The Seventh Stone (45 page)

He adjusted his bow tie. He had been preparing for this moment for years, but he hadn’t anticipated the specter of dread that hissed at him from above. It was though a dark menace had swooped down from the storm and attached its claws to his shoulders, its cold, stinking breath blowing away glory and replacing it with fear. He had to use that fear to strengthen his resolve. He had to be ready to cross the threshold to his new empire. No more would these industry barons toss him away like an easily discarded knight. Tonight, he would teach them that he was the chess master.

CHAPTER
52

Baltasar stepped aboard the
The Flying Carpet
yacht, at the stern, the luxurious expanse of the rear deck in front of him, leading to the aft doors of the main lounge. The 20-person Jacuzzi had been covered, the teak chairs cleared away. The gusts whipped around the half-moon mahogany wet bar with its gold-plated rail, a nod to the sheik’s guests who imbibed alcohol.

As Baltasar neared the lounge, he could more clearly hear the argument from within. One of the sheik’s infamous Black Guard manned the lounge door. An ignorant visitor might think of the Black Guard as a piece of theater, his dark skin clothed in flowing black headdress and robe, a scimitar sheathed at his hip. Baltasar knew the men could kill him instantly with a mere two fingers if commanded to do so. The sheik, like his Moroccan predecessors, flaunted his power over these descendants of slaves from sub-Sahara Africa, relying on their fierce loyalty and lack of tribal bonds.

The guard uncrossed his massive arms from his chest. He checked Baltasar’s laptop, turned it on to make sure it wasn’t a bomb. For a moment, he narrowed his eyes, as if sizing up Baltasar’s head to be sliced off by his scimitar. Instead, he returned the computer and opened the door, his hand huge on the gold-plated handle.

Baltasar smiled. The shadow G-20 had received his email and believed it. He crossed the threshold into a masterwork of Moorish design. Traditional teak paneling had been redesigned into intricately carved arches. On the far wall, a fountain, tiled with geometric patterns of blue and white, spouted water from the mouth of a bronze lion’s head. The ceiling was festooned with golden and red striped silk draperies, that billowed to the corners, then fell voluminously to the floor. They lent the air of a sheik’s palatial tent. A man in a white kaftan sat cross-legged in the corner playing the tear-dropped shaped guitar known as an oud. Baltasar thought the evocative music beautiful, strumming into the room the history of a powerful people, a power and beauty that would soon be his to wield.

Baltasar met head-on the glares of the usual suspects, nineteen men and one woman, gathered around in conspiratorial groups of three or four, standing with Scotches in hand or sitting stiffly on the overstuffed divans. Every detail in their clothing, from silk shirt to diamond cufflink, was custom-made with intimidation, not fashion, in mind.

The Arab stepped forward, his white robes flowing around his sandaled feet. “Welcome to my humble accommodations,” said the sheik, as always bowing to his tradition of hospitality. He gestured to the young man balancing four flutes of effervescing Veuve Clicquot on a silver tray. Baltasar watched the servant, eyes downcast, approach. Admiring the man’s bronze complexion through the golden champagne, he lifted a flute. The Arab shooed the servant away. Without a sound, the bartender, waiters and musician left the lounge. “Now, Baltasar Contreras, you have one minute to convince me not to have your head sliced off.” He slashed his finger dramatically across his throat. Really, the man should have been a movie actor. Baltasar almost laughed at the irony of the situation.

Baltasar raised his flute in a toast. “All we need is the right major crisis and the nations will accept the New World Order.” He paused for effect. “These are not my words. They are the words that David Rockefeller spoke here in New York before the United Nations business council in 2004. The world is on the threshold of that major crisis. My international network is poised to deploy a new weapon of mass destruction, a poison that can easily contaminate a water system. It has a kill rate of ninety percent.” He sipped the champagne, savoring the liquid crafted to be dry.

“
You lying son of a bitch,” drawled the Texan, his nemesis, who had led the charge to exile him from their mighty Alliance. “Kill Contreras now. He’s all hat, bluffing, that is. If he uses this bio-weapon, he’s as dead financially as we are.”

“
Unless I had the only antidote,” said Baltasar. Implied pretext was so much more effective than outright lies. “You rallied the group to kick me out and take my place. You made them fear that my ambitions would usurp their goals. Congratulations, you were right, Tex.” He savored saying the nickname. Everyone in the room knew that it enraged the Texan. “Two years ago, when you so foolishly forced me out, I convinced the United States government, under the auspices of the Homeland Security Department, to contract with NewWorld Pharmaceuticals to develop a doomsday scenario incorporating a drug or poison that could infect a water supply.” He sipped the champagne. “Paranoia, I discovered, is immensely profitable. The irony is that it was the Treasury department head whom you, Tex, allegedly control, who arranged funding for the contract.”

The other men were eyeing the Texan with ill-concealed rage. “Your threat about this poison cannot be true, Baltasar,” said the Frenchman, the one titan who had argued against expelling him from the group. “It will ruin all of us.”

“
You know it is true, mon ami” said Baltasar. “You all have read the information that I emailed to you earlier today. You have seen the streets of New York this afternoon. My man released the poison into the water system here in the New York City and in Princeton, New Jersey, as an example, so you would believe. Within hours, the poison incites extreme paranoia, in its early stages, followed by aggression and a violent madness. The fights, riots and murders will escalate. Those who are not killed by others will fall into comas and die within seven days.”

He paused for effect, let that sink in. By the blanching of their faces and downing of their drinks, it had.

“
It is late,” Baltasar pressed on. “The markets are closed for the weekend. What would happen if this crisis hit New York on a weekday? What if hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers suddenly fell ill, with an incurable ailment with a high fatality rate? What if traders and financial industries in Manhattan had to close their doors?”

“
Financial catastrophe,” muttered the German.

“
Markets around the world would collapse,” added the Dutchman.

“
Even the threat of such a disaster would send the developed world into a financial decline that would spiral out of control,” said the woman from Moscow.

The German downed his Scotch. “How much,” he snarled, “to stop this insanity before the markets open?”

Baltasar watched in satisfaction as they all turned to him. That’s what he loved about this group. They made decisions quickly and conclusively. “I have another obligation to attend to,” he said. “The instructions and amounts are in this computer. You will see the sums are quite reasonable, no more than the budget of a developing nation. I’ll expect the money wired into my Swiss bank accounts by midnight tonight.”

“
I, for one, will not pay into this protection racket,” the Texan drawled. He made a move to leave, but didn’t.

“
But you are getting far more than protection,” said Baltasar, to the group.

“
We want the antidote,” said the Arab, “as part of the deal.”

Baltasar smiled. He was expecting this. “I will sell to you not only the antidote, but the poison, a weapon of mass destruction for which you will own the only defense. Fear not, my friends, you will continue to be a master of the new world order, but only if you play your next move wisely. If not, then I will rebuild my empire the Biblical way, from what little is left of the world in ruins.”

CHAPTER
53

When Christa rang the doorbell of the Donohue home, she expected the Colonel, decked out in black ops uniform and armed with some macho machine gun, to thrust open the door. Instead, Daniel, all eyeglasses and corduroy blazer, greeted her. The world had been truly turned on its end. So what the hell, she hugged him, tight. He kissed her. She let him. “Percival told me what you did for Lucia,” she said, without releasing her embrace.

“
I made sure Lucia is safe,” he said, “with Helen. Donohue has got a man guarding them and one at the clinic with Liam.”

Braydon advanced over the threshold. “Brilliant move of yours, Dubler,” he said. “Tripping that booby trap beneath Saint Patrick’s, getting yourself kidnapped so you could save Lucia.”

Daniel tensed and pursed his lips, searching for a response and coming up empty.

“
Thank you, Daniel,” Christa said. She wasn’t sure why, but she kissed him, again, even though her thoughts were on Braydon. She released him and followed the sound of voices to Donohue’s library. Braydon, following behind her, shoulder bumped Daniel out of his way, on purpose.

Donohue’s library was about the same size as Percival’s, with the same dark paneling, but that’s where the similarity ended. A big screen television commanded the far wall, next to a wet bar braced with a platoon of liquor bottles. A billiards table took up most of the floor space, fronted by a phalanx of manly sized recliners and couches. The air smelled of stale cigar smoke and whiskey.

She crossed the room, embraced Percival and, much to his chagrin, Donohue. He was wearing a soft flannel shirt, not a flak jacket. The colonel patted her back awkwardly. “Grab a sandwich,” he said. “Percival and I are just reviewing the last details on Colombia. The veggie one is on whole wheat.”

A plate of Dagwood sandwiches, a second dish of home-baked cookies and a carafe of coffee showed that the elusive Eleanor Donohue’s instincts as a military wife had kicked in, but the thought of providing for her vegetarianism went beyond the call of duty. She picked it up, gratefully. Grilled eggplant had never tasted so good. It felt great to be alive, still.

She half listened to the men’s plans of Blackhawk helicopters and strike forces, Braydon asking questions while refueling with roast beef, Daniel pretending to understand. From the laptop they’d confiscated from Contreras’s orangery, they knew that Contreras’s men had kidnapped Gabriella. Percival was determined to leave as soon as possible to rescue her, which, Donohue insisted, they could only accomplish using brute force. Braydon argued against it, too many potential civilian casualties. Their voices raised, she hoped the two men wouldn’t resort to using brute force against each other. The thought kept knocking in her brain. Daniel could be right, to work with Contreras, not try to battle a man with generations of planning and a worldwide network.

She had nothing to add to the talk of P-90 machine guns and C-4 explosives. Instead she honed in on the bookcase by the fireplace. It was filled with photos of a boy, as a cub scout, dressed as a pilgrim for a Thanksgiving play, receiving his high school diploma, in full dress uniform in front of the chapel at West Point. It was Clive, Donohue’s only son, who had been killed in Iraq. Trophies, from the Pinewood Derby, MVP football player, the Chess Club, filled another shelf. On an upper shelf, an American flag, folded into a perfect triangle, was encased in its own glass case. The shelf above that was empty, as if saved for a future that never came, no wedding photo, no grandson in his arms.

She blinked, her cheeks suddenly hot. The sandwich turned pasty in her mouth. Tears filled her eyes. What an idiot. She didn’t even know the boy.

“
My wife heard us talking about the Breastplate.” It was Donohue. She jumped, nearly dropped her sandwich plate. He had come up so silently behind her. “She’s got it in her head that if we can restore it, we can make sure Clive is okay, maybe even talk to him again.” He sighed heavily. “Only one thing on this Earth doesn’t die, and that’s a mother’s love.”

She quickly wiped her cheeks with the back of her napkin. Nobody could see her in this state. She didn’t have the right. She swallowed hard. “And a child’s love for their mother,” was all she could manage to say.

“
Christa.” It was Percival, calling her back. “I’ve got the armillary sphere.”

Donohue straightened his shoulders and marched back to the bar.

She drew in a deep breath, turned around and joined them. “I told you about the shooting, across from Saint Patrick’s,” she said. “We took cover behind the Atlas statue. That’s when it hit me. Atlas is carrying an armillary sphere on his shoulders.”

“
Armillary sphere?” Daniel asked. “As in a renaissance model of the known universe?” She knew he said that just to prove that he could add value to this conversation, but she found that oddly endearing. Could he love her, like the Colonel loved his wife?

“
It could be a weird coincidence,” she said. She lifted the sphere from the bar. It felt heavier than she remembered. She ran her fingers over the cool, brass interlocking rings, then the smooth marble base. She could be wrong. It could be too much of a coincidence.

“
Or divine providence,” said Daniel. She was glad she hadn’t been the one to point that out. “That’s what you two were talking about. The Turquoise, one of the seven stones, you think it’s in Arizona.”

“
The Yikaisidahi Turquoise,” she said. She twisted the outer brass ring. It was stiff with age. The cool metal warmed in her hand as she manipulated it into place. “On Atlas’s sphere, the symbols of the planets are aligned. Of course, planetary alignment is scientifically impossible, depending on your definition of alignment, but it doesn’t stop people from believing that the Mayans predicted it will happen in 2012 and end the world in a massive cataclysm.” She felt the click more than heard it, like the tumblers of a safe aligning. “The guardian who hid this sphere in that cliff dwelling had traveled through Mayan lands.” Another ring twisted. Another click. “And he was an astronomer.” She pulled.