Crisscross rj-8 Page 12

  Thank Noomri you didn't, Jensen thought. His sham fusion would have been revealed.

  Brady leaned back in his chair. "As I'm sure you know, I spent Sunday night in the mountains, to be alone with my xelton and recharge my spirit. I needed the rest."

  Jensen nodded. Brady spent a lot of Sunday nights at his place upstate in the woods.

  "You must come with me sometime." Brady's eyes unfocused as he smiled. "I've moved The Compendium up there and was reading it again. It thrills me every time."

  The Compendium … the most wonderful, amazing, magical book Jensen had ever seen or read or imagined. He longed to see it again, touch it, flip through its pages. In his darkest moment of faltering faith in the goals and beliefs of the Church, Luther Brady had shown him The Compendium and all doubts had vanished like smoke.

  Jensen wanted to say, Yes, yes, invite me to see The Compendium again, but Brady's next words stopped him.

  "After reading The Compendium we can float together above the forest. It's so peaceful to watch the wildlife from above."

  Jensen's tongue felt suddenly thick and dry. Levitate? His heart fell. No… that would never do. But he had to look upbeat.

  "I look forward to it."

  "But let's put that aside." Brady straightened in his chair. "What did you want to see me about?"

  Here goes, Jensen thought.

  He recited the facts: Someone had tried to join under a false name. He turned out to be Jason Amurri, son of Aldo Amurri.

  "Unbelievable! Aldo Amurri's son!"

  "You've heard of him?"

  "Of course. He's a very wealthy and important man. We could suffer a lot of bad press because of this. And we may have lost a well-heeled contributor to boot. Does the son have any money?"

  Jensen licked his lips. "Some."

  "How much?" The words sounded more like a threat than a question.

  Jensen showed him the printout of the financial breakdown Margiotta had found on the Internet.

  Brady went livid, right up to his dyed hairline and no doubt beyond. Jensen had known the boss would be mad, but not this mad.

  "I didn't know any of this at the time," he said. "How could I?"

  "You took a man worth two-hundred-million dollars and kicked him out the door!"

  In addition to being the Church's APR and SO, Brady was also its CFO, and as such he was always on the prowl for cash to fund Church projects—one Church project in particular.

  Were Jensen not Grand Paladin, were he not in a position to know about Opus Omega, he might have been disillusioned. But knowing about the Opus changed everything, and explained the Church's need of a constant stream of cash.

  "All I knew was that he'd given us a false name and address and was causing a violent scene in his first Reveille Session. That fits the criteria for instant UP. Criteria you laid down yourself, I might add."

  Brady gave him a brief, hostile look, then swiveled his chair toward the windows. Jensen let out a breath. He'd done everything by the book; that, at least, was in his favor.

  Brady stayed turned for a good minute, giving Jensen time to reflect on how far he'd come from Nigeria to be sitting here with such a powerful man.

  He'd been born Ajayi Dokubo and spent his earliest years in a poor village in southwest Nigeria near the Benin border; his people spoke Yoruba and sacrificed rams to Olorun. When he was five his father moved the family to Lagos where Jensen learned English, the official language of Nigeria. At age nine his father uprooted them again, this time to the U.S. To Chicago.

  His old man survived long enough to see to it that his son became a U.S. citizen, then wound up the victim of a fatal mugging. Jensen survived a turbulent, fatherless, rough-and-tumble adolescence that landed him in trouble with the law. A Southside cop, an ex-marine named Hollis, had given him a choice: Join the army or go to court.

  He joined up just in time to be sent to Iraq for the first Gulf War where he killed an Iraqi in a firefight and liked it. Liked it too much, maybe. Killed two more and that would have been okay except that the last one was trying to surrender at the time. That didn't set too well with his lieutenant and he was given another choice—honorable discharge or face charges.

  So he returned to the streets again, this time in New York City. Being black, with no education, his options were few. So it had to happen: He got in with a rough crew that was dealing drugs, boosting and fencing electronics, smuggling cigarettes, the usual. Because of his size, Jensen became their go-to guy when strong-arm stuff was called for. Mostly it was punch-ups, maybe breaking a leg or two. But then came the day they decided someone needed killing.

  Jensen had been game. So he'd found the target in a bar and cracked his skull with a pool cue. His mistake had been being so public about it. He was picked up for the murder but the cops had to release him when the witnesses developed amnesia.

  Coming that close to a jolt in the joint had shaken him to the point where he decided it was time to turn his life around.

  He'd lived by his wits for most of his life, never looking to rule the world, just to be comfortable without doing a nine-to-five grind. Now he was willing to get on the treadmill. But he needed direction.

  He found it when he saw Luther Brady on Oprah!—his girlfriend at the time never missed that damn show—and the more Jensen listened, the more he knew Dormentalism was what he'd been looking for.

  To seal the deal with himself to leave his old ways behind, Ajayi

  Dokubo changed his surname lo a simple one he'd picked out of a phone book: Jensen. He never used his first name, treated it as if it didn't exist. He became Jensen—period.

  As for Dormentalism, it didn't turn out to be what he'd originally thought, but it was indeed what he'd been looking for.

  He might have screwed that up too if not for Luther Brady.

  He still remembered the day he'd been called into Brady's office and confronted with his arrest record. He'd expected to be declared UP, but instead—because of his military experience, Brady said—he was made a TP. Brady went even further by paying his tuition to John Jay College of Criminal Justice where he earned an associate degree in security management. Jensen was still attending part time, working toward a BA.

  In the five years since Brady had appointed him Grand Paladin, Jensen had taken the job personally. Luther Brady had had more faith in him than he'd had in himself. He couldn't think of anything he wouldn't do for the man.

  "Well, what do we do?" Jensen said.

  "'We'?" Brady's eyebrows levitated a good half inch. " 'We' are doing nothing. You, however, are going to get this Jason Amurri back here."

  That wasn't going to be easy. They hadn't exactly parted buddies.

  "And don't," Brady added, "let on that we know who he really is."

  "How am I supposed to do that? I can't call the Ritz Carlton and get his room without knowing he's Jason Amurri."

  Brady jabbed a finger at him. "I don't care. Beg, plead, go to his hotel and offer him a ride on your shoulders if you have to, but I want him back here tomorrow! Get to it. Now."

  Jensen stewed as he made the trip back to his office. How the hell was he going to—?

  The application! Maybe this turkey had left a working contact number.

  He rummaged through the papers on his desk. Yes! Here it was, with a 212 area code.

  He buzzed What's-Her-Name. "Get in here."

  When she did, all buttoned up in her uniform and looking scared, he handed her Amurri's application and gave her a new version of the situation. A mistake had been made and had to be rectified. "Jack Farreli" had been declared UP and ejected in error. Apologize and persuade him to come back for another meeting.

  She hurried out but returned a minute later.

  "He doesn't have his phone on," she said with a trembling lower lip. For some reason his secretaries never seemed to like to tell him things he didn't want to hear.

  "Then keep calling, you idiot!" he shouted. "Call every five minutes until you reach him, and
then do the selling job of your xeltonless life!"

  Why was it so damn near impossible to get good help these days?

  11

  Jack found Russ Tuit in an agitated state. He let Jack in, then started stomping around the apartment.

  "Can I say, 'What the fuck?'" he shouted, waving a thick, oversized paperback in the air. "Can I just?"

  Jack shrugged. "Hey, it's your apartment." Then an unpleasant thought struck. "You're not having trouble with the disk, are you? Yesterday—"

  "The disk is fine. No, it's this English Lit course I'm taking. I just had to read 'Ode on a Greek Urn' by Keats and I just got to say, 'What the fuck!'"

  "It's 'Ode on a Grecian Urn,' I believe, but if it'll make you feel better, sure. Be my guest."

  "Okay. What the fuck?" He flipped through the pages till he found what he wanted. "Listen to this: 'More happy love! More happy, happy love!'" He tossed the book across the room to where it bounced off the wall, leaving a greenish scuff—the same green as the book cover. It joined half a dozen similar marks in the vicinity. "Is this guy kidding? It sounds like the Stimpy song!"

  "And you sound like Ren."

  "Do you believe the shit they want us to read? Now I remember why I dropped out and went into full-time hacking. This is worse than prison, man! This is cruel and unusual!"

  "Speaking of hacking," Jack said, "the disk is ready, isn't it?"

  "What? Oh, yeah. Sure." Simply mentioning the disk seemed to calm him. "Got it right here."

  He picked up a red three-and-a-half-inch floppy and scaled it across the room.

  Jack caught the little thing and said, "This is it?"

  "All you'll need. Just make sure you put it in the floppy drive before you start the machine. That way my disk'll be in control of the startup."

  "What do I do?"

  "Nothing. You don't even have to turn on the monitor. The disk'll bypass any password protection. It'll disable any antivirus software he's got—Norton, McAfee, whatever—and introduce HYRTBU. All you've got to do is wait maybe ten minutes till the hard drive stops chattering, then pull out the disk—Jesus, make sure you don't leave it there—turn off the computer, and buy yourself a beer. His files are toast."

  Jack stared at the red plastic square resting in his palm. "That's it?" It seemed too simple.

  Russ grinned. "That's it. That's why you pay me the big bucks. Speaking of which…"

  Jack dug into his pocket, saying, "But how will I know if it worked?"

  "If you don't see him tossing his rig out a window, you'll see him down at his computer guy's place the next day asking what the fuck's going on."

  Jack nodded. He planned to be watching.

  But before all that he had to track down a take-out pu pu platter.

  12

  "Your cousin called," Sister Agnes said.

  Maggie froze. She had just entered the convent's central hallway and now she felt unable to breathe.

  So it begins.

  Had she done the right thing in hiring Jack? She'd know soon enough. She'd either be free of this human leech or her life's work would be shattered by shame and humiliation. Either way, it had to be better than this awful in-between state of constant fear and dread.

  "Maggie?" Agnes said, her brow knitting with concern. "Are you all right? You're white as a sheet."

  Maggie nodded. Her words rasped over a dusty tongue. "What did he say?"

  "He said to tell you your Uncle Mike has taken a turn for the worse and he'll call you back around four. I didn't know you had an Uncle Mike."

  "Distant relative."

  She went to her room and waited for Agnes to leave the hallway, then she darted out to a public phone two blocks west. The convent didn't allow sisters their own phones, and she couldn't discuss this on the common line in the hall, so she hurried to the one the blackmailer had sent her to the first time he'd contacted her.

  It was already ringing when she arrived. She grabbed the receiver.

  "Yes?"

  "I thought you was going to stand me up," said that nasty, grating voice. God help her, she hated this faceless monster. "I wouldn't have been too surprised, considering how you shorted me on the latest payment."

  "I don't have any more!"

  Jack had told her to say that, but it was true. Her meager savings were almost gone. She'd told Mike and he'd helped her as much as he could without raising his wife's suspicions. He was being blackmailed too. But although he'd be damaged if those pictures got out, he'd survive—his marriage might not, but he'd still have his career. Maggie would be left with nothing.

  "Yes, you do," the voice cooed.

  "No, I swear! There's nothing left."

  Now a snarl. "But we both know where you can get more!"

  "No! I told you before—"

  "It won't be hard." Back to the cajoling tone. "You've got all that cash coming in to the building fund. I'll bet a lot of the poor suckers in your parish don't ask for no receipts. All you gotta do is siphon off a little every time some comes through. No one will know."

  I'll know! Maggie wanted to shout.

  But Jack had told her to string him along, let him think she was giving in—but not too easily.

  "But I can't! That's not my money. It's for the church. They need every penny."

  The snarl again. "And how many pennies do you think they'll get when start tacking up photos of you and Mr. Capital Campaign Consultant all over the parish? Huh? How many then?"

  Maggie sobbed. She didn't have to fake it. "All right. I'll see if I can. But there's not much coming in during the week. What little we do get comes in on Sundays."

  "I ain't waitin' till next week! Get me something before that! Forty-eight hours, or else!"

  The phone went dead.

  Maggie leaned against the edge of the phone booth and sobbed.

  How in the world had she come to this? Never, not once, not for an instant since the day she'd joined the order had she ever even dreamed of becoming involved with a man.

  If not for Serafma Martinez, none of this would have happened.

  Not that she blamed the child in any way. But knowing that Fina and her sisters and brother would be forced to leave St. Joe's had compelled her to search for a benefactor.

  And about that time she'd been getting to know Michael Metcalf. Bright, handsome, charming, and he was working to make St. Joe's a better place. Their positions in the fund-raising campaign put them together time and again. They became friends.

  One day, out of desperation, she mentioned the Martinez children after one of the fund-raising meetings and asked if he might help. His immediate agreement had stunned Maggie, and as they continued seeing each other at the meetings, and at increasingly frequent tete-a-tetes about Fina and her siblings, she felt herself longing to touch him and be touched by him.

  Then one night, when they were alone in the church basement—in the deserted soup kitchen—he'd kissed her and it felt wonderful, so wonderful that something broke free inside her, demanding more… and they made love right there, beneath the floor and aisles and pews of St. Joseph's Church. Beneath God's house.

  Maggie had awakened the next morning ashamed and utterly miserable. Bad enough she had broken her vow of chastity, but Michael wasn't just a man, he was a man with a wife and children.

  That had not been enough to stop her though. Being with Michael had lit a fire in her that she could not extinguish. A whole new world had opened for her and she thirsted constantly for him.

  Seven times… she'd sinned seven times with him. And there would have been more if the arrival of that envelope hadn't shocked her back to sanity. Black-and-white photos, grainy and underlit, but her ecstatic face was clearly identifiable as she writhed under Michael. She'd vomited when she saw them, and nearly passed out when she read the note with its threats.

  She'd called Michael who told her he'd been sent the same photos with a similar demand for payment.

  Maggie closed her eyes, remembering those photos. To
see herself in the act, doing what she'd been doing…

  It still shocked her that she'd been capable of such a thing. She'd turned it over and over in her mind, trying to understand it, trying to understand herself.

  Maybe because she'd joined the convent directly out of high school. She'd been a virgin then—no experience with men, certainly not with men interested in her as a woman—and had remained so until Michael Metcalf came along. She'd found herself mesmerized by this kind, generous man. He'd awakened yearnings she'd never realized she had.

  And God forgive her, she'd surrendered to them.

  But never again.

  Now she and Michael saw each other only at fund-raisers, and occasionally at Mass where he'd pass Maggie some cash to help her with the payments. But he could give her only so much.

  She prayed that even that would end soon.

  She turned and walked back toward the convent, speaking softly to God.

  "Lord—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost—deliver me from this trial, I beg you. Not just for my own sake, but for St. Joseph's as well. I have strayed, I know, and I am ashamed. I've repented, I've confessed my sin. I've done penance. Please forgive my one deviation from the Path of Your Love. I will never stray again. Never. Absolve me of this and let me go on serving you with love and devotion. But if I must be punished, let it be in a manner that does not reflect ill on St. Joseph's.

  "I beg You to guide Jack so that he may end this threat to the parish and to myself without causing harm or sinning on my behalf."

  Self-loathing choked her into silence. It was all her fault. No one else to blame. Yes, Michael was complicit, weak, and she perhaps was not his first dalliance, but she should have been strong enough for both of them. She had the Calling, not Michael.

  If a few weeks from now she was still a member of the convent and the good name of St. Joseph's remained unsullied, she would know that God had heard and forgiven her.

  If not…

  13

  A hand touched Jamie Grant's shoulder and she started. A quick glance in the streaked mirror behind the Parthenon's bar showed it was only Timmy Ryan.