Mark Edward Hall

Chapter 3

In a room beneath an ancient cathedral, a telephone began to ring. The monk in the simple black robe and white collar turned away from the altar at which he had been praying and stared at the ringing telephone as if it were something not of this world. Carefully he tucked the object which he had been clutching tightly in his praying fists into the side pocket of his robe. This was only the third time in as many years that this particular phone had rung. The telephone number was unpublished and there were only seven men in the world who knew it. After the third ring, the monk got to his feet and picked up the handset.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I have news,” the voice on the other end of the line proclaimed. The caller was male and he sounded winded and overwrought.

The monk hesitated for a long moment before replying. “What is the code?” he asked. He would never acknowledge his identity unless the code was repeated exactly as he knew it; exactly as they all knew it. To do so would be to violate the most sacred of all oaths.

The man on the other end of the line recited a seven digit code. It was merely a series of numbers, like those on a lottery ticket. There was no deep or hidden significance to the sequence. The odds were one hundred and thirty-five million to one that the number could be randomly selected. Although the monk did not recognize the man’s voice, he was not surprised. For security purposes, The Brotherhood met infrequently, usually only if there was an emergency, and their meetings were always held in the greatest secrecy and in the most remote places. As priests swear oaths of celibacy, so these monks had sworn a long ago pledge against friendship, understanding that any complicity, however casual, could mean the Brotherhood’s destruction. It had been more than a year since the monk had spoken to another member.

Finally he said, “Yes, the number is correct. To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Isaac,” the voice replied. Isaac was a pseudonym, of course. All members of the Brotherhood used pseudonyms. All were named for apostles.

“Am I speaking to Brother Paul?” Isaac asked.

“Yes, Isaac, this is Paul. Now please tell me what is so urgent that you felt the need to compromise security protocol.”

“Something has happened,” Isaac said. “The chosen ones are in danger.”

The monk’s heart began to race. “Tell me, Isaac, what exactly do you mean by this? Be very specific.”

“This morning their home was destroyed. They were driven out and pursued by men with guns.”

“I want to know how this could have happened. Your duty was to protect them—”

“Our agents were there, Brother Paul, as always, watching from the shadows. When the attack came it was so sudden that we were taken completely off guard. We believe the attackers . . . knew.”

“That you were there? About us and our intentions? About the information we possess?”

“Yes, we believe so.”

“Do you know who these men were?”

“Several are dead. Their bodies were taken to the city morgue. By morning they will be gone and the authorities will be left scratching their heads.”

“Yes, of course,” said the monk. “Men without names or identities. I should have guessed.”

“There is something else,” Isaac said.

“Yes?”

“The Collector has resurfaced.”

There was a long silence on the line before the monk replied. “I need details,” he said.

“Last night he murdered a family in coastal New Hampshire. The details are sketchy. The police have yet to issue a statement. But my sources are reliable.”

“You are certain of this?”

“There is no mistake. He left his calling card.”

“Written in the ancient language?”

“This is what my sources tell me.”

“Was there anyone . . .?”

“Taken? I’m afraid so. A six-year old girl.”

The monk was suddenly speechless. His heart began to race and his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth. He was gasping for breath, grasping to make sense of what he’d just learned.

“There is something else, Brother Paul.”

“Yes?”

“Along with his signature he left the image of a symbol.”

“A symbol?”

“Yes. Burned onto the wall beneath the words.”

The priest put his hand in the pocket of his robe and felt the object there. It seemed to be vibrating slightly, and although the sensation was slightly uncomfortable he did not remove his hand. “I see,” he said.

“He knows, Brother Paul.”

“Yes, he knows. But he also knows that he cannot touch the mother or the child. At least not until the child is born. The incidents you speak of—the murders in New Hampshire, the taking of the child, and the destruction of the McArthur household—are linked. It could not be coincidence.”

“But I don’t see—”

“It does not matter that you do not see, Isaac. I see. That is what is important.”

“What do you see, Brother Paul?”

The priest heaved a long, tired sigh. “Things have been quiet for too long, Isaac. In this modern society there are many factions battling for dominance. Lately I have been hearing things about the government, how they are becoming involved—”

“The government?” Isaac gasped, his voice hoarse with astonishment. “The United States Government?”

“That is correct.”

“But why? How would they even know—?”

The monk gave a humorless laugh. “Power, Isaac, and they know everything. Make no mistake. Since 911 and the inclusion of the Patriot Act the government hears and sees everything. They know about the Collector. And they know about the object. Trust me on this. When there is this much power at stake, all bets are off. We must not let the chosen ones fall into the wrong hands. It could be the end of . . . everything. The time of darkness has never been closer.”

“Action has already been taken, Brother Paul. It is the reason I am making this call, to inform you of the situation and to set your mind at ease.”

“My mind is not at ease, Isaac. You have nearly failed the Brotherhood on this tragic morning! Your responsibility was to see that this did not happen.”

“I told you, we were taken by surprise—”

“There are no excuses!” the priest exploded. “Hear me well, Isaac. The woman and unborn child must not be harmed.”

“I understand completely,” Isaac replied. “Our agents are monitoring the situation very carefully. I will report back when they are in a safe location.”

“Where are they now?”

“They are in motion.”

“And their destination?”

“I think you can guess.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“No harm will come to them there. She is his daughter. His future depends on the child’s survival.”

“I know that, Isaac. It is not the mother and child I’m afraid for.”

“You still think the father is—?”

“Yes, now more than ever. He is special. There is a reason he sees the Collector. There is a reason he was chosen to be the child’s father. Hear me well, Isaac. He must survive. I have seen two visions of the future, and the one without the father is the one we do not wish to live in. I can assure you of that.”

“Yes, Brother Paul.”

“Go then and tend to these affairs. Just as soon as I can reach the other members I will call an emergency meeting. It is time we made some harsh decisions.”

“But where? There is no time to plan such a meeting.”

“Here, Isaac. We will meet here.”

“But what of the dangers?”

“There is no time to plan anything more elaborate. I will give the members a choice. Either they agree to come here or I will make the decision on my own. They will come.”

“Yes, they will come,” Isaac echoed.

“And remember, Isaac, we must never, under any circumstances reveal our true identity or our purpose to them. They have enough advantages already.”

“I will remember your words,” Isaac said before the line went dead.

The priest let the handset drop to the level of his shoulder, as if it had grown very heavy. After a long moment he put it back in the cradle. He picked the object out of his robe’s pocket and stared at it for a long moment before clutching it tightly and painfully in his fists. As he did so blood began dripping from his closed hands and splashing onto the ceramic-tiled floor at his feet. The pain was nearly unbearable. Even so, he did not loose his grip on it. He understood what had to be done, and soon.

The object was showing him the way just as it had shown another old priest the way so many years ago. He would follow the path, regardless of all the objections that were to come, regardless of all possible consequences. Somewhere in the distance he heard the raucous cawing of a large flock of birds. A cold sheen of sweat covered his body as he clutched the object tightly in his fists. He tried to ignore the pain it was causing as he knelt back down at the base of the shrine to resume his prayers.

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 2nd, 2010 at 8:51 am and is filed under Novels. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.