The Crimson Code. Rachel Lee

that he intended to reclaim.

      As if on schedule, the telephone rang. He had been told to expect the call, and he knew who she was and what she wanted even before he picked up the telephone. There were advantages to having connections in the highest and most secret circles of power.

      “General Soult,” he said, speaking in accented English.

      “Ah, General,” the woman said. “You answer your telephone in English now?”

      “I assumed it would be another American reporter asking for an interview,” he lied. “Apparently I was wrong. You are German.”

      “Yes,” she said. “My name is Monika Schmidt. I am the director of the European Union—”

      “Department of Collective Security,” he cut in. “I have seen you on the news many times today. You have had a very bad few days.”

      “We have all had a very bad few days, General,” she said. “Once again, we find that our enemies are more resourceful than we had thought. And that we…”

      She didn’t need to finish the sentence. The European news media had been finishing it for her for nearly twenty-four hours. How had the vaunted EUDCS, with its contacts in Interpol and the United States, totally missed the planning for Black Christmas? Frau Schmidt did not have an answer for them, though Soult could easily have supplied it. He had, after all, spent much of his career in French military intelligence. And he had used the skills he had learned there to direct the counterespionage operations for the men who had carried out the attacks.

      “These things are always more complex than the public realizes,” he said, trying to affect a tone that mixed professional sympathy with the wisdom of experience. “It takes many years to develop the kinds of contacts that would have provided warning for such an operation.”

      “And that is why I call you,” she said. “I have spoken with my superiors and explained to them the need for better human intelligence. You served in Chad and directed the French network in Algiers. You have worked in the Arab community before. You know these people.”

      His contacts had not erred. She was, in fact, offering him a position—the very position toward which he had worked for fifteen years.

      “Yes,” he said, smiling as he drew on his cigar. “I do. So, Frau Schmidt, how can I be of service to the European Union?”

      Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

      Monsignor Giuseppe Veltroni carried many problems on his back as he rode in a taxi through the streets of Riyadh to his appointment. To arrive here within two days of the attacks on so many Catholic churches was to put his neck on a chopping block. The people here cheered the destruction, of course. The “man in the street” did not understand the contributions the Church had made toward peace with and for the Muslim world. The average Saudi seemed all too unaware of how much work the Church had done for the Palestinians.

      And this little detour was exceptionally dangerous, since he had deserted the protective phalanx the Saudis had provided for him in his capacity as an official representative of the Vatican. But he could not afford listening ears or spying eyes this afternoon. This afternoon he needed to be one-on-one with a man he had nearly come to trust, a man who seemed to have utterly broken that trust.

      Beyond that, he was gravely concerned about the fate of Steve Lorenzo. Months had passed since the Guatemalan police had attacked Dos Ojos in an attempt to arrest a rebel involved in the bombing death of the U.S. ambassador. Since then, nothing had been heard from or about the priest he had sent there to find the Codex.

      Monsignor Veltroni had virtually adopted Lorenzo, loved him as a son, and felt deep worry about whatever might happen to him. Except… Steve must be dead, or he would have gone to the bishop in Guatemala City, surely?

      Veltroni’s heart ached and he wished there was something he could take back, some decision he could unmake so that Steve would return whole and unharmed. Yet he could not be sure the priest was dead, for no remains had ever been found. Perhaps he was still searching for the Codex?

      If so, and if he was still with the survivors of Dos Ojos, Steve had both the Guatemalan police and army after him.

      And perhaps someone else. Rumors had surfaced in Veltroni’s extremely sensitive intelligence web that someone called “The Hunter” might be pursuing the Codex, as well. If so…Steve faced more trouble than he could possibly imagine.

      With a sigh, Veltroni adjusted his mufti, in this case a djellaba with a hood, so that he might blend in better. Beneath he wore his priestly black and his pectoral cross, but he knew better than to think they would save him from harm here.

      The cab pulled up before an almost palatial residence. Ahmed Ahsami, a Saudi visionary, was also a member of the Saudi royal family, one of the more minor princes who could live a comfortable lifestyle but not an excessively lavish one. He was also an important official in the oil ministry. Apparently his lifestyle was comfortable enough that one of his employees stepped forward to pay the cab driver before Veltroni could fumble with the unfamiliar currency.

      Then, without a word, he was led along surprisingly cool tiled hallways, past beautiful wall mosaics bright with color and into an interior courtyard, where an extravagant fountain bubbled cheerfully and a riot of green plants grew as if this were their native terrain.

      The employee—servant?—motioned him to a padded bench. “Sheik Ahsami will send for you shortly.”

      Shortly turned into ten minutes, but then the servant reappeared and motioned for Veltroni to follow. At once he was led into a spacious room that forsook the grandiosity of the rest of the building for a very businesslike aspect. Ahmed Ahsami, dressed casually in chinos and a blue business shirt, at once rose and came to greet him.

      “Monsignor! It is good of you to come. And I can assure you that you were not followed. So we speak freely, yes?”

      Veltroni’s eyes narrowed. “That is the entire reason I have made this trip, Sheik.”

      “Please, call me Ahmed. I think we now have more in common than you believe.”

      Before the discussion could proceed, however, in the best tradition of desert tribes a repast was laid before them on a long table. Hospitality first, then business. Veltroni chafed, but knew he would insult Ahmed if he did not partake with enjoyment and a considerable amount of inane chat.

      As he sipped the powerful Turkish coffee, Veltroni studied his host. The initial smile had faded into a look of deep thoughts that did not run in pleasant waters. While he spoke the correct words as dinner was consumed, Veltroni could tell this was not a man in a state of silent celebration. When they had finished and retired to Ahmed’s drawing room, Veltroni knew it was upon him to break the ice—or shatter it.

      “I needn’t tell you how I feel about the Christmas attacks,” Veltroni said. “The Vatican is justifiably and righteously angry. This was a very dangerous gambit, my friend…whoever did it.”

      Ahmed studied him carefully, but Veltroni did not flinch. The accusation hung between them, and the burden lay upon Ahmed to dismiss it. Or to admit to it. Without one or the other, the Stewards could have no further dealing with Ahmed. Promises of peace could not survive acts of malicious brutality.

      Finally, Ahmed spoke. “The situation is…complex, Guiseppi. There were acts on Christmas for which I and my men were responsible. There were others in which we were betrayed.”

      “I know the answer, but I have to ask. You did not authorize the cathedral bombings?”

      Ahmed shook his head. “No, my friend. All the attacks were to be on legitimate military, political and economic targets.”

      “Like the oil platforms?” Veltroni asked.

      Ahmed drew a breath. “Yes, like those. And as I’m sure you know, none of the workers there were injured. After all, why else did we choose to act on Christmas, a time when most at the intended targets would be safely at home? My teams had explicit instructions. They carried out