The Prophecy paj-5 Read online

  ‘We are standing in the Commons Room, which is a true example of Gothic architecture. The stone ceiling is fifty-two feet high and all the arches are self-supporting. How they built them without steel beams is beyond me.’ Payne paused and looked skyward. No matter how many times he had been inside the Cathedral, he always left impressed. ‘Amazingly, this entire room was a gift from one man, Pittsburgh native Andrew Mellon.’

  Applause filled the room even though Mellon had died in 1937, the same year the Cathedral had

  ‘As you know, one of the best things about Pittsburgh is the ethnic diversity of our population. Thanks to the steel industry, immigrants from every corner of the world came to our city, looking for jobs. And if you’ve ever glanced at a local phone book, you know a lot of them stayed.’ The crowd laughed at the joke. ‘One of those immigrants was my great-grandfather, who came here from a small town in Poland and actually worked on this building. I never met the man, but according to my grandfather, he had a favourite expression. He used to say, “If America is the original melting pot, the blast furnaces of Pittsburgh provided the heat.”’

  Once again, applause echoed throughout the great hall.

  ‘For those of you who are new to the Cathedral, we are currently surrounded by one of its unique features: the Nationality Rooms. Scattered throughout the first three floors are a collection of twenty-seven classrooms donated by many of the ethnic groups that helped to build our wonderful city. By simply walking down one

  Payne stared into the crowd, making eye contact with as many people as possible.

  ‘One of our main goals tonight is to raise money for these rooms. Not only to aid the preservation of the current classrooms, but hopefully to build several more. This is our way of honouring the ethnic groups that helped shape our city and make it the special place it is today. With that in mind, we have representatives of more than forty countries here to answer your questions about the Nationality Rooms and to discuss our amazing plans for the future. Who knows? With a little help from you, that future might begin tonight.’

  Amid loud applause, Payne glanced at the crowd one last time before he left the main stage. As he did his eyes focused on a solitary figure in the back of the Commons Room. She

  Somehow he knew she didn’t belong.

  3

  By the time Payne made his way to the back of the room, she was no longer there. He glanced up and down the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but a sea of people blocked his view.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jones asked as he approached from behind. He had spent too many years in the trenches with Payne not to recognize his moods. Even from afar.

  They used to lead the MANIACs, an elite Special Forces unit comprised of the top soldiers from the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force, and Coast Guard. Whether it was personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counter-guerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs are the best of the best. The boogeymen that no one talks about. The government’s secret weapon. And even though they had retired a few years before, the duo was still deadly.

  ‘Nothing,’ Payne assured him. ‘Just looking for someone.’

  ‘Does this someone have a name?’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Jones said. ‘The woman behind the pillar.’

  ‘You spotted her?’

  ‘Of course I spotted her. I had nothing better to do during your speech. Pretty boring stuff, if you ask me. I’ll be damned if I’m giving you a cent.’

  ‘Did you see what she looked like?’

  Jones shrugged. ‘Couldn’t really tell. She stayed in the shadows the entire time, which is why I noticed her. For a minute there, I thought I might have to take her out.’

  ‘Please tell me you’re not armed.’

  ‘Of course I’m armed. I feel naked without my gun.’

  Payne shook his head. ‘You brought your gun to a charity event?’

  ‘In my defence, you told me to wear a tux. You said nothing about being unarmed. Oh, and for the record, you also said nothing about valet parking. Or was that for white guests only?’

  Payne laughed at the comment. For as long as they had known each other, race had never been an issue, which was why Jones felt comfortable teasing him. Both of them knew it was a joke.

  ‘Probably not,’ Jones admitted. ‘Once I thaw out, I’ll cheer up.’

  ‘You know, I actually thought you might enjoy yourself tonight. You’re always talking about history and foreign cultures. Yet here you are, bitching to me instead of mingling with the assembled experts. What’s wrong? Are you afraid they might be smarter than you?’

  Jones rolled his eyes at the statement. ‘Come on, you know I’m the smartest person here. And to prove it, I’m going to pester your experts until they cry.’ He emphasized the word experts by making air quotes with his fingers. ‘Oh, yeah, one more thing: if any of your guests asks me where the African room is, I swear to God I’m gonna shoot ’em.’

  Her initial goal had been to blend in with her surroundings. She had wanted to get a feel for the room before she finally made her move. But her plan wasn’t to be.

  They had noticed her immediately, spotting her in the large crowd even though she had stayed in the back shadows of the Cathedral. Less than five minutes later, they had converged on her

  Perhaps, she thought, her long journey had been worthwhile.

  Perhaps these guys were as good as she’d heard.

  Payne made his way to the registration table where he talked to the two female students.

  ‘Great speech, Mr Payne,’ gushed the blonde. ‘We were impressed.’

  ‘Thank you, ladies. But, please, call me Jon.’

  ‘Okay, Jon,’ said the redhead, giggling.

  Payne smiled at them. If he had been several years younger, this conversation would have gone in a much different direction, but he decided to focus on the business at hand. ‘Out of curiosity, did any more guests arrive while I was on stage?’

  The blonde shook her head. ‘Nope, Mr Jones was the last one here.’

  The redhead corrected her. ‘You mean the infamous Mr Jones.’

  The blonde frowned. ‘Wait, why is he infamous?’

  Payne leaned closer and whispered something.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she demanded.

  Payne nodded. ‘Completely. If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.’

  ‘No way,’ said the redhead. ‘I could never ask him that.’

  The blonde grinned naughtily. ‘But I could.’

  Payne laughed for a few seconds before he got the conversation back on track. ‘So, you’re sure no one came in after him.’

  The redhead furrowed her brow. ‘Wait! Do you mean guests, or anyone?’

  ‘Anyone.’

  ‘Oh, in that case, some lady came in. She wasn’t a guest, though.’

  ‘What was she?’ Payne wondered.

  ‘A brunette.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant. Was she a student? A professor? Something else?’

  ‘She was thin,’ the blonde offered. ‘Does that help?’

  Payne nodded. ‘At this point, everything helps. Did she leave her name?’

  The blonde shook her head. ‘She didn’t leave her coat, either. But it was really cute. It was green and had big buttons.’

  ‘No,’ the redhead replied. ‘She walked right past us and stood over there in the back of the room. I lost sight of her after that. I was watching your speech.’

  The blonde looked concerned. ‘Did we do something wrong?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Payne assured them. ‘You two are doing a great job. I’ll make sure someone brings you over some soft drinks and appetizers.’

  ‘Thanks,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Do me a favour, though. When Mr Jones comes back for his coat, make sure you ask him about what I said.’ Payne grinned mischievously. ‘I bet he denies everything.’

  4

  Although he would have preferred the basketball game, this type of event was a great c
onsolation prize for Jones. A voracious reader with a thirst for knowledge, he had always been a fan of history and world culture. Throw in his incredible memory, and he had the ability to spout random facts about every subject imaginable, often to Payne’s amazement.

  As he roamed the crowded halls of the Cathedral, Jones ducked into a few of his favourite rooms, starting with the German Classroom. Designed to reflect the sixteenth-century German Renaissance, it was based on the Great Hall at the University of Heidelberg. Walnut panelling framed the blackboards. The intarsia doors of the corner cabinets featured images from German folklore, including Lorelei, the beautiful maiden who lured sailors onto the rocks of the Rhine river with her enchanting songs. Wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the extravagant wood ceilings, and rows of walnut armchairs graced the floor.

  Hansel and Gretel, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Cinderella, and Little Red Riding Hood.

  ‘I wonder,’ said the tour guide, ‘if Walt Disney visited the Cathedral of Learning prior to making his animated classics. If so, this room might have been his inspiration.’

  A few minutes later, Jones decided to journey across Europe. He bypassed the crowded Italian and Czechoslovak Classrooms and headed towards the Syria — Lebanon Room. Because of the extravagance of its furnishings, it was one of two display rooms where no classes were taught. Originally a library and prayer room in a wealthy merchant’s home in Damascus, it was moved intact to its current location and installed by the Syrian and Lebanese communities.

  The linden-panelled walls and ceilings were decorated with gesso, a mixture of chalk and glue applied by brush, then painted and overlaid with silver and gold leaf. The room featured a mihrab, a decorative niche that indicated the direction of

  But on this night, the room was open for guided tours. Inside, a Syrian professor was commenting on the room’s furniture. ‘Very few Americans know this,’ he said in heavily accented English, ‘but the word sofa comes from the Arabic word suffah. According to tradition, it was a reclining piece of wood or stone that was often covered in cushions.’

  Not surprisingly, Jones already knew that fact and many others about the Arab world. He had acquired most of his knowledge years ago when his unit was stationed in the Middle East. However, he had recently added to his collection during a classified mission to Mecca, a journey that he and Payne weren’t allowed to discuss outside the confines of the Pentagon.

  After listening for a moment, Jones walked etc. — and donated them to the Cathedral of Learning.

  Under the ceiling trusses were four limestone corbels from the Commons Chamber carved with a Tudor rose. Stained-glass window medallions depicted the coats of arms of several English towns and cities, literary figures, scholars from Cambridge and Oxford, and the Houses of Lords and Commons. Portraits of Andrew Mellon, former Ambassador to the Court of St James, and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, after whom Pittsburgh was named, flanked the stained-glass windows in the rear bay. A brick from 10 Downing Street, the residence and office of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, served as the room’s cornerstone.

  As Jones admired it, he sensed someone staring at him from the entrance. Always attentive, he glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of a woman a split-second before she hustled

  Jones stood at once, realizing that this was the same brunette he had seen in the shadows of the Commons Room during Payne’s speech. Now she was watching him, too. He didn’t feel threatened — his gun and his training put his mind at ease — but he was intrigued.

  Who was this woman, and what did she want? Suddenly his evening had become a lot more exciting.

  Payne’s cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He looked at his screen and shook his head before he answered. ‘Don’t tell me you’re lost.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Jones demanded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just spotted your stalker. Now she’s following me.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Didn’t I just ask you that?’

  Payne growled in frustration. ‘I’m in the Polish Room.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘Then you better hustle. You’re on the wrong side of the building. She just left the English Room, number 144. It’s in the far corner. I’m not sure where she went, though. She blended in with all the white people.’

  Payne walked into the corridor, trying to picture the layout of the Cathedral and the nearby streets. Fifth Avenue was to his left, Forbes Avenue to his right. Bigelow Boulevard was behind him, and Bellefield Avenue was on the far side of the building, much closer to Jones.

  ‘Take the hallway that runs parallel to Bellefield. I’ll take the one along Fifth. Those are the only two routes from your current position.’

  ‘Unless you count all the rooms and stairs.’

  ‘Worry about them later. For now, concentrate on the hallways.’

  ‘Just so you know, she’s wearing jeans and a green coat. She should stand out.’

  Payne nodded in agreement as he passed several older couples who were dressed in formal attire. ‘Remember, this is a charity event, and she’s done nothing wrong. Try not to shoot her.’

  Jones grinned. ‘No promises.’

  ‘And no running. I don’t want anyone else to worry.’

  Payne smirked and hung up the phone, which was one of the only ways to stop Jones’s yapping. Some of the others included duct tape and medical-grade pharmaceuticals, neither of which Payne had in his tuxedo.

  Jones smiled in triumph when he heard the click of his phone. That meant Payne was unable to think of a suitable retort and had hung up instead.

  Keeping his phone in his hand, Jones shifted his attention to his surroundings. This was the same corridor he had strolled down minutes before, so its layout was fresh in his head. The French Classroom was on his immediate left, followed by the Norwegian and the Russian. Up ahead on his right was the Syria — Lebanon Room he had viewed earlier. After that, the hallway split: stairs to the left, elevators to the right, and several regular classrooms in the distance. Rooms on the first floor were rarely locked, giving students a quiet place to study. Unfortunately, it also gave the woman plenty of places to hide.

  At this point Jones viewed her more as a curiosity than a threat. He had jokingly referred to

  On the other hand, her behaviour had raised a red flag.

  And for that reason alone, they were determined to find her.

  5

  Bruges, Belgium

  (60 miles north-west of Brussels)

  François Dubois was a very bad man, who had impeccable taste.

  Although he had been born into an upperclass family, his life of crime had started at an early age on the streets of Paris. During the week, Dubois had attended Lycée Louis-le-Grand (LLG), one of the best secondary schools in the city, known for alumni such as Victor Hugo, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Voltaire. On the weekend, he had run a gang that specialized in robbing tourists near the city’s biggest attractions. By the age of sixteen, Dubois had already killed three people.

  Worst of all, he had enjoyed it.

  Thirty years later, Dubois still had a taste for blood but preferred his minions to do the dirty work. That way, there was less of a chance of staining one of his custom-made suits. It also

  However, Dubois had been detained and questioned more times than he could remember, especially in the early days when he was still laying the groundwork for his criminal empire. His interview sessions with the French authorities had happened so frequently he actually pencilled them into his weekly schedule. Of course, it helped that Dubois had many cops on his payroll who tipped him off ahead of time about impending interrogations.

  That was one of the most important things he had learned early on: no matter how expensive, inside information was always priceless.

  Over the years, Dubois had slowly realized something else about the criminal career he had chosen for himself. Even though he loved the culture and excitement of his home town, he kne
w his life would be cut short if he remained in Paris. Most of the cops recognized him, and so did many of the crooks. He knew he would

  As a schoolboy at LLG, Dubois had watched a slideshow presentation on Bruges, the selfproclaimed Venice of the North, and had been captivated by its medieval charm. Later, when he finally had an opportunity to explore its scenic canals and historic Grand Square, he fell in love with the city. Although the pace was much slower than Paris, he felt at ease while walking the streets, something he was no longer able to do in France. Nevertheless, Dubois wasn’t reckless during his evening strolls. Bodyguards accompanied him wherever he went.

  After making a financial killing on several arms deals in the mid-1990s, he bought a castle on the outskirts of Bruges, which he named Château Dubois. Then he travelled Europe in search of the perfect furnishings to adorn his home. Most men in his position would have hired a decorator to take care of such trivial tasks, but Dubois considered himself a new breed of criminal — classically educated, exquisitely dressed, and, above all else, culturally superior to all those round him.

  Once again, it always came back to inside information for Dubois.

  The more he acquired, the better off he would be.

  Dressed in slacks and a cashmere sweater, Dubois read his notebook near a roaring fire in his study. A snifter of Armagnac and an encrypted phone sat next to him on a hand-carved table he had acquired at an auction house in Malta.

  Much like his furniture, he was solidly built and well maintained. Neither short nor tall, he exercised just enough for his clothes to fit him properly. Broad shoulders and a thick chest showcased his tailored suits. His shoes were always polished, and his pants were always cuffed. His chestnut hair, tinged with a hint of grey near the ears, was always slicked back with an all-natural gel that he imported from the Orient. Last but