justified to stop him."

"You claim those priests went to Heaven? But a while ago, you said you didn't believe in an afterlife. You'll say anything, do anything, for what you think is right." Drew paused; certainty filled his soul. "You did kill my parents. For the sake of a principle." Bile rose bitterly in his throat. He was afraid he was going to be sick.

"But I didn't! Please... so cold. Get me out of here!"

"We'll see. It all depends on how you answer my next few questions. Then I'll decide what to do with you. The monastery. I need to know about the hit on the monastery. How did you find out I wasn't dead? How did you learn where I was?" Though Drew suspected the answer, close to vomiting because of it, he needed to know for sure.

"Jake." A wave struck Ray's open mouth, making him gag.

"What about him? What happened to him?"

His teeth chattering, face turning blue, Ray struggled in the cold, black water. "I caught him investigating Janus. My men picked him up. Under amytal, he confessed he hadn't killed you. He told me about the monastery."

"You had him killed?"

"He knew too much. He couldn't be trusted. It had to be done."

"No!" Drew shivered in revulsion. He screamed out his grief.

How could he tell Arlene?

"My arms." Ray sank, then struggled to the surface. "Cramps. Help me. Cold... In the name of... Please! So cold!"

Jake was dead? All along, Drew had realized that possibility. He thought he'd prepared himself to accept it. Now he felt so stunned that he almost didn't hear Ray beg. But a wave sloshed across the yacht, stinging Drew's face, shocking him into awareness.

Again Ray sank beneath the water.

Vengeance insisted. It would feel so good to let Ray die. And yet Ray's death wouldn't bring Jake back.

Ray didn't come up. Tensing, Drew understood. God was testing him. And the consequence would be ultimate. I can't hope for God to show mercy if I don't show mercy to someone else.

Drew pulled the rope on the life preserver frantically. But when he tugged Ray to the surface, the body was motionless, mouth hanging open, draining water.

No!

Drew strained on the line. Desperate, he dragged Ray over the side, slumping with him onto the deck.

Ray moaned. Alive!

I have to make him warm!

In search of blankets, hot tea, dry clothes, Drew scrambled toward the hatch that led below deck. No! he realized, appalled. I should take him with me. It's too cold up here. The mist from the waves will make the blankets wet!

He spun, rushing back toward Ray.

And dove to the deck as his uncle fired.

Ray's hand shook from the icy water he'd been in. His bullet missed Drew, walloping into the cabin. Ray gripped the gun with both hands, cursing as he steadied his aim.

Drew shot him three times in the face.

And screamed. In rage, in frustration, almost in despair. Too much death. Everywhere. But this time, he'd tried to prevent it.

Pointless. Useless.

And the worst part was, he knew what was coming. He'd have to tell Arlene her brother was dead. He knew what Father Stanislaw would ask of him now. His ordeal wasn't over yet.

Waves crashed icy mist across his face. The dark closed in.

Chapter 22.

The god of beginnings.

Drew stood in the cemetery in Boston, once more staring down at the graves of his parents, a ritual he hadn't been able to obey since leaving the monastery. Robert and Susan MacLane. Their birth dates were different, the date of death the same. June 25, 1960. With a flinch, he remembered the segments of his father's body strewn across the Japanese garden. And the shards of broken glass projecting from his mother's bloody cheeks.

In my beginning is my end.

It was one day after Uncle Ray's death. Saying prayers for the dead, Drew had dumped the body overboard and guided the yacht south along the coastline, finding a private dock where after removing his fingerprints, he left the yacht unmoored, letting it drift back out to the Bay. In the dark, he headed into Boston.

Now the sun was setting again. As twilight gathered around him, he continued to stare at the gradually dimming names on the gravestones. A cold breeze ruffled his hair.

A figure approached, making no effort at stealth. In the thickening shadows, Drew wasn't sure who it was, but because the figure was taking care to be obvious, Drew subdued his alarm. He saw a swath of white against a black overcoat. A sling for an injured arm. Father Stanislaw.