The Crimson Code

“Well, blood runs back to the heart and the head,” Lawton said. “If we follow the money, we find the people who killed your family.”

“You can’t follow their money,” Jefe said. “They’re all bankers. They can hide money with the best of them. And you don’t even have a thread to pull to get all of it started. Renate, I know how you’re feeling, but the right thing to do is to focus on Black Christmas.”

“Our entire office is focused on Black Christmas,” she said, her voice dripping icy resolve. “The police agencies of the entire world will be working Black Christmas. You can spare me. You know that.”

“And we do have a thread to pull,” Lawton said. “We have Jonathan Morgan. Edward Morgan’s father. Edward was Brotherhood. If he was, his father is.”

Lawton had been on the case when Edward Morgan had masterminded the plan to kill U.S. Senator Grant Lawrence—at the time the front-runner for the Democratic presidential nomination—as well as financing a training camp for Guatemalan revolutionaries in Idaho. Although Lawrence had survived, he was now out of the presidential picture, seemingly content to be the senior senator from Florida. None of it could be proven in a court of law, however. None of it. That loose end still troubled Lawton more than he could say.

“That still doesn’t explain how you’re going to track their money,” Jefe said.

“Banks have a private Internet,” Renate said. “That’s how they transfer money, and I’ll bet the Brotherhood uses that network for its communications. If we can hack into that network, we can find them.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Jefe asked.

“I’m going to Frankfurt,” Renate said. “I broke in once before. I can do it again.”

“You’re not going alone,” Jefe said. “Lawton, you’re with her. You’ll need a computer guy, too. Take Assif Mondi from information services.”

“We may end up needing more than that,” Lawton said. “Niko Petropolis is available. He just got out of rehab. He took a bullet on that operation in Chechnya, remember?”

“I’ll have to ask the doctor if he’s field ready,” Jefe put in.

“So ask,” Renate said. Her voice was steely with resolve.

“Oh, I will,” Jefe replied. “But first, tell me what you have in mind.”

3

Saint-Arnans-la-Bastide, France

General Jules Soult, formerly of the French Army and now retired, sat in his study, enjoying a Cuban cigar as he looked up at the portrait of his renowned ancestor Marshall Jean Soult. The Marshall had built a great reputation in his service to Napoleon, although after Napoleon’s first exile he had briefly collaborated with the Bourbon king.

Soult pondered that collaboration as the television behind him continued its incessant assault of news about Black Christmas. Collaboration, he deemed, was often necessary for a man to achieve his ultimate goals. No shame therein.

Jules turned his head a fraction and watched the stream of videotape showing the worldwide destruction. He told himself he was sorry for all the lives lost and crossed himself while murmuring a small prayer as he had learned during his Catholic upbringing.

But the truth was that this plan had been his. Well, with a few added directions from his Order, an order that dated back to the Knights Templar. He still didn’t understand why they’d wanted to make that ridiculous detour to the small church in Baden-Baden, but he was a man who followed his instructions—to a point.

He turned back to the portrait of the first famous Soult. They were both military men, and as such they understood that there was a human price for every gain and every loss. Today’s activity was a major gain.

While the world reeled and grieved and hunted Islamic terrorists, his men would be doing their stealthy work in the streets.

Jules Soult was a man who studied history intently. George Santayana had said that those who do not study the past are condemned to repeat it. Soult agreed. One must study history in order to learn where the world’s great leaders had gone wrong and to improve upon plans that had gone awry in the past, one way or another.

Take Hitler, for example. Napoleon had tried to invade Russia and had been defeated by the winter. Hitler had not learned sufficiently from Napoleon’s lesson and had expected too much of his panzers.

Soult was determined not to repeat anyone’s mistakes. There was much to be learned in the historical record. Europe had passed the age where an emperor might be accepted, but it had not passed the day when it would accept a strong, unifying leader.

Soult knew he was that leader. His bloodline traced directly back to the Merovingian rulers of Europe, the blood that every ruler since the first century had carried or married into. He might never wear a crown, but he still believed he could reestablish a dynasty.

Much the way Hitler had. Only he would not make the same mistakes. No, he had studied history, and he knew what to avoid.

Hitler had lacked the gift of Islamic terrorism by which to demonize a people. For all of the long-standing hatred of those whom the bastard Church said had murdered the Christ, the Jews had done nothing to harm their European neighbors. And never again would the people of Europe be led to demonize an innocent race.

But radical Islam…that created an opportunity, one that he intended to exploit to the fullest. He had insinuated himself into the planning of Black Christmas—anonymously, of course—and ordered the bombings of the cathedrals. The original Black Christmas plan would not have served his needs. But what had actually happened would work perfectly.

European Muslims would be his scapegoat, the people against whom he could direct violence and thereby distract the people of Europe from his true aims. Moreover, as they joined in the violence against Muslims, they would become inured to hatred and killing. That coldness of heart would serve him well when the time came to recapture the rightful seat of Merovingian power.

Soon the phone would ring, and like Hitler before him, Soult would be given a free hand to conduct espionage against his enemies. He would hire his Ernst Röhm, create his brownshirts to incite the very violence he was sworn to prevent. Confidence in governments would falter, and when it did, he would step into the void.

That much of Hitler’s plan had been sheer genius. But he would not repeat that madman’s mistakes. No, Soult would do what Hitler could not, nor Napoleon before him. And Black Christmas was the key that had opened the doorway to his future.

He smiled up at the portrait, then took another satisfying puff on his cigar. The ducks were lining up beautifully.

It was a shame so many had died. He would light a candle for them. The Lord would certainly understand, because it was nothing less than the Lord’s birthright that he intended to reclaim.

As if on schedule, the telephone rang. He had been told to expect the call, and he knew who she was and what she wanted even before he picked up the telephone. There were advantages to having connections in the highest and most secret circles of power.

“General Soult,” he said, speaking in accented English.

“Ah, General,” the woman said. “You answer your telephone in English now?”

“I assumed it would be another American reporter asking for an interview,” he lied. “Apparently I was wrong. You are German.”

“Yes,” she said. “My name is Monika Schmidt. I am the director of the European Union—”

“Department of Collective Security,” he cut in. “I have seen you on the news many times today. You have had a very bad few days.”

“We have all had a very bad few days, General,” she said. “Once again, we find that our enemies are more resourceful than we had thought. And that we…”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. The European news media had been finishing it for her for nearly twenty-four hours. How had the vaunted EUDCS, with its contacts in Interpol and the United States, totally missed the planning for Black Christmas? Frau Schmidt did not have an answer for them, though Soult could easily have supplied it. He had, after all, spent much of his career in French military intelligence. And he had used the skills he had learned there to direct the counterespionage operations for the men who had carried out the attacks.

“These things are always more complex than the public realizes,” he said, trying to affect a tone that mixed professional sympathy with the wisdom of experience. “It takes many years to develop the kinds of contacts that would have provided warning for such an operation.”

“And that is why I call you,” she said. “I have spoken with my superiors and explained to them the need for better human intelligence. You served in Chad and directed the French network in Algiers. You have worked in the Arab community before. You know these people.”

His contacts had not erred. She was, in fact, offering him a position—the very position toward which he had worked for fifteen years.

“Yes,” he said, smiling as he drew on his cigar. “I do. So, Frau Schmidt, how can I be of service to the European Union?”

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Monsignor Giuseppe Veltroni carried many problems on his back as he rode in a taxi through the streets of Riyadh to his appointment. To arrive here within two days of the attacks on so many Catholic churches was to put his neck on a chopping block. The people here cheered the destruction, of course. The “man in the street” did not understand the contributions the Church had made toward peace with and for the Muslim world. The average Saudi seemed all too unaware of how much work the Church had done for the Palestinians.

And this little detour was exceptionally dangerous, since he had deserted the protective phalanx the Saudis had provided for him in his capacity as an official representative of the Vatican. But he could not afford listening ears or spying eyes this afternoon. This afternoon he needed to be one-on-one with a man he had nearly come to trust, a man who seemed to have utterly broken that trust.

Beyond that, he was gravely concerned about the fate of Steve Lorenzo. Months had passed since the Guatemalan police had attacked Dos Ojos in an attempt to arrest a rebel involved in the bombing death of the U.S. ambassador. Since then, nothing had been heard from or about the priest he had sent there to find the Codex.