Covenant (12 page)

Ethan dragged the unconscious guard backward into a cubicle and checked that he was breathing clearly again before shutting the door behind him and hurrying back the way they had come. He walked into Karowitz’s office, and Flint turned to look at him.

Ethan wasted no time. Even as Flint’s jaw opened to ask where his colleague was, Ethan strode forward a pace and shot a fast left jab. Flint was quick, but not quite quick enough for the unexpected blow that caught him just above his left eye. As Flint’s head flicked backward and sideways, Ethan swung a roundhouse right that smashed across his temple with a loud crack. Flint’s legs quivered as he toppled across a desk and slumped onto the carpeted floor.

Rachel’s eyes flew wide. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Ethan turned to Karowitz.

“Which one of the fossil hunters you mentioned is most likely to have known where Lucy was?”

Karowitz stared in shock at the fallen guard.

“Bill Griffiths,” he stammered weakly. “He’s staying in Beit Hakarem, not far from here. Hassim Khan in Gaza might know too, but I haven’t heard from him in a week.”

Ethan approached Karowitz and clicked his fingers in the Belgian’s face to focus his attention.

“I need you to tell me the truth: what’s the chance that what Lucy found was just some kind of deformed human skeleton?”

“Zero,” Karowitz said confidently. “Lucy would have easily identified any kind of forgery or deformation of natural remains.”

Ethan turned, grabbed Rachel’s hand, and yanked her out of the lecture hall.

“You’re insane,” she snapped, struggling against his grip.

“If you want to find Lucy, we need to lose these MACE goons,” Ethan said, releasing her. “You can either stay here with them or come with me. Your call, but I’m leaving now.”

Ethan set off without her, suppressing a smile as he heard her run in pursuit.

“I just know I’m going to regret this,” Rachel muttered as they hurried out of the university compound.

THE REFLECTING POOL
NATIONAL MALL, WASHINGTON DC

T
hank you for seeing me at such short notice, Byron.”

A humid, overcast sky was reflected upon the glassy surface of the Potomac River in the same tones as the steel-gray-haired man with whom Kelvin Patterson shook hands. Byron Stone was a sepulchral, gaunt figure with frosty turquoise eyes who towered over the diminutive pastor.

The two men sat down on a bench overlooking the river.

“How is the boy?” Stone asked in a broad Texan accent.

“He is safe. For obvious reasons I could not bring him with me today.”

The Texan nodded slowly, though Patterson could not tell whether it was a sign of regret or relief.

“He’s safer at the institute,” Stone replied before casting a serious gaze at the pastor, “and reliant upon your care, Kelvin.”

“I never wanted him there. He is your responsibility.”

“Some responsibilities are best shared. Agreed?”

Byron Stone was the son of the legendary Bradley Stone, a Texan oil prospector turned munitions salesman who had built himself a small empire from the profits of conflict. Munitions for Advanced Combat Environments, or MACE, had grown from a minor arms developer in the 1950s to a major defense contractor by the 1990s. Bradley Stone—a whiskey-drinking, cigar-smoking womanizer—had run himself into an early grave just two years after his long-suffering wife had expired into hers. Thus, Byron had inherited the business and reached out into the burgeoning private security industry, providing former military soldiers as security advisors for companies across America and Europe. The fact that MACE had been investigated on numerous occasions for alleged atrocities in both Iraq and Afghanistan had not stalled the company’s growth, but costly investments in developing a series of remotely operated aircraft called Valkyrie that had failed to achieve production orders were crushing MACE beneath unbearable financial burdens. Once a giant, MACE was now struggling, a fact not lost on Patterson when he had acquired the controlling share of the company. He had known Byron for almost twenty years and had ministered to Bradley Stone for a decade before that, for what little good it had done. Now, he guided MACE policy.

The pastor looked out across the river as he spoke. “The situation in the Senate has not proceeded quite as we expected it to.”

“That is your responsibility,” Stone drawled.

“Only for now,” Patterson reminded him. “The current administration’s search for a peaceful resolution to the Middle East problem continues to hinder both of our causes.”

Stone shook his head slowly.

“Our causes, or yours? Your power comes from the tithes of your faithful flock, not from the puppets you orchestrate in the Senate.”

“Senator Black’s success is key to our own, and Israel’s future may depend upon his ascension.”

“Israel and Palestine are committed to each other’s destruction. That’s been the way of things for the last fifty years and it ain’t gonna change overnight.”

Patterson frowned.

“This is a conflict between what is right and wrong. A divided Jerusalem is a divided nation of God.”

“Everything this administration has done is a disgrace,” Stone agreed. “The emasculation of America by limp-dicked liberal hippies.”

Patterson managed to ignore the profanity, speaking softly.

“Israel must ensure its survival in the Holy Lands.”

“Israel can take care of itself. If the Arabs want to blow themselves to hell, then let ’em. We’re just providing the hardware.”

“And if the conflict should end?”

Byron Stone ignored the pastor for a moment, pausing to light a thick cigar that spiraled hot smoke into the already humid air around them. He dribbled a thick stream of aromatic fumes from between his lips to hang over the listless water.

“As long as Senator Black supports the export of arms and promotes a policy of zero tolerance toward terrorist-supported governments, we both win.”

“How can I be sure that you will honor your part of the bargain?” Patterson asked. “I don’t want your people dropping rocks if they get too hot.”

Stone’s eyelid twitched. “You sayin’ I don’t got the balls for this?”

“I’m asking if you have the
will.
”

The Texan’s features creased into a thin smile as he examined the glowing tip of his cigar.

“I would say that we have mutually assured destruction, wouldn’t you?”

Patterson nodded. “And the experiments?”

Byron Stone worked his jaw silently for a moment before speaking.

“Rapid hypothermic surgical response to battlefield trauma is a useful addition to MACE’s armory, but it’s not essential and your goddamn experiments sure as hell aren’t. I’m not willing to risk a federal investigation here in DC.”

“Security for the experiments was part of the bargain when I bailed MACE out,” Patterson reminded him. “Thirty million Americans follow my church. Think how many will follow it if these endeavors succeed.”

“I think you put far too much faith in the power of your flock,” Stone murmured, “and not enough thought into how you’re using it.”

“You have the photographs?” Patterson demanded, and grabbed the envelope Stone handed him with greedy hands, flicking through the images. “My God, look at it,” he marveled. “Look at the chest plate, built to support wings, and the cranial cavity, a brain far larger than our own. A Nephilim, a fallen angel of God.”

Stone drew on his cigar. “Whatever.”

“Science supports it,” Patterson said with quiet confidence. “We have already extracted the mitochondrial DNA from the other fragments we’ve acquired, and the full genome is not far behind. This will change the face of humanity forever.”

“Strange,” Stone murmured, “how your church denies science with one breath and yet embraces it with the next.”

Patterson struggled to cope with Stone’s ignorance. That any man could display such indifference to the divine staggered him.

“We’re searching for creation, searching for the face of God. What greater purpose can there be than finding the cause of everything in our universe and communicating with it? How can we sit on the precipice of discovery and not act when we have the chance to prove the divinity of the Lord?”

A long silence ensued as the Texan inhaled deeply upon his cigar, expelling blue smoke in diaphanous whorls.

“Do you have faith, Pastor?” Stone asked finally, as he stared out over the Potomac.

“I have absolute faith,” Patterson replied instantly. “God is always with me.”

Stone smiled without warmth. “If that were truly so, you wouldn’t need these experiments of yours, would you?”

Patterson kept his gaze fixed on Stone. “I seek only confirmation,” he insisted, “for the sake of all manki—”

“You seek proof because you’re not sure,” the Texan interrupted. “People who claim absolute conviction without evidence are setting themselves up for a fall. Don’t wish too hard,” he said with a cold smile, “you don’t know what you might find.”

“Our influence is waning,” Patterson lamented. “Americans do not worship with the passion of previous generations. There have been too many scandals, too much corruption, too many empty promises. The people are turning to personal faith and this is the only way to save them from the abyss, to prove that what we believe is true by cloning these remains and resurrecting an angel on Earth, a Nephilim.”

“I’m in this for the money,” Stone said as he stood, “not for heavenly glory or your supposed salvation.”

“A pity,” Patterson said, “that you place money above faith. It would be a shame to see MACE assets sold off to avoid bankruptcy.”

Stone glared at Patterson for a long beat before flicking the smoldering butt of his cigar into the Potomac.

“MACE will continue to protect your grotty little experiments—for now—but if you push this too far, you’ll end up exposing us all, and then you can go to hell for your protection.”

Byron Stone turned his back and strode away down the path beside the river.

JERUSALEM

T
he golden dome of the Al-Aqsa Mosque shone like a second sun against the hard blue sky in the distance as Ethan hurried Rachel through the Old City. While Rachel was distracted by the sights and sounds around them, Ethan instead struggled to conceal conflicting emotions that rushed upon him in waves. Long forgotten images of these packed streets and the throng of life in a city where the three great monotheistic faiths met in a potpourri of holy worship and primal hate flushed through his mind.

Orthodox Jews in black coats and fox-fur hats weaved their way toward the Western Wall past Palestinian street hawkers touting their wares. Tiny shops wedged into recesses in alleys sold Jewish menorahs, olive-wood crucifixes, and ornamental plates depicting the Al-Aqsa Mosque. The air was filled with the hushed murmur of Hebrew and the musical ripple of Arabic echoing down endless alleys. Amid the human traffic darted dozens of cats, and the meat market scented the air with the odor of a bewildering array of foods. Incense wafted from churches and the potent aroma of roasting Arabic coffee drifted through the narrow walkways, competing with the pungent reek of rotting vegetables and all of it filling Ethan with a regret-stained nostalgia.

Forget it, Ethan. There was nothing here but misery then and there’s nothing new here now. This is a city of suffering and always has been.

Ethan’s perception started to change. Groups of different faiths walked together for safety under the watchful eyes of Israeli soldiers cradling assault rifles. Children skittered on bare feet through the alleys, their faces smudged with grime. Ethan heard the sounds of the city haunting his past; the warbling Muslim call to prayer drifting from minarets at dusk across the ancient rooftops, the bells of the Holy Sepulchre Church, and the mournful horn announcing the start of the Sabbath.

As he turned a corner, he looked up past the bobbing swathes of turbans and Hasidic Kipots and saw a brief flare of blond hair. Ethan froze, his eyes locked onto the shining hair as an image of Joanna blazed brightly in his mind. He changed direction, lurching through the crowd toward the woman drifting past stalls near an ancient stone wall.