Michael stepped toward Anne, relieved by her greeting. He’d been standing outside waiting for quite some time and his feet in the thin-soled shoes were heavy with the cold. He’d telephoned her several more times during the week, but she never returned his calls. He hadn’t known what to think, except that her family had convinced her he was somehow involved in Cynthia’s death. He’d been afraid she would think he was stalking her or some nonsense like that, but he was determined to see her. Their business was just too important to allow potential embarrassment or even legal trouble to stop him.
Her face had brightened at the sight of him—at least he hoped he was not imagining it—and now she stood in front of him, or at least behind a rather intimidating man in a dark suit who was looking at him with cold, detached eyes.
“It’s all right. He’s a friend,” he heard Anne’s voice explaining.
The man turned and whispered in Anne’s ear. She nodded and turned back to Michael. “Would you mind terribly going with this gentleman for a moment? He’ll escort you to my car.”
Michael hesitated, looking from what looked like a Secret Service agent to Anne. He saw a slight movement of her eyes toward the press, who had already snapped a few tentative pictures. “Oh, of course,” he said, and followed the agent inside.
The man walked into the manager’s office behind the front desk and motioned for Michael to follow. Once they were both inside, the agent shut the door.
“Empty your pockets, please, sir.”
Michael, though a bit offended, complied.
The agent sorted through his keys and change, then produced a small metal wand that he passed over Michael’s body. He nodded. “You may come with me, sir.”
Michael returned the items to his pockets, then followed the man into the garage. Anne’s limousine was pulled over to the side, waiting. The man opened the back door for Michael, who got in next to Anne. Then, to his even greater surprise, the agent got in behind him and sat on the opposite seat facing them. All in all, Michael counted four security men in the car.
He turned to Anne, “Did I miss the announcement? Are you running for president?”
“I’m so sorry.” Anne looked distinctly uncomfortable. “After the break-in, my family insisted I take every precaution.”
At his hesitant nod, she went on, “We’ve had an assassination in the family, remember, and other attempts in the past that are not generally known about.”
Michael looked from Anne to the two Secret Service agents, who now were scanning the streets as the car drove off, studiously ignoring the two.
“Don’t worry. They won’t disturb us,” she said.
Michael gave a short laugh, “Won’t disturb us? But they’re right here. I was hoping to talk to you.”
“Go ahead. They aren’t going to leave me alone.”
“Okay, then. May I ask why you haven’t returned my phone calls?”
“Calls?”
“You haven’t gotten any of my messages?”
Anne shook her head, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead.
“I’ve called you at least six times.”
“I can’t imagine why no one gave me your messages. That’s certainly not like the staff.”
Michael sat back against the leather seat. He felt disoriented, rather like a rabbit scooped up by an eagle. “Well, I have an idea.” As he said this, he noticed one of the men in the front seat studying him through the mirror on the back of the visor. He turned back to Anne. “Can we go somewhere to talk where we might have a bit more privacy?”
Anne chuckled. “They do take some getting used to.” She addressed one of the agents. “Is there some place that’s been cleared for us?”
He turned to the driver. “Take us to the St. Anthony’s Club.”
Michael looked down at his casual shirt and pants with dismay, then up into Anne’s blue eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “we’ll go to a private room. I mean, you look fine. It’s just that—well, we want some privacy. Then we can talk.”
They settled back and Michael tried to enjoy the ride, only now seeing the luxurious appointments of the automobile. It was equipped with a television, phone, computer jack, and bar, and the leather of the seat was smooth to his touch. He glanced at Anne, her oval face soft above her navy-blue business suit. He wanted to talk, but held his peace.
When they arrived at the club, Anne spoke to the maitre d’, who quickly ushered them past open rooms with lush carpets, fine furniture, and perfectly polished chandeliers into a private suite furnished with a luxurious sectional couch in front of a gas fireplace. Behind the couch next to windows overlooking Central Park stood a dining table. Off to the left was a rather elaborate bathroom.
“We don’t wish to be disturbed,” Anne told the man who’d shown them to the room.
“As you wish, madam.”
She turned to Michael. “Would you like something?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” Michael looked around, a bit lost.
Anne turned to the waiter. “Nothing, then.”
“As you wish, madam.”
Michael had the fleeting thought that if she ordered an assault rifle, the man would repeat the same phrase with the same neutral look on his face.
The man left and Anne turned to the one remaining security guard. “Can we be alone, please, Arnold?”
Arnold favored Michael with a particularly dark look, then said to Anne, “I’ll be right on the other side of that door.”
“Thank you, Arnold. He’s been frisked.”
Still he hesitated.
“I think with our sessions I can handle him,” she joked, but Arnold only glared at Michael once more, then left the room.
Once they were alone, Michael found that the words were now stuck in his throat. He sat kitty-cornered to Anne on the sectional, staring at his hands.
In a gentler voice, Anne asked, “So you called me? Was there something particular you wanted to talk about?”
Michael looked up to see Anne’s blue eyes lit with amusement.
“Now that we’re alone, I’m having trouble thinking where to begin. I’ve never had an experience quite like this before.” He pointed to the closed door.
“I guess it is odd. I’ve been around the Secret Service all my life.” She shrugged. “You said you had an idea why your messages didn’t reach me?”
Michael felt his stomach tighten, but he plunged ahead. “Yes, I do. I’m afraid I have a confession to make.”
A confession?”
“Yes.” Suddenly, he blushed. “I, uh . . . well, you see . . .” He stumbled to a stop.
Anne blushed, too. “Well, I can’t say I hadn’t noticed.”
“No, it’s not that.”
Anne flushed and sat back on the sofa, back straight, arms crossed.
He rushed on. “I mean, yes, there is that, but there’s more. Much more.”
Anne sat watching him, but he couldn’t make out what she was feeling. “Go on.”
“Well, you see, as it turns out, when you first came to my uncle’s shop, I didn’t recognize you at first. I mean, I’d never met you, but as you described your grandmother’s jewelry collection, I began to suspect you were a member of an important family, spiritually that is. You weren’t the first member of that family I’d had dealings with. You see, I knew your Aunt Cynthia.”
Anne’s face didn’t change, but Michael felt as if the room had grown colder. “You knew Aunt Cynthia?”
Yes.” Michael studied his hands for a moment, then took a deep breath, feeling like he was about to jump off a high dive. “Cynthia consulted with a spiritual group I work with from time to time. She was searching for a contact, someone who would know the answers to some questions she had.”
“Yes.” Anne’s face was the picture of neutrality.
Damn these politicians, Michael thought, then said aloud, “She was looking for information about the crystal.”
“So you knew about the crystal before I even mentioned it.”
“Yes, but I had no idea who it had passed to. I was delighted that circumstance had brought you to me, and I wanted to talk to you immediately, but you seemed not to understand its significance.” He looked into Anne’s eyes. “I’m very sorry I kept things from you, but I felt it was necessary at the time. I didn’t understand how you could be in possession of such a powerful artifact and not know anything about it. I had to be cautious.”
“So your interest has always been professional.” Anne’s voice wavered slightly.
“Yes, I mean, no. Oh, damn it!” Michael stood up and started to pace in front of the fireplace. “The last time we talked, you seemed more open. You came to my lecture. You told me your family was training you.”
“I never said that to you.”
Michael stopped in mid-stride. “You’re right. I assumed it. Was I wrong?”
Anne was quiet for a minute, then simply said, “Go on.”
“I was worried about you after we discovered the robbery. I called, but your phone had been disconnected. I called your office and was put through to a Mr. Abernathy.”
“Dr.” Anne corrected him out of habit.
“Yes, Dr. Abernathy. It seems he’d discovered my connection to Cynthia and assumed the worst.”
Anne’s eyes widened. “The worst?”
“Yes, he warned me not to try contacting you. He said he was going to have me investigated.”
“Investigated? For what?”
“I thought Cynthia died from a heart attack, but based on what he said, I think he suspects foul play.”
“And he suspects you?”
“Apparently. Anne, I swear to you, I had nothing to do with Cynthia’s death. I was trying to help her discover the other keys and the secret of their use.”
Anne took in a sharp breath. “You know about the other keys?”
“I know there are six crystals, that they must be used together, and soon.”
“February first.”
Michael stared at her. “Thank God you know.”
“But how did you know?”
Michael shook his head in frustration. “There is so much to tell you.” He sat back on the couch and took a deep breath. “I’m also a member of a secret spiritual organization, one that goes back many centuries, one that passes on knowledge much as your family does.” He paused; then he closed his eyes and asked, Is this the time to tell her? Immediately, he felt a warm glow in his chest, a clear affirmation.
He opened his eyes and looked again at her, this woman he’d worked with centuries in the past, this woman he’d loved before, this woman he knew he loved now. He pulled on a chain hidden by his collar and out came a crystal very similar in size and shape to her own, only topped with a Mogen David.
Anne stared at him, dumbfounded.
“It was no coincidence that you came to my uncle’s shop. We were destined to meet. Cynthia knew I held a matching crystal and we tried to find out more information. She sent me a message that she’d discovered something, but I never got the chance to find out what.”
Anne stared at him, her eyes filled to the brim with unshed tears.
He pressed on. “Tomorrow, I’m leaving for Israel to consult with the man I sent her to. He’ll be able to tell me what he told her. Then we’ll know more about how to use the crystals.”
“Your group doesn’t know?”
“We know some things. Cynthia and I shared some information, but we don’t have time for that now. They all work together somehow. Together they will turn the key.”
“But to what?” Anne asked.
“We aren’t certain of that either, but we think it is February first, like I said.”
“That’s so soon. How will we ever be able to figure it out?”
Michael looked deep into her eyes. The walls were limestone, carved with figures and hieroglyphs. They stood on steps just outside a temple. It was near dawn. He felt a heavy sadness.
He felt Anne remembering the same moment.
“It was you,” she said.
“Yes, I came to you,” he said.
“What did you give me?”
“It was in Egypt.”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other.
Michael spoke first. “I knew you were the one.”
Anne shook her head. “I wish people would stop saying that. I’m the one playing catch-up. At least you’ve known this all your life. I’m trying to cram a life’s worth of learning into six weeks.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. My mother forbade the family to tell me anything.”
Michael frowned. “How could she do that?”
“She thought she was saving me from feeling like a freak when I was a teenager. And I think she was jealous of her sister’s talent.”
Michael snorted. “The things we allow to get in our way.”
Anne nodded. “Michael, how will we ever do this?”
Michael took her hands in his. “We must trust that everything will come together. Just look at the miracles that have unfolded so far. You found me. Your family has told you the truth about your ancestry and you’ve started learning.” He paused, considering whether he should say more, but now was not the time for secrets between them. “Anne, you aren’t learning these things, but remembering them. You’ve been very powerful in the past. I’m sure of it.”
She smiled. “Let’s hope that person takes over when the time comes.”
He nodded. “We’ll pray for divine intervention. You must come to Egypt.”
I know. They’re making arrangements to send me soon.”
“I’ll find a way to contact you when I know something.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks. Be careful.” He opened the door and saw four security men standing there. He wished he could borrow one.
☥☥☥
Karl Mueller sat in a well-appointed office across the desk from Spender, whose lean, sharp face was lit by his desk lamp.
I followed enough of Paul Marchant’s calculations to be sure he can do the job,” Mueller reported.
“Why didn’t you get them?” Spender took out an expensive cigar and clipped the end.
“We still need the sound codes.”
Spender favored him with a glance, then lit his cigar and took a long draw. “Always get as much as you can, Mr. Mueller, even if we already have it.”
Mueller nodded, showing no reaction to this criticism. He accepted the chain of command.
“And the girl?”
“Anne is holed up in the family compound. We were able to place a few cameras and confirm she has the crystal before our monitors were discovered. She did make a public appearance, but was surrounded by Secret Service and family security.” Mueller kept his gaze as neutral as his voice. When there was no comment, he continued. “On her way out, she met with Michael Levy. We’ve been observing him closely. He plans to leave the country tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Spender turned to one of the computers behind him and touched a button. The screen lit up, revealing a travel itinerary. “January first he flies to Jerusalem on El Al, leaving at 2:22 P.M. from La Guardia, arriving the next morning. The following week, he’ll continue to Egypt. His return ticket is booked for February third. Now what do you suppose is so important to our Mr. Levy that he would risk a trip to Israel in the midst of these violent and uncertain times?”
“He’s retracing Cynthia Le Clair’s footsteps. One of our best men is trailing him. We must discover what the Egyptian contact knows. Then we can get the crystals.”
“Why not bring in the contact?”
Mueller looked at Spender for a moment, then replied in the same flat voice. “I prefer to leave no trace, sir. To abduct a well-known Egyptian citizen could bring attention.” He shifted his feet. “But if those are your orders . . .” He ended this thought with a sweep of his hand.
Spender laughed and put down his cigar. “I agree. What about the other crystals?”
“We are aware of the location of three. We have a reasonable scenario that places a fourth somewhere in the Middle East, but not with the old Kabbalist. Two seem ‘lost in the mists of time’ is the phrase our researchers used, I believe.”
Spender’s eyes narrowed. “As they may be if they don’t find the keys.” He fixed his gaze on Mueller. “You must bring the crystals together on the first of February. Otherwise we may lose control of the situation.” He paused, then punctuated his next words with stabs of his forefinger. “If you do not succeed, the result will be worse than death.”
“Yes, sir.” Mueller knew this was no idle threat. He’d seen Alexander Cagliostro at work.
“We killed this Jew before, you and I. Do you remember?”
Mueller shook his head. He avoided the mystical side of things, preferring to work with what could be seen.
Mr. Spender leaned forward and spoke with emphasis. “This time we must destroy his soul.”
Pure hate flashed through Mueller, which he quickly subdued.
“We’ve set up this conference as a cover. Even the people producing it don’t realize where their money is coming from. Both of them will speak. Perhaps this will lure the others out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be there.”
Mueller left the meeting and went straight to Michael Levy’s apartment building. He thought of calling for backup, but decided he’d rather handle this alone. After half an hour of surveillance, Michael walked out the front door of the building and headed for the subway. Mueller waited five minutes before he got out of his car and strolled across the street. He passed the front door, continued around the corner of the building, and then, checking to be certain he was unobserved, entered the alley.
He wrapped his hand in a piece of cloth and broke a basement window. He slid through, careful of the glass. Using the back stairs, he ran up seven flights. Michael’s apartment door, secured with five locks, presented no challenge. Once inside, he put on latex gloves and began to search methodically, carefully noting the exact position of each item before he touched it. Everything had to be returned to its precise position. If he was lucky, Michael had headed to Times Square for New Year’s Eve, but he doubted it. Michael wasn’t the type.
It was a two-bedroom apartment with a large living room, no view to speak of, and a narrow kitchen. One bedroom was sparsely furnished—a bed, dresser, nightstand, and lamp—but the walls were lined with bookcases. A half-packed suitcase lay in the middle of the bed. The other bedroom served as an office. Overstuffed bookcases covered two of the walls, and under the window stood a desk crowded with papers, a wild assortment of news articles copied off the Net, New Age magazines, a few astrological charts, and letters. Not bothering to read anything, Mueller took out a small camera and snapped pictures of the charts and letters. Thinking of his recent dressing-down, he also took pictures of the articles.
He turned to the file cabinets in the corner. In the third drawer, he found a whole section on crystals. Knowing he didn’t have time to record everything, he began to scan, looking for references to Egypt and Orion, as he’d been instructed. He snapped pictures of all the information he found. He also took pictures of the bookcases, so the eggheads could retrace Michael’s knowledge base.
Mueller checked his watch. He’d been in the apartment just under an hour. He had no idea if he had the rest of the night or one more minute. Next he systematically checked for safes by running a scanner over all the walls and insides of the closets. No hidden compartments. He examined the suitcase, looked for a false bottom, and carefully unpacked the clothes. Finding nothing, he replaced them just as they’d been before he’d touched them. He looked through the dresser and nightstand, and scanned the mattress. He examined the lamp to see if it contained a secret section. Nothing.
He moved his search to the kitchen, going through all Michael’s food in the cabinets, refrigerator, and freezer. He searched under drawers, inside pots, in the garbage, even the garbage disposal. Just as he’d started searching the bathroom, he heard footsteps and a key inserted into the lock. He stepped into the bathtub and pulled the shower curtain closed.
The door creaked a little as it was pushed open, and Mueller heard footsteps heading into the living room. After a minute, classical music played softly. Next, footsteps sounded in the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened and liquid was poured. With the utmost care, Mueller finished his sweep of the bathroom, waiting for an opportunity to leave. He hadn’t found the crystal or a potential hiding place for it. A toiletry bag sat next to the sink. Mueller searched it, listening carefully, but heard nothing.
Suddenly, the phone rang. Mueller stood perfectly still, a bottle of shaving gel in his hand. He heard Michael walk toward the office.
“Hello.” Michael’s voice was muffled.
Mueller breathed a sigh of relief. His escape would be simple. He pushed open the bathroom door and looked around.
Michael’s voice carried from the other room. “Guy, thank you for calling.”
Michael’s coat was thrown over the back of the sofa. A glass of orange juice sat on the coffee table.
“Yes, I’ll be sure to ask about that when I see him.”
Mueller checked Michael’s coat for the crystal, then slipped out the door of the apartment. He must be carrying the stone, and it was too early in their plans to take it from him by force. Mueller looked around, but no one was in the hallway. He took the back stairs to the alley and returned to his car by a different route.
☥☥☥
On New Year’s Day, just three days before he was scheduled to leave for Egypt, Paul Marchant fulfilled an obligation he didn’t look forward to. He visited his mother. Not that she would know it; she had advanced Alzheimer’s. When he was in town, Marchant visited her every week, watching her lose her memory, her ability to care for herself, her sense of self. If anyone had asked why he saw her so regularly, he’d be at a loss to answer, but there was no one to ask such a question. Perhaps he went because he wondered if he would suffer the same fate and thought that watching the progression of the illness would somehow provide a talisman against it. He noticed that if he didn’t visit when he could, his concentration suffered, and this he could not tolerate, particularly now.
Mrs. Marchant was seated in her favorite chair in front of a south-facing window that looked out onto a small park. An old spreading oak stood next to the building, its bare branches making a latticework for the sky. Wrapped in a blue robe with matching blue slippers, Mrs. Marchant was quietly talking to herself. “Now, Jacob, you know how much I liked that drive we took the other day. Can’t we go again? I get tired of being cooped up in this house all day long.” She paused and looked vaguely through watery blue eyes at her son.
“Hello,” he said. He’d stopped calling her mother. It only confused her.
“Hello, young man.” She turned back to her conversation with her long-dead husband. “Jacob, do you know where I left my knitting?” She looked down at her hands. “I just had it, but I seem to have misplaced it.”
“How are you today?” Marchant asked.
Mrs. Marchant looked back at the son she didn’t recognize and asked, “Have you seen my knitting? I seem to have misplaced it.”
“I’m sorry, no.” Marchant pulled up a chair beside his mother, took her hand, and sat looking out the window. His mother resumed her private conversation, but he took no notice. He felt oddly content sitting with her, watching the winter sparrows outside jump from branch to branch, fluffed up against the cold.
A nurse came by and greeted Marchant. “She’s still doing well physically. Her mind is about the same, but she hasn’t had any more episodes for a few weeks.”
He thanked the nurse. It amused him that they called the fits of rage or uncontrollable weeping his mother was subject to “episodes.” After a time, Marchant began to talk. He believed that although his mother’s mind was badly impaired, her spirit was still present, so some part of her would understand him. “I’m going to be leaving the country in a couple of days. I wanted you to know I won’t be visiting for a while. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
She looked at him and smiled. “Hello,” she said. Then she turned back to gaze out the window.
“I’m going to do what I came to this Earth to do,” he said, thinking it ironic that now he could tell his mother the truth about his life. “I’m going to recover the knowledge of ancient Atlantis.”
Mrs. Marchant turned her head and looked at her son for a long moment. Something seemed to flicker at the bottom of her eyes.
“If I can find a way to heal you, I will.” Marchant’s throat felt constricted. I better not be catching a cold, he thought. He stood to go. “Good-bye,” he said and kissed her on the forehead. As he began to walk away, he heard his mother’s voice.
“Be careful of these men, Paul. They don’t mean you any good.”
Stunned, he turned on his heel to stare at his mother, but the clarity left as quickly as it had come. Her gaze became confused. “Have you seen my knitting?” she asked.
“I’ll have someone bring it to you.”
“You’re a good boy.”
Marchant’s eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. He pulled himself straighter, blinking them away. “Thank you,” he said and turned to leave.