Twist of Time, page 4
Nora didn’t argue. In spite of his ordinary appearance, Ravel was an assassin with extraordinary skills. He worked alone, which was unique; most assassins work in teams. Of both Puerto Rican and Basque parentage, he was highly respected and on call with several extremist groups in Europe. She asked, “Would you recognize this cop again?”
“Anywhere.”
“Next time, kill her and grab him.”
She dismissed him with a nod. With a look of irritation, he left. After the door closed, she grabbed a porcelain table lamp and hurled it against the wall, sending pieces flying. She felt better.
Sid Carver and three of his team had been following the monk’s van all morning waiting for the right opportunity to nab him. Suddenly, two men grabbed him and got away. Then a cop appeared—a total disaster. Now they were nervously waiting in a shabby motel room for Leo’s arrival.
A few weeks earlier, Carver, known as the Broker, had been hired by “Mysterious Leo,” as he was called, to put a team together to kidnap the monk. Carver had worked for Leo twice before: once, hiring a team to deal with a cartel selling stolen assault weapons, and then a political kidnapping. He’d never actually met Leo; connections were always through his middleman, Victor. Carver knew Leo by reputation: “Super nasty.” During the illegal arms deal, when the other side discovered Leo was involved, they shaved their price. Carver was impressed. Now, because of their failure to kidnap the monk for Leo, he was also very nervous.
Only three of the team were with Carver that morning when the monk was snatched. It never occurred to him that he would have needed more. While he was waiting, he tried to estimate who was his weakest link so this didn’t happen again.
Steiner, the “old man,” was German, and his family had been part of the Baader-Meinhof terrorist group of the seventies. Wojowitz worked mainly for Israeli gangs operating in the States. His contacts seemed endless; he even kept close ties with rival Russian drug lords. Grigsby was Chicago mob muscle; his size came with a vicious reputation. Oddly, he was known to be henpecked by his very diminutive wife, a truth which nobody mentioned unless seized with a death wish. Alonzo was Colombian cartel; he seldom spoke but watched everything with a half-smile. Carter suspected the smile didn’t change even when he pulled the trigger.
When Leo finally arrived, to Carver’s surprise, he was alone. He had expected an entourage of flunkies. Leo was Black, another surprise, though it was known that he was not American. One look confirmed his bad-ass reputation. He was expensively dressed and had an attitude that reeked of power. It was said that some actually became sick in his presence when he was angry. Now, Carver believed it. Leo did not need thugs to intimidate.
Without a word, Leo carefully studied each face. Although they all were pros, this operation was too sensitive to rely on simply buying their services. Absolute secrecy was essential. Unknown to them, each was chosen with a vulnerable key that could be wound to his breaking point. Leo was the keeper of the keys.
Apparently satisfied, Leo stepped back. His slight smile did not reach his eyes.
Leo had spent a lot of time alone, and Carver could sense the unmistakable taint of solitary confinement. He was wearing black leather dress gloves in summer—no careless prints. This guy covered everything.
When Leo finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. “The monk is your only priority. Understood?”
One or two nodded; nobody spoke.
“You never act without an order. Any order you get, you obey.” He looked at Carver. “Is that absolutely clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Carver answered.
Grigsby, the broody hulk, cleared his throat. “Look, when you say any order, does that . . .”
“It means exactly any order.” Leo glanced at Carver for confirmation. Carver nodded.
Leo looked again at each face, fixing it in memory. “No failure. No excuses.”
He walked out of the room. They all exchanged wary looks.
Before meeting Fallon for brunch, Kate Googled his name for background. His billions were not the result of some nerd working out of his garage. Driven by both a genius IQ and what was unexpectedly described as “multiple neurosis,” he graduated high school at age twelve. After receiving a PhD specializing in brain research at Cal Tech, Fallon earned a master’s at MIT in computer science. He immediately started his own company, Med-Tek, specializing in software for cutting-edge medical research. Though successful, the company was highly controversial.
Aside from legitimate research and development, Med-Tek’s notoriety came from radical experiments with animals on behavior modification that utilized computer-chip brain implants; these were called BCI, which stood for Brain-Computer Interface. Many corporations had done similar experiments, but Fallon claimed his to be “the cutting edge in New Age therapy.”
On Fallon’s website Kate found a range of bizarre experiments. Rats were remote-controlled like toy cars. Most disturbing was a male chimpanzee named Butch implanted with a brain chip; he mounted a female named Sheba at the touch of a remote switch. Sexual intercourse was repeated again and again during the same session until Butch collapsed from exhaustion. Sheba, relieved, took a nap.
“Who needs Viagra?” Kate muttered.
Strangest of all, Fallon promoted his own controversy. Kate discovered a segment on his website devoted to negative comments from across the media. Scientific American, Psychology Today, The Lancet—all the press was unfavorable. Even Rolling Stone chimed in: “Fallon is a triple threat: brilliant, creative, with the monstrous ego of an intellectual bully.”
Kate wondered: who publishes negative commentary about themselves? Obviously, a supreme narcissist who is totally confidant in who they are. In a celebrity culture where media attention is vital, Fallon promoted his own controversy, which guaranteed continuous media coverage.
Kate was surprised to discover that he was also a famous gourmet, traveling all over the world to dine on exquisite meals prepared by superstar chiefs. Often these were filmed and featured on various network food shows which added to his celebrity.
Researching further, Kate ran Fallon’s name through several police databases that cross-referenced criminal activity. It was a routine her father used on all names connected with a case, including victims, witnesses, and suspects. Occasionally, interesting data would turn up. He called it looking for the “edge.”
Kate soon found an edge and a name: Gladys Pullman, a homicide victim who had worked closely with Fallon at Med-Tek. Kate wanted to find out more but would have to delay until after her brunch.
When Thomas and Kate arrived at the Four Seasons Hotel dining room she was surprised to find Dr. Fallon already there. It had been her experience that the more prominent the person, the longer the wait.
Kate mentally ran her assessment of Fallon: mid-fifties, brown eyes, hair professionally tinted to cover gray, height five-eight to ten, weight one-fifty to sixty. Build: pudgy masked by expert clothes styling. His face was framed in oversized black-rimmed glasses—a part of his signature look. He was said to be tailored by the most expensive shops on Savile Row and was never photographed without coat and tie. Despite his arrogance, there was an unexpected charm as he dominated the conversation. He was holding court.
Thomas listened to Fallon’s small talk while they waited for drinks. It was odd trying to reconcile this congenial Fallon with the arrogant ass with whom he’d spent tedious hours discussing the Templar diary over the phone.
The drinks arrived—Chablis for Kate, beer for Thomas. Fallon raised his glass of mineral water in a toast.
“To happier circumstances,” he said. Then the charm vanished. “I have suffered two devastating losses. The courier Denise Hollander, my assistant of sixteen years, was brutally murdered and is irreplaceable. The stolen Templar diary is priceless.”
He turned to Kate and said, “Detective, you should know that I pride myself in a gift for retaliation.”
“Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.” Kate was confident. “With our police coverage, the diary will soon be recovered, which will lead us to the killer.”
“That’s why I am offering five hundred thousand for information leading to the conviction of Denise’s Hollander’s killer.”
“That is very generous.”
“A term rarely applied to me, Detective Flynn.” He appraised her knowingly and said, “Did Google mention that I married my stepmother the day after we took Daddy off life support?” He shrugged. “It didn’t last. Passion is wrongly compared with fire; it is more like ice. When it’s gone, everything begins to rot.”
Kate was amused at the bizarre image. “No. Google didn’t mention that.”
Fallon glanced at Thomas. “I fear I have shocked our monk.”
“I doubt if you fear shocking anyone,” Thomas said.
“You see, Detective Flynn, when Brother Thomas and I began our association, I warned him that I am a militant atheist. As a fervent hedonist I embrace every indulgence—food, sex, everything except alcohol, which dulls both senses and intellect.”
She savored a swallow of wine. “Mmm. You’re right, I do feel dumber.”
“May I tell you something about the miraculous brain?” Fallon reached in the breadbasket and held up a roll. “There’s a theory that all ideas are atomically structured. The brain metabolizes solid food into abstract thought. How many thoughts in a slice of bread? Imagine— we may owe E equals MC squared to Einstein’s bagel.”
“An interesting idea,” Kate said.
“Very.” Thomas agreed. “Especially since you, an atheist, are paraphrasing the French Jesuit priest and scientist, Teilhard de Chardin.”
Fallon frowned, irritated at being topped. “Let’s talk business. Regarding the diary, my attorneys have managed to put limitations on its use.”
“What limitations?” Kate asked.
“After you recover the diary, it may not be duplicated without a court order.”
“I am not aware of any such law.”
“It’s being rushed through the California legislature this week. No national treasure in written form may be duplicated without notarized permission of its owner.”
Thomas interrupted. “But the diary is not a national treasure.”
“It is now. My attorneys have filed the paperwork. Only a few pages of the diary were duplicated for translation. The three I sent you. Are they safe?”
Kate frowned at Thomas; he hadn’t told her. He avoided her look. “Yes, I have them.”
Fallon, sensing the tension between them, played to it. “As you can see, Detective, your monk is also a man of mystery.”
Kate agreed, “And so are you. How did you manage to limit our use of key evidence?”
“Power. And power is also knowing who to buy.”
“In other words, a bribe.”
“The perfect word. You should also know that I am bringing in my own investigative team to find the killer.”
“And when you do, will you turn them over to the police?” she asked.
“It depends on how quickly they give me the diary. I will do every. . . .”
Thomas interrupted again. “You mean after you finish with them?”
“Precisely.” He turned to Kate. “My attorneys assure me it would be very difficult to prosecute me should I find the killer in a foreign country and do whatever is necessary to recover the stolen diary.”
“You think that’s where he’ll be?”
“It is certainly where he will end up.” He smiled. The topic was finished; his Jekyll–Hyde charm reappeared. “Kate, do you like Mexican cuisine?”
“My favorite.”
“Will you join me for dinner? I have a reservation in Cancún with a famed chef named Javier who is a genius with seafood, especially with a rare prawn he discovered. I’m told our meal will make it extinct. We’ll jet back from Mexico tomorrow in time for you to go to work.”
“Sorry, Dr. Fallon, I don’t have time. Now I have to catch the killer before you do.”
On the mountain road back up to the monastery, there was little conversation; both were still absorbed in the Fallon meeting. Rounding a turn revealed a dazzling panorama of shimmering ocean. Kate pulled over. Below, the cobalt Pacific was patiently carving the bay a wave at a time as it had for eons.
She asked, “Should I have gone with Fallon to Cancún?”
“It depends upon what you’re willing to do for a Mexican dinner.”
“Like trading my virtue for tacos?”
They laughed and watched the ocean, each absorbed in their thoughts.
Thomas was wrestling with the Fallon paradox: why was a scientist and atheist obsessed with the Templars, a religious order? He had hoped their meeting would clarify some questions but discovered only that Fallon had a complex agenda. Thomas was annoyed by something else—his irritation at the thought of Kate flying to Cancún with Fallon. Why did he care?
When Kate drove them into the monastery parking lot, she killed the engine but continued staring straight ahead. The anger she struggled to contain finally erupted.
“When were you going to tell me about the duplicate pages from the diary?” she said.
“Fallon swore me to secrecy. I had to respect that unless it became relevant to your case.”
“The diary is missing. Those pages are evidence that it exists.” She turned to him. “That makes it relevant.”
“Kate, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“This is a homicide, Thomas. No more secrets. Agreed?”
“Then you should also know more about me. On the Internet, find my book and follow wherever that leads. Afterwards, I’ll answer any questions. The title is Merlin: Legend, Wizard, Saint.”
When she drove away, the questions were already forming.
At exactly eight the next morning, Kate arrived at the monastery. When she entered, she heard the echo of monks chanting somewhere deep within its walls. Brother Barnabas, the monk assigned to greet visitors, was wearing the distinctive habit of the order, a dark blue denim monk’s robe with a red cord knotted at the waist. As a Catholic, Kate had seen many monks; they’d worn white, black, brown, or gray robes with a white cord tied at the waist.
Brother Barnabas seemed uneasy when she asked to see Brother Thomas.
“Please wait here.” He disappeared down a chilly corridor, his steps sounding on the Spanish tile floor.
Given the sanctified atmosphere, Kate imagined taking off her blouse and running topless and laughing down the hall. Before she could enjoy the fantasy, Abbot Methodius appeared. He was in his late fifties, with an oyster pallor contrasting his blue robe.
“You wanted to see Brother Thomas?”
Kate showed her badge. “Detective Flynn.”
“Oh, dear . . . Lord.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know exactly how to—”
“What’s wrong!”
“Brother Thomas was abducted last night.”
Her gut wrenched. “Abducted?”
“Yes. He—”
“How in hell could he be abducted from a monastery?”
“Brother Barnabas was on night duty. Around one-thirty there was someone at the door. When he opened it, three men overpowered him and drugged him with a needle. When all the brothers were assembled, Brother Thomas was gone.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. There was a phone call. A man said that if we notified the police, they would kill Brother Thomas.”
Kate flared. “God DAMMIT!”
The words echoed in the hallowed monastery for the very first time.
“Detective, you can’t report this. Not until we have been contacted about his ransom.”
“Ransom? For a monk? This is about that damn diary!”
Before Methodius could answer, an elderly monk entered. He was frail, nearly skeletal and wore thick glasses. Instead of aged wrinkles, his skin was a sallow parchment drawn over a skull that looked more like a museum artifact. There was a small bandage on the side of his head. Somehow, he looked vaguely familiar to her.
“Father Abbot, is there any more news about Brother Thomas?” he asked nervously.
“Please calm yourself, Brother Simon, or you’ll be back in the hospital.” He introduced them. “Detective, you may also recognize him as Dr. Simon Springer, the famed astrophysicist.”
“Cosmologist,” Brother Simon corrected.
Kate then remembered pictures in the media. The physicist-monk lecturing eminent scientists, his robe standing out in a sea of suits. She indicated his head bandage. “Were you hurt by the kidnappers?”
“No. Do you always jump to conclusions?”
The Abbot smoothly interrupted. “Brother Simon goes to the hospital regularly for dialysis. Last week he fell and injured his head.”
Kate, annoyed by Simon’s comment, pointedly handed her card to Methodius. “My phone numbers, in case you think of something.” She looked from one to the other. “One question. Since they got the diary when they killed Denise Hollander, why abduct Thomas?”
Simon’s look marked her as hopelessly dense. “Obviously, they need him to translate the diary. My God! You’re a detective and didn’t see that?”
CHAPTER THREE
Driving back to town, Kate was unconsciously speeding to match her racing thoughts. Brother Simon, the snotty little shit, was right. The kidnappers needed Thomas to translate, and she totally missed it. Incredible! From habit, she mentally focused to think like the opposition: as long as they needed Thomas, he would stay alive. Would he realize this and stall the translating?
When her homicide department found out about the abduction, it would become a kidnap-hostage situation and be out of her hands. She could already hear the SWAT order to “lock and load.” She knew of a similar scenario from an LAPD counter-terrorist case; the hostage was killed in the rescue attempt. Zero sum: dead terrorists, dead hostage.
She decided to delay and not tell the department about the kidnapping. She would hold off for the next seventy-two hours and work around the clock to find Thomas. But if she was wrong . . . Mother-of-God . . .
