The Book of Bones (Harvey Bennett Thrillers 7) Page 13

  She had the time memorized, and she told him. He confirmed the timestamp, then read aloud a number to her.

  She typed it into her computer, seeing that the area code was based in Washington, D.C. Mark told her he had an app on his phone that would allow him to search a call registry to perform a reverse lookup. It took a few seconds, and Mark said the name when it completed.

  “Phone number’s registered to a guy named ‘Dieter Luthig,’” He said.

  “Dieter? What kind of name is that?”

  “German, maybe? The kind of dude who’s serious enough to threaten innocent professors. You recognize him?”

  “Not at all, but I’m searching now. Seems like —”

  She stopped, clicking through a few articles on her computer while they spoke.

  No, she thought. It couldn’t be.

  She came to a page that appeared to be a blog, written by a Dieter Luthig. It was written in English, but she could see that it was broken, as if it had been automatically translated, and poorly. Most of it seemed to be gibberish, nonsensical ramblings.

  “This could be his site,” she said, forwarding Mark a link. “He’s a whacko, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Can’t tell, honestly. It’s just called ‘A Website for Erudite Light,’ and it wasn’t even on the first page for the guy’s name. The first line of the first post just starts with, ‘Smiling Guy Uttered…”

  “Hmm,” Mark said. “Interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I ran it through a traffic analyzer — just wanted to see if anyone ever visited it.”

  “And?”

  “It’s… definitely a popular site.”

  “Wait, really?”

  “Judging by these results, yeah,” Mark said. “Seems like the site had somewhere in the ballpark of 200,000 hits — not unique, but still impressive.”

  “200,000? That’s incredible. This year?”

  “No, Vic. This month.”

  Victoria put a hand over her mouth. Something about this website didn’t work. There was no way it would have generated nearly a quarter-million hits in a single month — a month they weren’t even halfway through — and still be sitting somewhere on the second page of Google. She knew Google’s algorithm relied on easily parsable language, as well as an obvious topic, for it to display results, but she also knew that traffic played a significant role in web listings.

  This man — Dieter Luthig — had somehow created a nonsensical blog full of illegible text, and yet there were people reading it. Further, his cryptic message to Victoria had used the plural pronoun ‘we,’ rather than ‘I.’ Whether it was just Dieter’s posturing or he meant it, it seemed there was more than one person behind the phone call.

  She continued scrolling down. More nonsense posts, followed by a gallery of images that contained broken links, and then, at the bottom of the page, a logo.

  “Mark,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, I can hear you. You find something?”

  She leaned closer to her screen, examining the image.

  An egg-shaped crest, filled with swirls and other indecipherable symbols, boasted two angelic wings, stretching from the bottom of the egg to the top. A triangle sat beneath the egg, pointing up. And inside the triangle, as if looking upward at the crested wings, was an all-seeing eye.

  “It’s… upside down.”

  “What is?”

  “This image — their logo, I guess. It’s exactly like… I’d have to look it up, but it’s exactly like the logo of an ancient organization, but upside-down.”

  “What organization? Are they in DC?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “This organization hasn’t been around for hundreds of years, and even then it’s got a spotty history. But… like I said, I’m not sure this is the same one. The logo seems right, but it’s like an upside-down version of the old group.”

  “What old group, Vic?”

  “It was a group formed in Naples, Italy, in the late 1800s, but they based it on a much older one, one that was created in Egypt, or at least based on Egyptian beliefs and systems. It’s called the Ancient and Primitive Rite of Memphis-Misraim. I found a picture of their logo.” She clicked on the image result and enlarged it onto a second window, to compare with the other.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Yeah, it’s obscure.”

  “You’re a genius, which is why you know that.”

  “No,” she said, smiling. “Though I appreciate you finally admitting it. I know about the Rite of Memphis-Misraim because it was an old order within a much newer, much more well-known group.”

  “And that is?”

  “The Freemasons. The Ancient and Primitive Rite of Memphis-Misraim is a Rite within Freemasonry, based on Egypt’s history and known for its irregular number of 99 degrees.”

  As she said the words, she realized a shadow had fallen over her open door. It was dark now, and she realized that she was mostly alone in the office building. Maybe Patti came down to check on me? she thought.

  The shadow moved, and she felt her skin crawl.

  “Mark,” she said.

  “Still here.”

  “Mark, I think someone’s here. They’re — they’re outside my office, and I don’t know —”

  The phone line disconnected, and the shadow hiding behind her door turned into the shape of a human being.

  Victoria screamed, but it was too late.

  32

  Ben

  “Wait a minute,” Ben said. “Jesuit, like you?”

  “Yes, Ben. The Jesuits are members of the Society of Jesus, a fraternal order of Catholics founded by Ignatius of Loyola in 1534. It is just a fraternity, like the Freemasons, but it is one that exists within the Catholic Church. Men of faith who have taken on the additional burden of missional work for the Church.”

  Ben had grown up attending a church only on Easter and Christmas, but that church had been a Catholic church. He’d heard some of the words and phrases Quinones was using, but he didn’t have a solid grasp on what exactly it all meant. “So, the pope we have now is a Jesuit?”

  “He is. The first one. And I know he is still close with many Jesuits in and around the Vatican, as well as around the world. My guess is that he will have some version of the Jesuit symbol — our IHS, if you will — as part of his seal.”

  Ben looked at Julie’s computer and the image of papal seals and symbols on it. The Jesuit seal was labeled, and he could see the IHS lettered within what looked like a sun.

  “Iota, eta, and sigma. The greek letters for I, H, and S. They are the letters that begin the words, Iesous Hominem Salvator, or ‘Jesus, Savior of man.’”

  “And what about security? Aren’t the Papal Chambers going to be difficult to enter?”

  “Not if you are the pope,” Archie said, a grin on his face.

  Ben rolled his eyes. “Wow, Archie,” he said. “You’re about as good with jokes as you are with plans.”

  Archie lifted his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “I apologize. Yes, it will be difficult, but it is not impossible. The Apostolic Palace located in the center of the Vatican between the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica is locked down with the force you might expect. Nearly the entire security force of the Swiss Guard patrols and hovers there, as it is the traditional home of the pope, as well as the home of countless works of art.

  “There are 135 men in the Pontifical Swiss Guard, and most of them are in locations surrounding the most foot traffic in and out of the Vatican: the Piazza San Pietro, the Basilica, and the museums surrounding them to the north.”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t impossible,” Ben said.

  Archibald laughed. “It will not be impossible. The Apostolic Palace was the home of the pope, but the current sitting pope actually lives in a different building altogether. He moved his residence to the Domus Sanctae Marthae, or Saint Martha’s Hotel, which is like a guest house for the Vatica
n. It is where the members of the Papal Conclave stay when they are electing a new pope.”

  “The pope is living in a hotel?” Julie asked.

  “Yes, that is exactly what it is,” Archie said. “Best of all, notice where the hotel is. It resides right along the southern side of the city, along the Stazione Vaticana. But it is not the location of the hotel above ground I want to draw your attention to. What I want you to notice is the hotel just on the other side of the wall from the Domus Sanctae Marthae. This hotel has changed hands over the years, but it has remained true to its first purpose: to serve as a permanent location for the entrance into the Vatican tunnel system.”

  “An entrance?”

  “Yes. Somewhere in that hotel, in the basement, is an entrance to the tunnel system that stretches into the depths of the Vatican.”

  “Have you seen it?” Ben asked.

  “Personally, no. But I have friends who have spoken of it. They say it is easily accessible, if you are looking for it.”

  Ben smiled. “Well, that’s assuming the guy looking for it is smarter than a park ranger from Yellowstone.”

  “It has been a long time since you have been at Yellowstone, Harvey,” Archie said. Ben didn’t need him to explain the meaning behind his words, but he did anyway. “You are smarter than you think you are, and that is why you are here now. No one else in the world is in the position you are in, to bring back your friends and find out what Garza truly wants.”

  “No pressure,” Ben said. He wasn’t sure Quinones had heard him over the sound of the roaring engines, but on the screen, after a few seconds for the delay, Quinones smiled.

  The plane dropped a few feet in the air, and Ben’s stomach lurched.

  “We must be getting ready to land,” Julie said. “Archie, thank you. We’re going to get ready to get on the ground, then we’ll start right away. Get into the Vatican, find the Papal chambers in the hotel, get his private seal.”

  “I wish you luck, dear friends,” Archie said. “I have a meeting with another old friend here in an hour. My hope is that he can help locate Garza and where he might be taking Reggie and Sarah. I will send you an update after that meeting, and please let me know how Mr. and Mrs. E are getting on with their own research.”

  “We will,” Ben said. “And thank you, Archie, Anything else we need to know?”

  The plane lurched again, and Ben felt himself involuntarily gripping the seat’s armrest even tighter. The sooner we’re on the ground, the sooner I can relax, Ben thought.

  But his hands clenched even tighter when the plane dropped another dozen feet or so straight down. Ben’s eyes went wide, and Julie switched the headphone’s connection to the pilot’s channel.

  “Are we okay?” Julie asked.

  Ben heard Julie’s voice and the man’s response through his own headset. “Trying — idled, but — make… to land.”

  What?

  Ben’s mind raced, and his heart beat faster to catch up. We can’t make it to land? We don’t know if we can? What did he say?

  He looked over at Julie, trying to borrow the calm he saw in her eyes. It didn’t work.

  The plane jostled again, then Ben’s entire body was launched forward into the back of the copilot’s seat in front of him.

  33

  Ben

  The seatbelt Ben was wearing cut into his waist like a hot knife, but it did its job. Ben felt his body pulled backward and down into his seat, but not before his face smacked against the hard, carpeted copilot’s chair in front of him.

  Julie had fared better, her seatbelt apparently having been a little tighter around her waist, but Ben hardly had a chance to check on her. The plane dodged right and Ben’s arm and shoulder slammed against the armrest and folding tray table they’d had the laptop sitting on.

  The laptop sailed across the cabin and exploded into pieces when it came into contact with the plane’s window. Julie screamed, but Ben was preoccupied with his own injuries. His face was bleeding, but he wasn’t sure where exactly the blood had come from. He lifted his left arm to grab at his nose, but before his hand could reach it his shoulder burst out a flare of pain and he, too, yelled.

  “What’s going on?” he screamed toward the pilot.

  No answer save for the rocking of the plane.

  Only then did Ben look out the window.

  His stomach seemed to fall away into his intestines. He tried to swallow but found only dry, raspy sandpaper inside his mouth. The Mediterranean was there, outside the window, greeting him by approaching far faster than he felt comfortable with.

  Worse, it was spinning. Rather, the entire world was spinning. Ben’s eyes tried to adjust, to hold on to something he could make sense out of, but it was a chore. Finally he saw a building in the distance.

  Rome?

  There was no way to know, but having a view of the horizon at least helped him gain his bearings. The problem was that the horizon, too, was spinning. It rocked up and down, then flipped nearly vertical, then came back down again.

  Ben wanted to vomit, but he grabbed Julie’s arm and squeezed. That helped a little, but the tiny plane only bucked against his efforts and threw them both sideways.

  Air. There was air somewhere, escaping fast. The cabin had been breached somehow, and he could hear the faint warning signals from the pilot’s controls and alerts ringing back to him.

  He finally registered just what was happening, but it was too late.

  “Brace — impact,” he heard the pilot yell. He heard it from the pilot’s mouth, not from his headphones.

  Brace? Brace onto what?

  Ben’s breathing pace increased until he felt totally and utterly out of control.

  This is it, he thought. My nightmare.

  The plane seemed to right itself, but then it took a steep dive. Ben didn’t need to — didn’t want to — but he looked out the window, and it confirmed his worst suspicions.

  They were flying straight toward the surface of the Mediterranean Sea.

  He saw things then, things he never thought he’d have to see again. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like he was dreaming, even though he could still fully see the pilot’s head, the rocking and swaying of Julie in his peripheral vision, the plane’s dials and lights singing and chirping and alarming.

  He saw his father, Johnson Bennett. Young, near the age Ben was now. Standing and yelling, smiling, calling him and Zachary back to camp for dinner.

  Zach.

  Ben felt a ping in his heart as the plane bounced through some invisible gate. Why didn’t I ever call him? he thought. It was as easy as a phone call. Now he’ll never know…

  Then he saw his mother. Diana Torres. The woman Julie had met while they had been running from a spreading disease. The woman who had succumbed to that disease. He saw her face as he told her what he’d been thinking all of those years.

  He saw her tears.

  Then he saw his own eyes. Right in front of him, staring down at him, beckoning. Also crying.

  He reached a hand up, barely had to move a muscle thanks to the acceleration of their fall, wiped away a wet spot from his eye.

  This is it.

  He watched the Mediterranean approach, faster and faster. The pilot began to scream, not a word but a sound, just a scream.

  The horizon tilted, the pilot pulled hard the opposite way, and Ben felt a tearing from his side, as if he were part of the plane itself. The plane, and Ben, groaned under the weight. The pressure of it all made him close his eyes.

  The screaming — from the pilot, from Julie, from the plane, from himself — it all gathered together into a mess of fury and noise. It rose again and again, louder than Ben thought possible. He would die of an earache before the plane even crashed.

  Then… nothing.

  The world around Ben ended in blackness, darkness. Silence.

  34

  Victoria

  “Where are you taking me?” Victoria asked. Her hands were tied, and her feet duct-taped tog
ether. Still, the man who’d thrown her into the van had been careful to buckle her first.

  “Are you Dieter Luthig?” she shouted. “I know who you are. Who you’re working for.”

  The man stopped, then smiled as he looked down at her. “No,” he said. “I am not. And you know nothing.”

  Victoria felt the phone in her pocket, the number she’d pressed to redial still connected. Hopefully. She’d barely had enough time to jam the cellphone into her back pocket before the intruder had pulled up a silenced pistol, aimed it at her, and forced her out of the room.

  She had gotten the man to speak, but she hoped it would be loud enough for Archie to hear it. If he had even answered.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked again. “Your headquarters? Washington, D.C.?”

  He laughed, then slammed the door in her face. The man was alone, and he walked around the car slowly before entering the vehicle, likely checking to see if anyone had seen the kidnapping. There was a blue glow entering through the back window, and she found it ironic that they were parked almost directly next to one of the campus emergency call stations.

  She hadn’t heard a voice on the phone, but she hoped it only meant that Archie understood the situation, staying silent and hoping to keep her captor unaware that he was listening in.

  “You’ve known about me for a while now, haven’t you?” she asked.

  The man put the car in reverse and eyed her in the rearview mirror. “Your work and reputation have far-reaching implications.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means yes, Ms. Reyes, we have known about you for a while.”

  “Who? The Ancient and Primitive Rite?”

  The man’s eyebrow raised, and Victoria was pleased to see that she’d surprised him.

  “You truly are a gifted academic, Ms. Reyes. But you are only close to the truth. And as with the ultimate Truth, getting close is far worse than missing completely.”