The Crimson Code Page 9

  "I hope you are not too disappointed," he said.

  "No, Jürgen," she said, smiling. "I'm not disappointed at all."

  Guatemalan Highlands

  Miguel Ortiz slipped out of the jungle and arrived at Father Steve Lorenzo's side without giving the priest any sign or sound of his approach. Miguel was the reason the villagers of Dos Ojos had been running for well over a year now. The youth had belonged to a group of rebels who had killed the U.S. ambassador in Guatemala City almost two years ago.

  The police had attacked Miguel's entire town in their effort to find him, and the locals had fought back. Since then, Miguel had joined the townspeople in flight, and the rebels had joined the search for Miguel.

  Everyone wanted a piece of him, it seemed.

  Yet, in repenting his part in the guerrilla operation, Miguel had become a valuable asset to his family and friends. He knew ways to protect them and cover their trail. He had taught others how to keep the women, children and old men safe.

  And he had made his confession to Father Steve, who had long since followed the rule that when God forgave sins, He tossed them into the deepest part of the lake and put up a No Fishing sign. The past was past, and Miguel had atoned.

  The forgiveness of the villagers had been readily given, as well, even though they had lost everything but their lives. But Steve often thought that these people were unusually forgiving, perhaps because they were so downtrodden to begin with. Perhaps because they could easily understand what might drive a young man to do what Miguel had done.

  Or perhaps they were just closer to love.

  Miguel crouched down beside Steve, keeping his voice to a whisper that could barely be heard above the wind in the trees and the night sounds of the teeming forest around them. "We are being followed."

  Steve stiffened, his assignment shooting immediately to the forefront of his mind. "You're sure."

  "Sí." Miguel cocked his head to one side. "About two thousand meters back, Padre."

  "How many?"

  "One man. He is well trained."

  "Are you sure he is after us?"

  Miguel nodded. Starlight caught and reflected from his dark eyes. "He has been following us for days. We must move at once. And we must not make fires again, for they leave a track we cannot hope to cover."

  "He is not that far away. How can we hope to elude him now?"

  "I will do something. But you must wake Paloma and get the others moving immediately. Paloma will know the best way to go." With a jerk of his head he indicated the volcanic peak that barely showed through the trees, and then only because moonlight fell on it. "There are caves. She knows them. Follow her lead. But go at once, Padre. He cannot kill us all, but I am sure there is someone he wants who is among us."

  And none should die anyway, Steve thought as he watched Miguel disappear once again into the shadows. Then, as quietly as he could, he crept over to where Paloma slept.

  Within ten minutes the entire band was on the move, heading straight for the volcano's cone, toward the mountain that belched steam and shook the earth. The mountain that might, at any moment, move beyond rumbles and steam to rain fire and ash and death upon them all.

  But, to quote a military friend's favorite aphorism, that decision was above his pay grade. Steve had accepted the fact that he was just a priest. He was the shepherd of this flock but not their owner. He could guide them, at least spiritually, but decisions of life and death, of the changing of the seasons, of whether a hurricane would sweep through these mountains and bury them all beneath a sliding mound of mud…those were not the decisions of a priest. They were the decisions of God, and God alone.

  Steve thought back to one of the first homilies he could remember from his seminary training, classic in its structure, its clarity and its poetry. Let God be God, the instructing priest had said. Let the Church be the Church. Let me be a priest. The instructor had offered this homily as a model for one that a priest might give to introduce himself to a new parish. But Steve had come to realize that it might serve equally well as a daily prayer.

  He had come to Guatemala on a high mission, to protect the Church from knowledge that might prove embarrassing, or even damaging. But in these past months, wandering the jungle with these companions, he had begun to fall back on that homily and the prayer it encapsulated. It had become a buttress to support the weight of both daily decisions and the larger decision that hung always over him: what he would do if and when he found the Codex.

  Yes, the mountain ahead rumbled, but whether it moved from rumbling to rage was a decision for God. To worry about that was to place himself in the role of God, and he had come to accept that he must let God be God.

  Yes, sooner or later the decision of what to do about the Codex would move from future to present, and with that decision the fate of his church and his faith might seem to lie in his hands. But the Church was bigger than one historical fact, and its protection lay in hands bigger than his. So let the Church be the Church.

  And yes, one day he might face death with these people, whom he had come to think of as his family as well as his flock. When that day came, he knew he could do little but repeat the final stanza of his personal prayer. Let me be a priest.

  As the rain began to fall again, he realized that his prayer encapsulated all the best that he could hope for. A life of simplicity, of service, of love. The many distractions that had once plagued his consciousness fell away like the raindrops that landed on his face. He was where God had put him, doing what the Church had asked of him, endeavoring to serve his flock.

  And that, he knew, was enough.

  10

  Frankfurt, Germany

  Life offered an infinite number of ways to make oneself miserable. Sometimes Renate Bächle believed she had tried them all, at one time or another.

  Memory, however, was one of the most effective. Her past was a book she had been obliged to close after the Frankfurt Brotherhood had tried to kill her and she had joined Office 119. It was also a book best kept closed, because opening it was like Pandora opening the box and releasing all the woes of the world.

  Most of the time she kept the book firmly shut. That Renate was another person, in another time. As far from the person she was now as it was possible to be.

  But as the chilly gray light of dawn began to seep through the sky and into the office, memory demanded its due. The loss of her family had torn away her last private anchor. She might carry out this assignment as if she were content with it, but a fire burned in the pit of her stomach to remind her that this would not be enough. Not ever. She would not rest until she had destroyed the Brotherhood and all its evil influence.

  Guilt was eating her alive. It was because of her that her family was dead. Because of her that her best friend had died. She had dared to go after the Hydra and had yet to clip the heads off any of the snakes. But she would, she vowed. They would pay.

  That cold place in which she had forced herself to live since cutting herself off from her past and joining this organization was beginning to melt. The glacier within her had cracked; she could feel the heat of anger burning it away.

  With a sort of detachment, she forced herself to look at what was happening inside her heart and mind. It was not good. Too much was at stake here for her to lose her cool head.

  But that glacier was made of the frozen waters of loss and grief, and it did indeed want its due. It wanted to be acknowledged, experienced, felt. It wanted to take her back to more innocent days when she had believed the world was a good place and wonderful things were possible. It wanted to return to the days before she had learned that powerful men manipulated the world in secret and considered the rest of humanity to be expendable pawns.

  She heard a faint rustle from the doorway behind her and knew that Law had come to check on her. He was always checking on her, worrying about her, watching over her in some way, since Black Christmas. She had been his mentor during his early days with the office, and now he had becom
e her personal broody hen.

  Part of her didn't mind. Another part of her resented the intrusion he represented into the places she guarded behind icy defenses higher than the Alps. All of her knew it was a dangerous thing, this emotional attachment. They had to work together, and must remain professional for the sake of their work and their lives. There was no room in what they did for personal involvement, not even with him as a broody hen.

  But for this little time, she let it go. Later she would speak of how detachment was necessary to their survival. But right now she needed to know that someone in the world gave a damn about her and the grief that was dangerously near to tearing her apart.

  The rustling came closer, and finally she turned her head to watch his approach. He was wearing sweats, the official pajamas of the group, for at night the entire building temperature was turned down. On his feet he wore thick socks, and in his hands he carried two big mugs of coffee.

  "Care for some?" he asked, offering her one of the mugs.

  "Thank you." She accepted it gratefully and wrapped her icy fingers around its warmth.

  "Can't sleep?" he asked as he settled into a chair nearby. She looked at the brightening sky; he looked at her.

  "It's going to be another gray, cold day," she said, nodding toward the window.

  "Me, neither," he said, answering his own question.

  She looked at him again, taking in his disheveled hair, the pillow crease on his cheek and his general all-American good looks. Whatever his ancestry, it had blended well, giving him none of the identifying features that could label his background.

  "I won't say I'm wired about this operation," he continued, as if they were already in the middle of a conversation. "I've been more wired about other things I've needed to do."

  She responded with a small nod, figuring he needed to talk about some detail of the plan.

  "We've got the blueprints of the building. We've got the best information we can get in general. As black bag jobs go, this isn't the worst. Not the best, but not the worst, either. It'll be tense, though."

  She nodded yet again. He sipped his coffee and stared off into space, as if thinking. Then he shocked her.

  "I'm not sure I trust you."

  Her breath stopped, and her heart slammed. All of a sudden emotion wasn't something to think about; it became the substance of her being. Her anger flared. "How dare you?"

  He held up his hand, shaking his head. "Hold on, Renate. Just let me finish."

  She had to set her mug down; then her fists clenched until her nails bit into her palms. Only by a huge effort of will did she remain silent.

  "I'm not saying you might betray us or that you're a spy for the Brotherhood, or anything like that," he said. "But you have a huge emotional investment in this operation. I know you're not happy with this assignment, and that you'd rather be hunting killers than trying to get proof of the Brotherhood's involvement in Black Christmas. I think you resent the way you've been reined in. And I can't say I blame you."

  She looked at him from hot eyes, still angry. "I always do my job," she told him icily. "Always."

  "I know. That's your reputation. Everyone I've met at Office 119 says the same thing—Renate is the job. It's as if they see you as the perfect Office 119 agent, with no emotions, no distractions, no past and no personhood."

  "And what do you see?" Renate asked, unsure whether she wanted to hear the answer.

  "I see a human being who can be hurt," he said. "And has been. Badly."

  "Tell me," she said, leaning forward to fix him with a stare that, she hoped, would freeze his soul. "How would you feel if you learned they'd killed Miriam Anson?"

  "I'd be furious," he said. "I'd want revenge. She was more than my mentor at the Bureau. She and Terry were the closest I've had to a family since my dad died. And I hope that you would be professional enough—and enough of a friend—to have this same talk with me. Before I went off and did something that might not only get me killed, but might well compromise Office 119 and put all our lives at risk."

  "Is that what you're afraid of?" she asked. "That I might put you in danger?"

  "No," he said. "And certainly not by intent. I'm just reminding you that you're not alone on an island. We may all be dead, Renate, but we're dead together. When I agreed to join this group, I accepted a responsibility. And I don't mean just the job. I mean a responsibility to you and Jefe and Niko and Assif and Margarite and everyone else in this organization. Because if I make a mistake, it won't be just my neck on the line."

  He leaned in, meeting her gaze. "Like it or not, Renate, you did the same thing. You're responsible to us and for us, just as we're responsible to you and for you. You don't have the luxury of rage…or revenge."

  Renate knew he was right. And the fact that he was right only made it worse. "You sound like my father."

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "No, Lawton. You're not sorry. Nor should you be."

  He smiled. "Okay, you're right. I'm not sorry."

  Her thoughts seemed to swirl like the tendrils of cream at the top of her coffee mug. Finally she spoke. "The Brotherhood used my family like pawns on a chessboard. They killed my parents to draw me out. I have to make their deaths mean something. I have to make my friend's death mean something. It's the only honor I can give them. Otherwise, I'm sacrificing them as pawns. And then I'm no better than the bastards who killed them."

  She scrubbed a tear from her cheek, angrily. The glacier was crumbling. She could not afford that. But it was happening, whether she liked it or not.

  "My dad was a great card player," she said. "I knew how to play pot-limit Omaha poker almost before I knew how to read. And I'm good, Lawton. My friends at university had jobs to pay for cars and clothes and pizza. I didn't. I went to the casino on weekends and took money from rich tourists who thought knowing the rules meant knowing the game. And that paid for my car and clothes and pizza."

  "Remind me never to play poker with you," he said, a smile creasing his features.

  "Yes. You shouldn't. But my dad was better. He'd played, and dealt, so many hands in his life. It was as if the cards spoke to him, whispered their secrets to him. He didn't have to calculate how many outs he had or whether the pot odds justified a play. He'd done it so often that it was automatic, like breathing. And he played the game of life the same way."

  "What do you mean?" Lawton asked.

  "He was the wisest man I ever met," she replied. "He always saw through the consequences of every decision. He knew when to take risks, when to play it safe and when to walk away. And he tried to teach me to live the same way.

  "When I was in my first year at university," she continued, "I thought I'd met the perfect man. He was smart and gorgeous, and I thought the sun and the moon spun around him. He was in his last year, about to graduate and move to Berlin. I wanted to leave school and go with him, anything just to be with him."

  "I'm guessing your dad didn't like that," Lawton said with a wry chuckle.

  "You would guess correctly," Renate replied. "But he didn't get angry. That wasn't his way. Instead, he talked about poker. He told me to suppose I'd had a bad run of cards and suddenly I picked up a pair of weak off-suit aces. Would I want to get all my money in the pot before the flop on just a pair of aces with no support? I said of course not. It looks like a good hand, but in Omaha poker it's a hand that can turn to trash very quickly, because the cards don't work together."

  She drew a breath, sipping her coffee. Lawton sat quietly, waiting for her to continue. After another long breath, she spoke.

  "So he looked at me and said, 'Liebchen, if you leave university to go with this young man, you're moving all of your money in on those weak aces. He seems like a good man, but your cards don't all work together. If things don't go well with him, where will you be then?'"

  "Broke," Lawton said.

  "Exactly," she replied, nodding. "If he'd put it any other way, I would have gotten angry and fought with him. But he had tau
ght me poker too well. I knew he was right, and that summer I found out that Herr Perfect had been cheating on me all along. If I'd gone to Berlin with him, I would have been devastated. But my father had shown me how to make the right decision."

  "He was a great dad," Lawton said, smiling.

  "He was. And he adored my mother, and she him." Her voice hardened. "And now they're dead. People like that should not just die and go away. They should not be pawns on a chessboard. Their lives, and their deaths, should mean something. I can't let them have died in vain."

  He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on hers. For the first time in as long as she could remember, it was she who looked away. Outside, the city was waking up, the sounds of trams and automobiles making their way through the window glass, the quiet moans of a city's morning stretch. A year from now, the city, the planet, the universe, would still wake and breathe in their own way, regardless of what she did. Suddenly she felt very small.

  "Renate?" he asked.

  His voice seemed to pull her back into the room, to force her to remember who and where she was.

  "Yes?"

  "Your dad, your mom…" He paused, as if looking for words. "Every time you do the right thing, the wise thing, take the well-considered risk, or play safe, or walk away…they're still alive. Because you're living the values they cherished. You're being the woman they hoped and dreamed you could be. And I'll guarantee you that, to them, there is no higher honor you could give them."

  The tears forced their way out again, but this time she lacked the strength to hold them back. Lawton made no move, simply watching as she felt her head fall into her hands and the sobs begin to rock through her chest. The city woke, the earth spun on its axis and circled the sun, the universe expanded, and all of it unaware of her as she sat and wept.

  And that, her father would have said, was the beauty of the game of life. The cards didn't care into whose hand they were dealt, and she wasn't responsible for which cards fell into her hand. But she was responsible for how she played them. And in this moment, the best play she could find was to cry for the memory of two people who, if only for a moment in the span of the universe, had given her life and love and wisdom beyond measure.