· (One)

In Hollow Houses
Gaiy A. Braunbeck

('!too)
If Whispers Call
Don Bassingthwaite

- ~J. .
In Amd Silence ·
G.W Tirpa

Of Agmi"Angets
Monte Cook
••
 Dark•Matter

Michael McCain retrieves a jar containing fragments of the

brain of John F. Kennedy from a secret vault under the National
Archives in Washington, D.C., moments before the building
explodes.
Jeane Meara, an arson investigator for the Bureau of Alco­
hol, Tobacco, and Firearms, is sent to determine the cause of
the explosion but finds her theories as unwelcome as they are
impossible to believe.
Watching all this is the quiet form of Ngan Song Kun'dren,
an experienced agent of the shadoWY Hoffmann Institute, a pri­
vate organization founded to investigate and stop the rise of
the Dark Tide.
McCain, Jeane, and Ngan are brought together when a
bizarre creature begins to prey on the homeless population of
the nation's capital. As they work to learn the startling truth
of the thing below the streets of Washington, D.C., McCain dis­
covers that he's a clone, Jeane is forced to leave the ATF, and
Ngan is put in charge of the Hoffmann Institute's newest team
of investigators.
All three are sent to Chicago and must learn to work
together with hidden evils, secret agendas, and the forces of
the Dark Tide around every comer.
 For
Sue, Bruce, Keith, Ray, and Jeff
(and Millennium Fever)
 I·

-� t '8e dying priest's housekeeper put another log on

the fire when the young girl anived. Nevertheless,
Cendrine still couldn't work the chill from her
body. She imagined that the presbytery was a cold
place even in the summer. Father Sauniere had-by
far-the nicest and largest house in the village, and it
was said that he had used it mostly to entertain myste­
rious out-of-town guests. Outside the window, January
snow blanketed the small village. The Pyrenees moun·

tains surrounding Rennes-le-Chateau hid behind the

heavy white clouds.
Stones from Roman roads still comprised portions
of the path leading to and from the village , but the
Romans were not the first to inhabit the Langudoc
region in the south of France. Neolithic graveyar_ds dis·
covered decades earlier proved that humans had occu­
pied this region for three thousand years. It was a
sacred place to Celtic tribes and the Romans after
them. It was the capital of the Empire of the Visigoths,

. 1
 11onte coak

who sacked Rome and brought back its treasures. It was a

treasmy and place of importance to the Merovingian kings,
who never cut their hair for fear of losing their divine power. It
was home to the Cathars-Christian heretics who held onto
traditions much older than their religion. The region could
claim to be the origin of more Knights Templar than any other
place in Europe. Religion and war were central features to this
place. The hills were stained with the ancient blood of Arabs,
Franks, crusaders, and Cathari. One could almost hear their
cries for vengeance in the cold, snowy mountains.
Though she and her uncle, Father Riviere, had left their
village early that morning, the snow had slowed the mule
cart. It was late morning now, and Cendrine's stomach rum­
bled with hunger.She turned to look at the woman standing
by the door.
Marie Denarnaud, the housekeeper, listened at the door to
the sickroom, where Father Sauniere lay dying and Father Riv­
iere heard his final confession. That was extremely rude, but
of course Cendrine said nothing. Marie was ancient to the
young girl's eyes, but not as old as either of the priests. She
might have even been pretty once.
The housekeeper's head turned toward her. Marie backed
away from the door, cleared her throat, and looked at the paint­
ing over the mantle rather than at Cendrine.
"Excuse me, madamer Cendrine used her nicest, talking­
to-adults voice.
Marie's gaze fell upon her like a hammer.
"I have heard that Father Sauniere is rich," she said, "but
how can this be so? I have never heard of a rich priest before."
Marie woulQ. not answer her. Instead, she sat down in a
wooden rocking chair.
•1t certainly is true, " Cendrine continued, "that the parish
i one of the most . . . " she stopped.It really wasn't all
here s
that "beautiful," though t
i certainly s�emed "expensive." She
was not sure what the appropriate word was.Finally, it came
to her. "The parish is quite lavish. And the tower-I've never
seen anything like that. The Tour Magdala ... "

t
 ef I I Ill II II 11

"And what do you know of it?" Marie's words were

weapons, launched as an attack-or perhaps more appropri·
ately, a defense. "You prattle on, girl, but you don't know any­
thing. No one does. Only Father Sauniere and I know the real
truth. Now, be still."
Cendrine stared wide-eyed. Only a few times had an
adult reacted to her in that way. Sure, her mother had been
mad at her in the past, but only rarely had she affected an
adult like that.
"Is there something wrong with the tower?" Cendrine
asked. "ls there something bad about the parish?"
Why had she made Marie so angry?
"Wrong? Who are you, child, to assess what is right and
wrong? Tell me that•
"Only the Church can tell us what is right and wrong,
madame."
Marie laughed, making a soulless, weary sound. "The
Church tells you only enough to keep you in line. They know
much that they won't tell you, and there is much more that
·

they do not know at all." .

Cendrine was frightened. She had never heard anyone talk
this way. It was scary, but it was also emboldening. If Marie
could say such unspeakable things, perhaps she herself could
press on and say whatever came to her mind. As her mind
reeled, she noticed that Marie once again stared above the
mantle. Following her gaze, Cendrine saw the painting there.
She saw what looked like shepherds staring at a large, rec·
tangular box out in the countryside. The box reminded her of
her grandmother's funeral last year-like a coffin.
"What's that painting?"
"The Shepherds of Arcadia. Nicolas Poussin." Her answer
seemed to come reflexively. Marie did not look at Cendrine.
"Father Sauniere bought this print when he traveled to Paris."
"Why did he buy it?"
"See those hills in the background? That's our own Rennes-le-
·

Cb.ateau. The painting is set not far from here."

"So is it real?"

3
 monte co o k

·"That stone tomb lies there, yes."

Cendrine looked more closely at the painting. "What's
that writing on the . . ." It was difficult for her to say it for
some reason. "The writing on the tomb. Does it say who's
buried inside?"
Marie looked at Cendrine with a harsh gaze, but it
seemed at least a little gentler than before. Perhaps the
woman was relaxing, or even opening up a little. "That's
Latin. Et in Arcadia Ego. And no, it does not reveal who is
buried there. It means 'I, too, have lived in Arcadia.' •
Cendrine thought for a moment, then asked, "What's Arca­
dia? Who's buried there?"
"I thought I told you to be still.• Marie's countenance
closed like a slamming door.
"Does anybody know what it means? Is it a mystery?"
"No. Father Sauniere knows. I know.•
"Then it's a secret?"
"Yes, my dear. A secret."
The fire flickered, but Cendrine could see that it was dying.
"Father Sauniere certainly has many secrets, doesn't he?"
"Even God has secrets, my dear," Marie replied.
At that moment, the door to Sauniere's sickroom opened,
the thick stench of medicines and poultices issuing forth. Cen­
drine's uncle followed quickly behind the odor. Father Riviere's
face hung, a pale yellow mask, as though he had lost blood. No
strength-no conscious command-remained in his muscles.
A rosary dangled from a grip so weak that Cendrine waited for
it to drop to the ground. It did not. He paused by the door, lift­
ing his free hand to the sill to steady himself. Cendrine had
seen her mother look like this when Papa died. It was an
expression that made it seem as though he was about to weep
or about to be very ill.
Marie seemed unaffected by his appearance. "Did you
administer the last rites, Father?"
•After what I heard... what he confessed ...I could not.
Of course I could not."
"What? Father Sauniere is dying.You cannot refuse. . . . "

'
 of a 1 ed an ge I a

Marie's eyes blazed with shock and burned with outrage.

Riviere gathered what little power he seemed to have left
in his limbs. He crossed the sitting room and grasped the
young girl's hand. MCome, Cendrine, we must leave at once.
Terribilis est locus iste. This place is terrible."

5
Thm are things knolOll, and there are things unknown. And in between
are the doors.
- Jim Morrison

Though a good deal is too strange to be belie�d, nothing is too strange

to have happened.
-Thomas Hardy

Thm exists in our nation today a powerful and dangerous secret cult­
the Cult ofIntelligence.
-WctorMarchetti
 i:

� friends, lntegrin will even help improve your

sex dr-"
Michael McCain clicked off the car radio. •Art
Bell's not all he used to be, is he?"
MI don't know," Jeane Meara replied, "I'd never lis­
tened to his show until I met you. I can't believe you
can make a living for as long as he bas interviewing
quacks and kooks on the radio."
McCain shrugged."I dunno.With the lives we lead?
There but the grace of ...well, you get the idea."
MSpeak for yourself."
"Why Agent Meara, that was almost funny."
MShut up, Fitz."
Jeane drove down the dark highway toward
Chicago's smaller and less frequently used Midway Air­
port.McCain sat in the passenger side of the Ford Con­
tour, looking out the window.
"Do you know anything about this guy Blisset?" she
asked. Jeane's eyes didn't leave the road as she spoke.

9
 m onte coo k

"Nope.Nothing that you didn't hear in the office with Ngan

when I did. Just some guy."
"Just some guy that Dr. Nakami wants to speak to personally;"
Jeane said.
McCain shrugged and ran his hand through short, sandy­
brown hair. "Whatever."
"Don't you think it's a little odd that his appointment to
speak with Nakami isn't until next week, and yet we're sup­
posed to baby-sit him from now until then? Why us? Why not
someone in San Francisco?Why fly him all the way up here?"
"All that says to me is that we pissed somebody off and got
a crap assignment," McCain said with another shrug. "Our
luck's been bad lately, in case you hadn't noticed."
"You're in a great mood."
McCain didn't answer and instead turned the radio back
on-but all he could get was static.
"I think Ngan said Nakami isn't even in Frisco right now.
He's . .. I dunno, off somewhere."
Midway Airport. Stars glittered in the clear sky overhead, but
the city llghts prevented anyone at the airport from seeing their
ancient light Dropping down like a spider on a strand of webbing,
the light spilled across the quiet terminal and the one-quarter
empty parking lot It seeped, unseen, into the same parking space
as the Contour canying the two agents of the Hoffmann Institute,
a semi-secret organization dealing in matters where terms like
"semi-secret" were commonplace. The light that once glistened
across the surface of angels' wings now gathered like litter in the
lot, churned by car fumes. The slam of the car doors drove the
ancient starlight away, but not before both agents glanced about,
looking for something that moved in the comer of their eyes.
"What?" McCain whispered.
"Did you say something?" Jeane answered.
"Not me."
Something without a name clawed at Jeane's mind, deep in
portions of her brain relegated by evolution to unimportant tasks
like keeping her heart beating. She shook her head, her straight·
reddish-brown hair shaking around her shoulders. It must have

10
 of a g ed an ge l s

been Art Bell. Listening to him always gave her the creeps. They
started walking to the terminal entrance, but Jeane stopped.
It all seemed so familiar. A strange, nagging feeling of
something indefinable . . . her partner assuring her that what
seemed like a strange mission was actually nothing. Just for a
moment, she thought about how easy it was to dismiss feelings
of dread. No, not dread ... just something unknown. The mind
didn't seem to deal with the unknown very well-or perhaps it
dealt with it just fine by avoiding it all together.
"Coming? Or should I call you a cab?" McCain looked at her
with that damned cocked-head look that was so annoyingly
endearing. She rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, I'm-" She stopped. "No, I'm not coming."
Could she admit to him that her instincts were telling her
that something was wrong? No. She knew that "instinct" really
wasn't the right word-perhaps "inclination" was more accu­
rate. No, not even that.She was Agent Jeane Meara. She didn't
operate on instinct or inclination.
"What?" McCain looked around, bis blue eyes suddenly
becoming sharper and more intense."What's going on? Where?"
"You go in and get this guy.I'm going to wait out here."
"Why?"
"Just because, all right?" Because something keeps telling
me not to. To ignore it and move on.
McCain stared at her. ·"Are you all right?"·
"Yes," she answered. "Just go."
This was weird. Doubly weird because she was the one
feeling it. It just wasn't like her. But the fact of it was, she'd
seen some strange things over the last few months since she'd
joined the Hoffmann Institute. Aliens, ghosts . . . she wasn't
sure if she really believed it all, but it had certainly been
strange. Perhaps instead of denying it all, however, she could
learn something from what she'd seen. Hone her instiµcts to a
new level. (There was that word again.) She didn't know. Per­

haps this was all silly and she should just .. .

No. Not this time.She didn't know why, but something·was
different.

. 11
 m oate co o k

McCain finally went into the terminal. It was true that

he was in a foul mood that night, and he wasn't even really
sure why. It was like there was a buzzing in his head. The
night, the mission, it was all like static-nothing harsh,
just subtly annoying. Maybe he needed a vacation. What­
ever. He wasn't going to dwell on it, but he'd been through
a lot lately, and what he really needed was a break. Take
some time off, see Shani, make up for all the time he'd
been gone. McCain had only recently recovered from a med·
ical ordeal, but nothing normal. A crazy German alchemist
had been trying to change him into something he wasn't.
Only because of Jeane and Ngan had McCain gotten away.
Only because of them had he wanted to.
Hadn't he told himself he wasn't going to dwell on it? That
was over two months ago. He mentally smacked himself on the
back of the head and looked around for gate information.
Midway Airport was a lonely little place-a far cry from the
bustle of O'Hare. The walls and floors had a worn feeling about
them. The colors were all muted, but dark from being just a
little grimy with age and disdain.
He found Gate B3 and looked around, seeing that quite a few
people appeared to be waiting. Luther Blisset's planewas late. Ngan
Song Kun'dren, McCain's friend and the third member of their tight­
knit HoffmannInstitute field team, hadtold him just hours prior that
he and Jeane were to meet a very important person there. He "pos­
sessed knowledge vital to the Institute," Ngan had said. Dr. Nakami,
the director of the Hoffmann Institute, wanted to talk to Luther him
­

self. Ngan didn't know why. but he seemed to think the Institute
wouldn't be the only people interested in what Luther knew.
·1 guess it's late because of the snow."
•Huh?" McCain turned to look at the portly, greasy-suit
clad businessman ne� to him.
The man held his too-large carry-on garment bag in one
hand and a chili dog half-wrapped in foil in the other. His ugly
tie was tied badly.

u
 of a g ed an ge I s

"The snow. The plane. It's late." The man gestured with his
chilidog to the window beyond the gate desk.
Snow fell across the tarmac, though it hadn't yet begun to
accumulate.
"It's the middle of May," McCain whispered.
"Damnedest thing, huh?"
"It was clear just a few minutes-uh, you've got some mus·
tard . " McCain motioned to the man's stubble-covered chin,
. .

and walked toward the window to look at the bizarre weather.

Df course, it could just be coincidence. That must be it.
· ·

Damnedest thing.
Finally, through the snow-filled sky, McCain saw a plane's
lights grow brighter. By the time the plane landed, the fat man
was standing next to him again. The chili dog lingered in an
unpleasant way. The jetway connected to the plane, and even·
tually the passengers began to get off the small aircraft.
"The one you're waiting for's always the last one off, huh?"
the man said.
McCain nodded. He moved closer to the gate door, mostly
to get away from the man.
A tall, square jawed man in a trench coat passed into the
terminal through the jetway door. He looked around, deep con·
cern in his eyes. Immediately behind him a pierced, wiry
young man clutched his bag tightly. His skin was a rich brown,
his features suggesting Native American-though the black
leather jacket, shaved head, and eyebrow ring were far from
stereotypical. To McCain, he looked like someone more com·
fortable spray painting graffiti or stealing a car than hunting
buffalo. The man in the trench coat carried no baggage. The
only thing the two passengers had in common was the look of
expectation and dread in their eyes. Clearly, however, they
were together-they stood closer together than men who
were strangers ever would. .
McCain approached these two with his Hoffmann Institute ID
out. The shaven-headed short guy matched the picture Ngan bad
shown him. The man in the trench coat must be his Institute eseort.
"I'm Michael McCain."

. 13
 mDlte cook

The man in the trench coat looked at him squarely, and his
jaw unclenched slightly. "Good. Take him.•
The man in the trench coat backed away, and the leather­
clad Luther Blisset stood exposed, looking up at McCain with
a look o f confused near-recognition.
Blisset produced a cigarette and a gunmetal lighter with
quick, jerky motions and asked, "Do I know you, dude?"
He lit the cigarette and buried the lighter somewhere in his
jacket.
"You do now, Mr. Blisset,• McCain responded. "Do you have
luggage that we need to worry about?"
"Nope." Luther brandished a duffel bag strapped over his
shoulder and underneath it a notebook computer in a carrying
case, also slung over his shoulder.
"Need any help with that stuff?"
Luther turned away, putting his body between McCain and
his possessions. "Nope.•
McCain raised a brow. "Okay .. ." He looked around for the
man in the trench coat, but he was already gone. "Let's go, then."

Outside, the snow continued to fall, mixed with strange

starlight. It melted as soon as it touched the ground, making
everything just slightly damp-including Jeane Meara. She
stood on the sidewalk just outside the terminal doors by the
luggage area, shivering.
Fmally, McCain passed through the door and into the cold.
At his back was a short man with a shaved head, clad in black
and metal. At the same time, however, out of the corner of her
eye, she saw something else. A man in a long dark coat and a
fedora moved toward McCain from her left. A fedora? This
seemed pretty strange. The man's walk had more in common
with an insect's-a quick, steady pace with frequent, sudden
stops and starts. He scuttled toward McCain and the man she
presumed to be Luther Blisset.
As her hand slid down to the .380 automatic in her jacket

u
 of a g ed an ge I s

pocket, she strode toward the man i n black. Her focused gaze,
as powerful as any weapon, already attacked him, yet he didn't
seem to notice her until she was right behind him.
Fingers still wrapped around the pistol in her coat Jeane
,

barked out, "Excuse me?"

The man's head turned toward her, but he kept walking.
His face was hidden in the shadow of his hat. Almost immedi­
ately, he turned away-back toward McCain and Blisset.
"I said, excuse me!" This time she gave the man's back a
shove with her free hand. Through his thick coat his back was
,

firm and bony. He stopped and turned fully to face her. She could
see his face. Jeane made out deathly pale flesh that made her
think of cottage cheese, an angular jaw, and dark, narrow eyes.
"We have questions . . ." The man's voice rose and fell
unnaturally.
"Who are you?" Jeane demanded. His use of the word «we"
worried her, and she reflexively glanced around, but only once.
She saw no one near them.
"We work for the government," he said with no expression
in his face or voice. "We have questions."
"Questions for who? Let's see some ID."
The man turned his back to her. Jeane could see over his
shoulder that McCain had seen her and the man in black. He
put himself between the stranger and his own frightened-look·
ing charge. The man walked straight for them both.
"No, no, no, no. Let's see some ID. Now!" Jeane's hand
trembled in readiness to draw her weapon, but she thought
better of it. Instead, she bounded after him and in three strides
caught up. When he didn't turn, she shoved him again, this
time adding her weight and momentum.
The man didn't miss a step, didn't break his own stride. It
was as though he didn't even notice her.
"Fitz! Go!" she shouted.
Grabbing the little bald guy, McCain raced for their parked car.
"No," the man stated. "We have questions."
"So you said," Jeane said behind him.
She threw her shoulder into his back. He stopped. After a
15
 11onf8 co o k

heartbeat, he faced her. He grabbed Jeane's wrist with a quick

gesture. His grip was like a metal cable wrapped around her arm.
"Do not interfere," he said. "That wowd be sorry for all."
Jeane's free hand shot up to his face, her palm smashing
into his nose. Her hand flashed with pain, but the man hardly
reacted. His expression was one of surprise-perhaps confu·
sion-but not pain.
"We have questions," he stated without inflection.
Fortunately, Jeane could see that McCain and Blisset were at
the car The man turned his back to her again. She let him go.
.

At his pace, he couldn't reach McCain, who was already starting

the car. The �·s incongruous hat stayed firmly on his head as
he quickened his pace toward the car, but McCain pulled out of
the spot and drove through the parking lot away from him.
Jeane ran to the next aisle and waved her hands. The
Ford Contour turned, and McCain drove up to her. Jeane
looked for the man in black, but he was nowhere to be seen.
She opened up the back door and stuck her head in.
"Where'd he go?"
"I don't know." McCain shook his head.
"Can we get out of here, please? Jesus," the bald man asked
with fear and irritation.
Jeane could see now that he was little more than a boy­
twenty, twenty-one tops. His multiple piercings and harsh
attire stood out in discontinuity with the fear in his eyes and
his posture as he slid down farther in the seat, clutching at a
leather bag. A cigarette dangled from his botto m lip.
Jeane climbed in the back seat. "Okay, let's get back."
"This is Luther," McCain said, gesturing to the young man.
Jeane slammed the door, and McCain guided the car out of
tlie lot and up to the pay booth. She heard the young man grunt
"That guy was-" Jeane started.
Luther turned around in the front seat and gave her a fur.
rowed look that she couldn't interpret.
The car radio whispered static.

18
· a ell yes, I've seen him before. Or someone like him.
I don't know who he is, though.•
Blisset sipped from a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm
coffee McCain had handed him. The team's office, as
always, was comfortably lit. Blisset sat in front of Ngan's
desk, while Jeane and McCain stood sipping from Styro·
foam cups of their own. Luther reeked of cigarettes.
Jeane took a step backward and said, "He was com·
pletely stoned. I hit him-hard. He hardly flinched. I've
seen it before in the ATF. Probably Methcathinone or
Phencyclidine.•
Ngan nodded behind his desk. His frame, though
lean, seemed somehow confined by the dark blue suit
he wore. His face remained gentle, and the soft light
created a soothing glow about his smooth, bald head.
"Where have you seen him before, Mr. Blisset?"
"Look, call me Luther, right?" Luther took out a
cigarette. "Anyway, I saw him before. He's a Man·in
Black. MIB."

17
 moote coo�

Jeane looked to McCain. He nodded. They'd dealt with

people they referred to as "men in black" before. They were
operatives of secret government agencies who had no official
identity. She knew, however, that the man that she encoun­
tered in the parking lot was something different. Wasn't he?
The whole evening had been strange. The weird feelings-
She realized that McCain was staring at her. He appeared
a little concerned. She looked away. It wasn't like her to be so
unsure of herself. Jeane had seen plenty of strange things in
her short time with the Hoffmann Institute. Something tonight,
however, seemed to jar her whole self-awareness. She felt bet­
ter now, back at the office.
"Please don't smoke, here, Luther," Ngan said. "When was
it that you saw him? Had he been following you and your Insti­
tute escort?"
Ngan had a wonderfully level way of approaching any situ­
ation. Jeane admired him greatly, even if she didn't always
agree with his methods.
"Well, not exactly," Luther said, shifting in his seat. He
kept his bag close to his legs. "I do think they were following
me, though. They've probably got some satellite beamed in on
this location right now, dude. Do you people have countermea­
sures against low-frequency transmissions?"
Ngan ignored the question. "Who, exactly, was following
you?"
"Look, dude, I'm tired. This sucks. Can't we do this some
other timer
He held his arms close to his body. The leather coat he'd
refused to take off made a heavy rustling sound. In the drive
from the airport to the office, Luther had already proven to be
the annoying young punk Jeane had assessed him to be when
she got in the car.
"I know," McCain jumped in. "It's a long flight from San
Francisco. But we're here to protect you, and we can't do that
if we don't know what's going on."
Luther sighed, and his arms relaxed. "You look like some­
body. Ever been on TV?"

18
 af a 1 ed an ge I 1

McCain smiled. "Not really."

"All right. See, I belonged to this group, right? NOD."
"NOD?" McCain asked.
"Novo Ordo Diana," Luther said with surprising reverence.
"It's an occult thing. Members of the Cacophony Society who
took things a little more-but then, you probably don't . . . •
His rough, stubble-covered face contorted into a contemp·
tuous grimace. The expression seemed to come easily to him.
"See, all the people in the world are either neophiles or
neophobes," Luther continued. "Neophiles love everything
that's new,but neophobes fear change. NOD was dedicated to
neophiles-neophiles into magick."
Jeane noted Luther's well-rehearsed pronunciation of that
last word so that the "k" was prominent and it really came out
sounding like mage-ick. She knew enough to know that modem·
day occultists used the "k" and the slightly different pronunci­
ation to differentiate themselves from stage magicians or
older, fanciful, faiiy tale images the word magic might suggest
She wondered about the "Diana" part of things, however.
•Anyway," Luther went on, "I hung with these guys for
about a year, and that was cool. We all lived in this house,par·
tied, and basically realized en masse that the world was com­
pletely screwed in every way. I learned a lot from them."
"Like what?" Jeane asked.
"Uh ...you know. Stuff."
Luther narrowed his eyes and looked closely at her. For a
moment, his mouth hung slightly open as if he might say some­
thing more, but he withdrew.
"About the people after you, though..." McCain said.
"Right," Luther said. "They killed my friends."
"What?" McCain said.
"They made it look like one of those cult suicides,but we
weren't a goddamned cult. And we sure weren't into killing
ourselves. They killed all of them and, like, burned down the
house." Luther :fidgeted in his chair,which squeaked noisily.
"Bastards made it looked like we did it to ourselves. Or them­
selves, or whatever. I wasn't there. I was gone,and I didn't

. 19
 m onte co o k

even know it was going on until I showed up and the place was
burned to the ground. When I heard that crap about the sui­
cide, I knew that somebody had ... taken them out. I didn't
stick around.I got the hell outta there.•
Luther gripped the chair's arms tightly, and he leaned back
hard, the exertion against the chair steadying him.
"I didn't know who did it at that point, but I was sure that
they'd come after me next. I was right. I tried to lay low, but it
didn't work. They found me. One of those creatures-"
"Creatures?" Jeane interrupted.
"Yeah. The Man in Black."
"You think the man was not human?" Ngan asked.
"Look, all these questions're throwing me off. I just know
what I know, all right? That thing wasn't human. Anyway. !t­
or something just like it-came to my house. It was all 'we
have questions,' and I was all 'get outta here, dude.' "
McCain rubbed his hand slowly over his face. "Look, it's
late, I know. But if we could just get some better idea of who
or what the man was .. . "

"I'm telling you, it spoke like a freakin' robot. Its responses

were ·an programmed. It was like a program, really. A gopher
program seeking information and ignoring any other input."
It sounded as if Luther knew something about computers.
Jeane noted that.
"When did you talk to hi-it?" McCain asked.
"I was crashing with a friend. She wasn't a member, she
was a mundane. I wasn't doing anything, just hiding there
watchin' TV. I didn't know what to do. I damn sure wasn't
going back to the reservation. I wanted to stay in the city, but
my stuff was gone, most of my friends were gone, and I didn't
know what the hell was going on.I mean, whattaya do, right?
Anyway, it shows up at the apartment, and I'm the only one
there-the girl I'm staying with's at work. It says it works
for the government and starts asking me all these questions
about what I know, but it was like it already knew all the
answers, you know? It acted really weird, like-like I asked
if he had a badge or something, and he, it, didn't even know
20
 of a g ed an ge I s

what I was talking about.And while I was talking to him, I

was drinking a Coke, and it looked at me like I was from
freakin' Venus or something. Like he'd never seen anyone
drink anything before. I was getting really freaked out. He
was all 'don't tell anyone anything or else.' Finally, I told him
I had to go to the bathroom and just stayed in there.Eventu­
ally he left."
McCain nodded and backed up a few paces to lean against
the wall."That is weird," he said, nodding.
McCain looked to Ngan and shrugged. Jeane could tell from
his demeanor that Fitz probably didn't buy the story.
"It's classic MIB stuff. I've read about it since then. It's
like when those guys come after people who've seen UFOs.
Except I haven't seen any." Luther paused and looked at all
three of them one at a time."But I know a little something
about them, maybe."
Ngan stood up and said,. "It's late, and we can talk more
tomorrow. Luther, we have a motel room set up for you.You'll
be safe there
"Uh . . . okay. Whatever, dude." Luther seemed a little sur-
prised to be interrupted.
Jeane was surprised, too.
"Jeane," Ngan said, "will you take Luther to the Holiday Inn?"
He pushed an envelope across the desk toward her.She
grabbed it and could feel that it held some papers and a key
card.
"Sure." She moved toward the door. "C'mon,Luther, let's go."
Luther stood with a sneer. "You guys are so Holiday Inn. I
shoulda figured."
Jeane ignored him."How'd we get ...I mean, how did you
end up with us?" she asked as she opened the door.
"I'd heard of Hoffmann on the Internet, so I called you
guys. I didn't know if I could trust you, but I knew I couldn't
damn well trust these things after me. Apparently when your
boss heard what I knew, he had me brought in."
Luther walked out the door, and Jeane looked back·in to
the office toward Ngan. The older man nodded to her with a
l1
 m ante coo k

half-smile. He'd explain later, she knew. She just wished it

didn't have to be her watching over this kid. The less time she
spent with him the better.

When the door closed, Ngan pulled out a file. folder from his
desk and handed it to McCain. It was labeled "Blisset." Before
opening it, McCain said to Ngan, "I didn't get a good look at the
guy like Jeane did, so I don't know about this whole 'creature'
business. Luther's probably just shook up."
There was something, however, that had set his teeth on
edge. A strange feeling more than just brought on by inclement
snow. It had been a weird night.
McCain opened the file. The first item was a newspaper
clipping. "23 Die in Cult Suicide,• the headline read.
"Oh yeah,• McCain said. "I remember this. This was the
group Luther was talking about?"
"Yes," Ngan answered, "but I'm afraid the file has little
more than that. You'll see he's got an arrest record for some
minor infringements. Luther Blisset is almost certainly not his
real name. What do you think of him?"
"Well, he's an annoying little prick, if you ask me. I doubt
we can trust him, though I couldn't tell you at this point if he's
lying or just whacko. And that story ... I don't know.There's
something he's not telling us."
"There are many things he's not telling us yet, I'm sure.
You can help with that." Ngan shook his head. "We're in a bit
of a quandary, here, Michael. Luther has information important
enough to the Institute that we've been assigned to watch over
him until his meeting with Director Nakami in a few days.
Obviously, someone else finds the information that Luther has
quite valuable as well. I don't know if we can do our job very
well without finding out more of what he knows, so that we
can determine who is after him."
"So can't you contact Nakami and ask him?"
"No, Nakami has disappeared on one of his sabbaticals. No

22
 ef a g ed an ge I s

one without proper clearance can know where he's gone or con­
tact him in any way. That's whyhe can't meet with Luther now.•
Ngan lowered his head slightly and looked at McCain with
his deep blue eyes. He passed McCain a folded slip of paper.
McCain took it and opened it slowly, though his gaze never left
his old friend. McCain knew better than to question Ngan and
realized that whatever was written in this note was written
before the conversation-before they had returned with Luther.
The note said: "I think there might be a leak in the Hoff­
mann Institute. I don't know who we can trust Even Nakami
him.self.•
McCain bit down on his lower lip. Ngan obviously thought
his office might be bugged. Damn. This was serious. He nod­
ded at Ngan but attempted to give him a "what the hell?" look
with his eyes.
Ngan just grimaced. "So, then, we'll just keep watching
over Luther and see what happens."
"Yeah."

. is
.
.. t, e tea was warm, light, and crisp. Ngan savored
the texture and feeling more than the flavor. It
relaxed him. When he was much yotmger, still liv­
ing in Tibet, Ngan had developed a taste for British tea.
It was less bitter than the tea most people in his coun­
try drank, but foreign tea was difficult to obtain there.
It seemed odd to him now that when he was in Tibet it
was the mediocre, bland British tea fua:t was so rare,
but now that he was in the States, it was the pungent
Tibetan tea that was all but impossible to get.
The motel caie wasn't busy. It smelled of strong,
stale coffee and acrid chemical cleansers. The waitress
looked as though she'd just woke up. Ngan checked his
pocket watch and saw that it was just a few minutes
before Jeane was to relieve Michael. The three of them
were going to watch over Luther's room in shifts, at
least at night. The plan was that around noon, all of
them would have lunch and perhaps learn a little more
from Luther. Ngan had finished his shift four hours
24
 of a g ed a n ge I 1

before, but found himself reluctant to leave. Instead, he spent

the time in the all-night cafe attached to the motel.
Ngan had been a member of the Hoffmann Institute for far
longer than his two young partners. He'd literally watched
Michael McCain grow up, in fact McCain's adoptive mother
was an agent Ngan had known for many years. Little Michael
called him "UncleAgain." Ngan had been with McCain when
the younger man discovered that he was, in fact, the product
of some mysterious experiment-a clone. And not just that,
but the clone of a ver:y important man.
Ngan liked his job and felt that it was a fine way to serve
humanity. As a young child, there had been . . . an incident
Ngan had been taken by creatures that his people called the
yeti. Instead of monstrous beings, as Hollywood sometimes
depicted them in adventure movies, the yeti were contempla­
tive, spiritual beings and instilled in him a desire to help his
own people. He'd told his partners, let alone others, little
about the experience. The truth was that as much as he loved
humanity as a whole, there weren't many people Ngan was
close to, and these memories were such that he only rarely
allowed himself the luxur:y of dwelling upon them. To share
them with others-well, there had been few in his long life that
had become that close to him.
Mostly, he remembered their eyes. The wet glistening of a
yeti's eyes was an image few humans ever experienced. As
Ngan sat in the lonely diner, he granted himself the small gift
of the memor:y of their dark but soft, compassionate eyes-and
a name: Xing Mengrui.
Unlike his compatriots, Ngan had no trouble believing that
Luther might have been pursued and questioned by inhuman
creatures. Ngan had learned through his study of the ebbs and
flows of the Dark Tide that for ever:y pure truth in the world,
like the clarity and peace of the yeti, there was a cprrupt and
sinister truth as well. Fortunately hidden from the awareness
of most people, these terrors roamed the fringes of reality, hop­
ing to gain access to the bright world in the center. Struggling
to defend against these shadows was an important part of his

f5
 m onte coo k

duties in the Hoffmann Institute and thus in serving all human­

ity. McCain and Jeane might not fully realize it yet, but their
whole purpose of being was to fight against the unknown­
though the most potent way of doing so was to discover and
examine it, for then it was no longer unknown.
The Dark Tide, the Hoffmann Institute's way of expressing
the rise and fall of unexplained and paranormal activity, was
often misunderstood even by the few who knew of its exis­
tence. What Ngan understood was that all things were linked,
and in that truth, he could see that all the aspects of "strange­
ness," such as the yeti, UFOs, psychic abilities, ghosts, and
more were thus linked. In the weblike pattern of existence, the
strange and the paranormal were all threads closely twined
into a single bundle.
Researchers at the Institute speculated on an actual trans­
dimensional substance that they called simply Dark Matter,
which was responsible for the bundle, as it were. But even if it
was only theory, Ngan was convinced that all aspects of the
paranormal, the strange, and the mysterious were inexorably
linked. Deep down, it was human nature to lump together sto­
ries of bigfoot, alien abductions, and fish falling from the sky.
Forteana, it was called by some, after the writer Charles Fort.
At the beginning of the twentieth century, Fort had begun
cataloging all the reports of mysterious happenings that "real"
scientists chose to ignore. Apparitions, teleportations, strange
lights in the sky, odd noises in the countryside, animals that
could not exist-these were Fort's passion, and he put them all
together. Fort was a man decades ahead of his time, for as Ngan
knew, all these things were indeed similar in their nature. The
"flip side" of reality. The Hoffmann Institute had extensive
records, and anyone with a careful eye would note that when
someone reported a UFO, there were invariably also reports in
the same area, at the same time, of psychic phenomena, or
crypto-zoological sightings, or messages from beyond the grave­
the incidents were always unique, but there was also a pattern.
That pattern, the Dark Tide, indicated a huge rise in such inci- ·
dents of late. The Hoffmann Institute was busier than ever.
 of a g ed a n ge I s

The mechanical ring of Ngan's cell phone interrupted the

peace of his thoughts. The eyes of the yeti Xing Mengrui faded
away. With a contemplative pause, Ngan answered.
"Ngan, this is Jeane. I just relieved Fitz outside the Holiday
Inn where we've put up Luther. Luther's up now, and Fitz
thinks this would be a good time to talk to him. I know we
were going to wait and have lunch, but . . . "

"No, that's fine, Jeane. In fact, I'm still nearby. ·You go in

with Michael and speak with Luther. See if you can learn more
of the people who seem to be after him. I'll keep a watch out­
side the room. And Jeane-see if you can find out what exactly
it is that Nakami wants to talk to Luther about."
"Really?"
"Yes, I think so. I don't believe we can hope to keep him
safe from an unknown enemy if we don't even know why that
enemy is after him."
"Okay, you're the . . . I mean, well, okay." Jeane disconnected.
Until fairly recently, Ngan had been Jeane and Michael's
superior. He chose, however, to step down from his position so
that the three of them could work together as equals. He knew
Jeane liked a clear chain of command. Her background in the
ATF had taught her to rely on a hierarchy. Ironically, it had
been the betrayal by her superiors in the ATF that had brought
her to the Hoffmann Institute. Perhaps it was good for her to
be reminded that there were other ways of thinking. She was
clearly the most skeptical of the three, though even Michael's
mind was more closed than Ngan really liked.

"So, Luther, did you take any time out from smoking to get a
little sleep?" Mee.am wrinkled his nose as he walked into the room.
Jeane pushed in past him and sat down in the chair near the
window. McCain shut the door behind them. He took off his
sports coat, under w:hich he wore a long-sleeve green shirt and
dark jeans. He hadn't shaved and wore the same clothes from
the night before.
 monte co a k

"Whatever," Luther grunted. "What now? You guys got a

plan or something?" He seemed irritable and still a little
sleepy.
"Well," McCain replied, "we've been watching the motel.
We haven't seen anything. You're safe here."
"Who's watching now if you're both here? The Chinese
dude?"
"Look, let us wony about that," Jeane said.
"So then what? Can we get something to eat?"
"Sure," Jeane said, "but maybe we can talk a little first."
Luther had set up his laptop on the hotel room desk. Jeane
noted that it was connected to both the outlet and the phone
line. The screen was black. Luther had shed his leather jacket
and wore faded jeans with a design scrawled on them with a
black marker, and a black T-shirt. It bore the image of a white
handprint, and it took Jeane a moment to realize that the print
had six fingers. The ashtray near the computer was full.
"You're connected to the Internet?" Jeane asked. "Don't you
know that connections like that can be traced?"
Luther's response was a simple, rude noise. "I know a hel­
luva lot more about it than you do, babe."
"Babe?" Babe? Jeane rose to her feet.
"Jesus, Luther," McCain scolded, intercepting the con­
frontation, "Jeane's killed men for less. And you probably think
I'm exaggerating." His face was flat and emotionless.
Luther raised an eyebrow. McCain put a hand on Jeane's
shoulder and said, "Cut him some slack for now, okay?"
She shook his hand off her shoulder but said nothing. She
sat back down.
"I had to check my email, that's it. I didn't gettraced, trust
me. I know what I'm doing."
McCain sat down on the bed. "So, what do you got on that
.
thing?"
"Yeah, like you'd even understand," Luther scoffed.
Jeane hated him. Maybe McCain was a computer whiz­
how would Luther know? He just assumed that he knew
more about the topics he was interested in than anyone else.

28
 of a g ed a n ge I s

Of course, with mysterious men in black chasing him and the

Hoffmann Institute courting him all for information he pos­
sessed, it wasn't like circumstances were convincing him
otherwise.
There was something else bothering her, however. If all his
friends were killed and he was on the run, who was he expect­
ing email from? Luther was scared, and if he really did know
something about the technology available then he must know
that he was taking a risk by getting on-line. Either he was
looking for something more substantial than simple email
spam, or he was an idiot. The former had her suspicious, but
she still hadn't completely ruled out the latter.
"We've just come to talk," McCain said with a shrug and
half a smirk.
"You guys sure like to talk. Is this about what your boss
wants to hear outta me?"
"Well, all right. Why don't you tell us what this is all
about?" McCain shrugged casually.
Jeane could tell he was trying to seem casual. Why every­
one fell for his charm she could never guess. She saw right
through him, but no one else ever seemed to.
Luther worked his jaw, his hand running across his fore­
head. His finger stopped at his silver eyebrow loop.
"Right, okay, what do I care? I was trying to tell you yes­
terday anyway, till your buddy decided it was more important
to get me checked into the fabulous Holiday Inn. • He smiled
and said, "See, it's all about this thing called the Babalon
Working."
Luther paused dramatically, and McCain waited for him to
continue. When he didn't, McCain shook his head to indicate
he had no idea what Luther was talking about. Luther smiled.
"Hang on to something, because we're going in deep, now,"
Luther said, still grinning. He was clearly loving this. �There's
this group called the OTO. Ordo Templi Orientis."
"Do they have anything to do with NOD?"
"No. No way. We were way cooler." Luther shook.his
head with a scowl. "They're old. This is like in . . . 1946 or
!9
 AI OR t8 C8 8 k

something. Anyway, back then there's this guy named Jack

Parsons. He's some kinda rocket scientist at the Jet Propul­
sion Laboratory-but better yet, he was a magician. Aleis­
ter Crowley was like, his mentor."
Jeane nodded. She'd heard of Crowley. Who hadn't? The
weirdo bald guy who called himseH the Beast and did a lot of
drugs, right? She was ready to write off the story right there.
The only thing was, she'd always heard his name pro·
nounced "Crowley," like "wow-lee". Luther pronounced it as
though it rhymed with "holy.n
Luther continued, losing hi.mseH in his own story. "So Par·
sons-this is all in Southern California, right-he starts on
what he calls Crowley's 'Great Work.' He wants to magickally
create something called the Moonchild that will 'usher in the
new age of Horus.' Anyway, this whole magick process is
called the Babalon Working. But he needed to get someone to
work with him. So he found . . n Luther's grin widened.
. M • • •

L. Ron Hubbard."
Jeane's brow raised. "You mean as in 'Scientology?' The
'lravolta movie? That Hubbard?"
"Oh, yeah." Luther nodded. "Mr. Sci Fi religion hisself. See,
Hubbard was assigned by military intelligence to scope out the
OTO, but in hanging around with them he learned some truths.
He got into what they were doing. Next thing you know, he's a
major class sorcerer and Parsons's best friend. This is all
before Dianetics and whatever.•
"Military intelligence?" McCain asked. "I've never heard
that before."
"Yeah," Luther replied thoughtfully. "Naval intelligence, I
think."
"So Parsons and Crowley go out into the desert and start
this big ritual-we call that a 'working.' That's what Babalon
Working means-like a spell, you might say. The whole thing
takes months. They're out there in the desert, summoning up
the energies to create the Moonchild. Toward the end, they
involve this woman, and the whole thing becomes a big
Tantric, sex magi.ck thing. But it's really powerful. It's unlike

30
 of a g ed an ge l s

anything that's ever come before-well, at least, in recorded

time anyway, right? Whatever. Anyway, by this time it's 1947,
and at the culmination of the Babalon Working Parsons and
Hubbard open up this doorway. A doorway to someplace else.
•And something came through."
Jeane shrugged. "What? What came through?"
"Creatures from Outside. Outside time. Outside space."
"Creatures?" Jeane's voice betrayed her skepticism.
"Aliens. Aliens. Weren't you listening? Aren't you Hoff-
mann people supposed to know all this? I thought you guys
knew·about all kinds of paranormal crap. Isn't that what you're
all about?"
"Look. Don't tell me my job." Jeane stood up.
"Hey, sorry.• Luther waved his hands in front of him.
McCain, who had been quiet for a while, staring out the
window, took a few steps to Luther's chair. He squatted. "It's
okay. We know a little something about aliens and things, but
there's a lot we don't know. That's why we need you."
Luther nodded. "I'm just saying . . 1947. You know.
.

Roswell-"
The door opened, and Ngan entered the room, though it
seemed to Jeane as if those two events actually happened in
reverse order. "We have to leave. One of the men you descn"bed
is in a car in front of the motel, and another is most likely just
now walking around back.n
"Damn.• Jeane was on her feet and at the window.
"I have the van," Ngan said. "Michael, will you drive?"
"Sure," McCain said as he grabbed his jacket.
"No," Jeane said. "Fitz and I will take the car and try to lead
them off-make them think we've got Luther. We'll dawdle to
make sure that both of them are after us. Ngan, you slip out
with Luther to the van after a few minutes." It still felt odd to
be telling Ngan what to do. Not long ago, he'd been her supe­
rior in the Institute. Now they were peers.
"Good idea," Ngan said. .
McCain nodded as well. He turned to Luther and said, "You
go with Ngan, okay?"
. 31
 m oots co o k

"Don't talk to me like I'm a little kid, okay?" he replied,

looking at Jeane. She didn't acknowledge him.
"Get your things." Ngan put a hand on Luther's shoulder,
but he shrugged it off.
Jeane said, "We'll meet up back at the office. I'll call in."
Ngan pursed his lips. "No, let's meet at . . the Imperial
.·

Garden."
"The Thai place in Crestwood?" McCain asked.
"Exactly."
Why there? Jeane wondered. She looked to McCain.
"They probably know about the office," he offered with a
shrug. "And they're probably monitoring cell phone transmis­
sions, so we shouldn't call in." McCain looked at Ngan, who
met his gaze in a meaningfui way but didn't speak.
Jeane knew something was going on, but there was no
time.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go."
Jeane looked back once more at Ngan, who watched as
Luther quickly shoved his things into his bag. She opened the
door and was at the car in four paces. McCain followed closely
behind.
Across the parking lot, she saw a large black sedan idling
with a single occupant. That must be the tail. From this dis­
tance, she couldn't see if it was the man from the previous
night, but she shuddered involuntarily anyway.
The key went into the ignition. Music blaring from the radio
filled the car, and McCain snapped it off and buckled himself in.
Exhaust from their car spat from the tail pipe, and they
were gone.
�t tlte subject's name is Luther Blisset, AKA Martin
Roundtree. Changed his name to Blisset when he
left home at age sixteen, three years ago, reasons
unknown. Native American descent. Worked at the
casino on the Cabazon Indian Reservation in California
where he met an occultist named Richard Dallas."
"Of course he did. Cabazon is a conspiratorial cross·
roads. Your own government uses its special status to
conduct illegal weapons research. The CIA meets with
representatives of various governments and groups. In
turn, those groups-the Masons, the Final Church,
Skull and Bones-they use it as a sort of neutral zone
in the California desert. Cabazon's secretly crawling
with government operatives, occult experts, UFO
abductees. Security is supplied by a private firm known
as Wackenhut-<>wned and operated by ex-CIA men.
It's the same firm that provides security for Area 51.�
"Wow. Amazing. I wish I'd known about that place."
"Why? You never leave this apartment. You'd never

33
 monte co o -

go there. You sit here amid your newspapers piled to the ceil­
ing with your conspiracy Internet sites and your triple locks on
the door. You never go out into the world.•
"Hey, look. You don't have to be so harsh. I'.m helping you,
remember? If I didn't frequent alt.conspiracy you wouldn't
have known to make contact with me. Besides, I stay in here
for my own protection. When your own government turns
against you, what can you do?"
"Turn to mine?"
"Yeah, right. Wipe that sinister grin off your face. I don't
trust yours any more than mine. It's just that yours is more up
front about it. You don't pretend like we do. It's the hypocrisy
of it all that I bate. Don't shake your head at me. It's true."
"It's all a matter of perspective. But it doesn't matter.
You're providing us with information and a safe house, so I
won't criticize anymore. Back to what we have on Blisset,
my friend."
"Right. This Dallas fellow hooked him up with an organi­
zation called the Novo Ordo Diana. Occult-based free-thinkers.
Kaos-magick-practicing backers. Kids into whatever was new
and forbidden. They lived communally in a big house in San
Francisco, spending all their money on technology and drugs.
Patterned after the quasi-Masonic orders like the OTO or the
Solar Temple, they pooled their resources of money and knowl­
edge. Apparently anarchists, these kids were an off-shoot of a
small group of non-conformist oddballs called the Cacophony
Society, whose traditions go all the way back to the Merry
Pranksters. They took magick very seriously, though. Blisset
almost certainly learned a great deal about the occult as well
as computers and encryption there. This wasn't some Fate­
magazine inspired group of New Agers. Dark, real-they were
serious. They all eventually killed themselves in some sort of
ceremony and burned down their house.•
"Not all of them.•
"Right. Obviously, Blisset survived.•
"Right."
"Is there something that you're not telling me?"

34
 of a g ad an ge I a

"Of course."
•All right, fine. Then Blisset hooked up with the Hoffmann
Institute. He found their website and contacted them. I've been
there, but there's something more going on with them, clearly.
From what I understand, they have all sorts of teams investi­
gating paranormal events and interfering with the activities of
different groups."
"Yes, the Hoffmann Institute is an annoying and resource­
ful opponent, but they're hopefully unaware of all the psionic
technological advances that our group has made."
"sO they don'teven knowto suspect thatyou planted a psy-
chic linking device on their man."
"Exactly. "
"You, um. You still have mustard on your chin."
"He never suspected a thing. I had feared more from him.
The Hoffmann Institute has a reputation."
"So it really worked. The psychic tracer."
"There was some strange interference while they were still
at the airport, but it works well now."
"So Psychotech wasn't kidding around."
"God, no. I mean-yes, it worked. But no, -the PTD doesn't
'kid.' "
"I know, I know. It's a figure of speech."
"You and your figures of speech. It's like a defense mecha­
nism you Americans have implemented into your society to
help keep out non-English speakers."
"You mean spies, like you? Your English is better than
mine."
"Spy si a stupid word. It's a 1960s word."
"More like 1950s."
"James Bond was 1960s."
"Yeah, but that's fiction. I mean in real life. People talked
about spies in the 1950s. Everyone was afraid of �ussian
spies. They'd onlyjust got done being afraid of Nazi spies.''
"They should have been more afraid than they were. Your
own government let them in. The Nazi spies in the 1950s were
your spies."

35
 m onte co o k

"You don't have to tell me about Operation Paperclip. Nazis,

the CIA. Why do you think I agreed to work with you?"
"Whatever. I'm not a spy. I'm more of an . . . agent."
"How very 1990s of you."
"But it's not the-"
"Exactly."
"Ha ha. Very funny. Can we get back to work?"
"Sure. So, the device worked. You planted it on McCain's
coat."
"Right. It creates a resonating field that amplifies the
standing wave pattern of his consciousness. Now I can receive
his sensory input milliseconds after his own brain does. I heard
everything that Blisset said."
"And because you're psychic you don't even need any
receiving equipment?"
"The Psychotech Department chose me because of the suc­
cess of my . . . operation."
"What operation."
"I don't want to talk about it. But I don't need any equip­
ment. Just a quiet, local place. That's where you and your
apartment come in."
"Well, that and I knew where the Hoffmann Institute's base
was located."
"Yes, Jerry. You've really helped us greatly. What will you
do with all the money that PTD is giving you?"
"I'll finally be able to afford the security equipment that
will allow me to get on the Internet without fear of traces. And
a better alarm system. A micro digital camera I can hook up in
the lobby to see who's coming in and out of the whole apart­
ment building."
"I've got to tell you. It amazes me that someone as para­
noid as you would work with us."
"Like I said, I don't have to be paranoid around you people.
You're forthright about your position. I know that I can't trust
you. You're the freakin' Russians."
"Ha. Fine then."
"And so . . ."

36
 af a g ed an ge I a

"And so it's bigger than just some contact at Cabazon. He's

talking about the origin of the ultraterrestrials in our contin­
uum. Some doorway opened with an occult ritual known as the
Babalon Working.•
"lfitraterrestrials? You mean like extraterrestrials?"
"No. Extraterrestrials are from another planet. He's talking
about somethingfrom another space-time continuum. An exis­
tence beyond reality as we understand it-as even an extra­
terrestrial would understand it. lfitraterrestrials."
"Wlld. And did your people know about them?•
·we knew something of them. We believe they existed here
on Earth long ago but were driven away-perhaps by the inter­
vention of the Greys. It seems as if they are enemies."
"And so if they're enemies of the Greys, they're good guys,
right? I mean, the Greys abduct people, they're infiltrating
positions of political power . . ."
"You get too much ofyour cosmology from the Internet, my
friend. Labels like good and evil are difficult to use when
speaking of aliens, let alone ultraterrestrials.•
"You don't have to talk down to me. I've read 'J'he Interrupted
Journey. I know a little something about the Greys on Earth. I was
just trying to say . . . the ultraterrestrials are on our side, right?"
"The fact is, we have no idea what it is that they want.
When they were here before they wielded great powers-like
gods or angels. Now that they're back, they could do practi­
cally anything. We don't understand them much. Perhaps, how­
ever, continued monitoring of Blisset will-argh!"
"What? Sergei? What's wrong? Damn it!"
"What's going on? Arrgh. Things in my head. What . . .
what's that noise?"
"My alarm. Someone's in the apartment. Hang on. What's
wrongwith you? It's just my alarm. We can still escape.•
The confusion. The cacophony suddenly in my mind-it's
so unknowable t
i 's killing me . . . unthinkable thoughts . . .
zagovor, angels, France . . . stones, ya ne ponimayu, Christ's
children . . . too much. Can not take it . . . knights in artnor,
ships . . . new shapes, colors . . . static . . .

. 37
 m onte co o k

"Sergei, I can hear you, but your mouth isn't moving.

"Okay. This is crazy. Okay. Got to think straight. Some­
body's through the front door, but that clicking noise s
i the
inner door locking. It's hooked up automatically to the alarm.
It's iron. Okay. That'll hold them until we can-"
"We have questions. . " . .

"Who said that? Shit! They're coming in! We've got to go,
Sergei!
"Sergei?"
Sergei lay on the floor, doubled over in pain. White foam
bubbled up from his convulsing mouth. His toupee fell off his
head, exposing the extensive scarring around the trepanned
hole in his skull, courtesy of his government's secret Psy­
chotech Department. Black blood dribbled out of the hole, and
the flow increased. Jerry stared at the blood and listened to the
voices on the other side of the iron door. He grabbed the keys
to Sergei's car, which he'd left on the table, muttering "fire
escape" to himself like a mantra. He'd reviewed this eventual­
ity a thousand times in his head-some sort of government
agents busting in. He had a plan. As he made his way toward
his escape route, he never saw the thin, mucus-covered tendril
slip through the ancient iron grating of the heatingvent. Jerry's
paranoia hadn't prepared him to suspect intrusion by some­
thing nonhuman-something that could draw the life-force out
of each of his cells, draining the pan-human akashic memory
implanted within his DNA as well as the surface and short·
term memory in his primitive neural net.
Jerry always assumed his enemies were human-from this
planet, at least from this universe.

38
�� d so these . . ." Ngan gripped the wheel of the Ply­
mouth Voyager and threaded his way through the
traffic on the Stevenson Expressway. Luther bad just
finished telling him about the Babalon Working and the
recent visit by a Man in Black.

"Monsters," Luther suggested. "Whatever. I don't

know what you call them. Aliens, I guess."
Luther squirmed in his seat as his gaze darted from
car to car around them.
"Yes," Ngan replied. "These aliens-that's what
Director Nakami wants to talk to you about."
The interior of the van was immaculate and smelled
of new upholstery and new plastic. McCain and Jeane
left the motel in the car. Ngan and Luther left shortly
afterward. Ngan focused his mind on generating psy­
chic white noise to mask their presence from anyone
the other two agents might not have led away.
Fortunately, there was no sign of pursuit. That
didn't mean there wasn't any, however, so Ngan

39
 m oote coo k

attempted to put as much distance between them and the

motel as the speed limits would allow.
Luther looked out the window through particularly dark
sunglasses and said, "I guess so. As long as you people can
keep these Men in Black off my back, I'll tell you anything. I
don't care. I don't owe anybody anything for this information.
Not anymore."
"You learned this from someone in your order, then. n

"Rich Dallas." Luther smiled. "He taught me about Kaos

Magick and cyber-occultism. He was the greatest."
"Cyber-occultism?"
"Yeah, you know-using computers and the Internet as a
part of ritualistic magic. Magick is all about exacting ritualized
behavior, right? 'As above, so below,' and all that A.E. Waite
shit. Well, it's ritualized behavior that makes computers work,
too. What's spellcasting got that code writing don't? Get it?"
"Tell me more."
"I don'tknow how much you know about computers, dude,
but see, we could all gather together in a chat room on the
Internet and perlorm group rituals. We didn't even have to be
in the same city, get it? Thing is, we found that things worked
better on the net. The chants, the rituals-the virtual environ·
ment stopped being a replacement for reality and became the
actual thing-<>ur magick reality. In cyberspace, everything
represents something else-nothing's real. It's all binary code,
but that's just like magick. In the occult, you use things to rep·
resent other things. If you're trying to get some girl to like you,
you use something of hers, and you focus your energy into it as
though it was actually that person. If you're casting a spell on
your enemy, you construct something to represent them. Sym·
pathetic magick uses actual objects important to the person,
chaos magicians sometimes just use symbols-like runes con·
structed to represent someone.
"But binary code is all about symbols, too. Computers use
ones and zeroes to represent everything. Programming lan·
guages are all about representing something with another
thing-a bit of code. In a computer game, you can see some

40
 of a g ed an ge I s

dude walking around blowing the hell out of everything, but

that guy, and his gun, they're reallyjust bits of code. Whatever
he's shooting with ·the gun-that's just code too.
"Cyber-occultism allows us to realize that that's how the
real world works. It's not computer code, it's reality's code-we
just see what's on the screen but not really the commands and
processing going on behind it to make it all work. With magick,
we can mess with the code. So you see, the Internet became
this whole sympathetic universe where we could conduct ritu­
als and get them to work both there and in the real world."
•And this worked?"
"Hell, yeah. See, that's what computers are for-taking
what seems to the uninitiated to be meaningless and translat­
ing it into something that makes sense with real uses in the
world. The programmers who started it all and started the
Web, they probably had no idea they were creating a magickal
conduit through which we could work miracles. We did some
amazing stuff. Using magick, Dallas and me and a few of the
others manipulated people, altered computer files-some
pretty freaky shit. We even once caused the pipes to burst in
the DMV and flood their records room. Wrecked a bunch of
stuff to clear a dude's driving record. Oh, man. You probably
wouldn't believe it."
Such power. Such pettiness.
"I think,• Ngan said, "in fact, I would. But I must tell you,
Luther, it all surprises me a little. What you've described, it's
not very akin to the spiritual ways of your people, s i it? It's a
very different path."
"My people?" Luther's voice was filled with indignation.
"Great, you sound like my grandfather. Don't lay some Indian
heritage guilt trip on me, okay? It's not my responsibility to
uphold a bunch of out-of-date beliefs. Not my problem. I've
found a better, more modem way."
"And you believe that the newest way is the best way,"
Ngan said.
"Of course. I'm a neophile, remember? It's my frickin'
meme."
-41
 m onte co o k

Ngan checked the mirrors. They were driving down the

expressway, and traffic was surprisingly light. No one was
chasing them. They were safe to circle around to Crestwood to
meet up with the others. Still, to be prudent, Ngan continued
to devote at least a part of his consciousness to the psychic
screen he'd been using to help cover their escape.
Only after a fewmoments did Ngan realize Luther was still
talking about himself.
• . . . whole experience has made me so attuned to binary
processing that I sometimes perceive reality in a binary, rather
than linear, paradigm."
"I don't understand."
Ngan didn't like to do this while also attempting to mask
their escape, but as Luther spoke, he attempted to build the
bonds of an empathic rapport with the young man. He wanted
to understand more of what he was talking about. However,
when he tried, he felt his gentle psychic touch repelled by
harsh angles and constantly changing strings of numbers.
Luther's aura was indeed a shroud of technological relation­
ships-code and formulae rather than moods and light that
comprised most people's beings. Yet Luther came across to him
as much more than that-an emotional, angry and potentially
confused young man with great promise.
"Yeah, you probably wouldn't understand. You're probably
all OM and yoga and crap, right? From China or something?"
"Tibet, actually."
"Oh, 'course. Tibet. Secret monasteries and all that, right?
There's plenty of your kind in Frisco."
Your kind? The words stung, but not because of any sort of
prejudice on Luther's part. Ngan regretted that Luther was
more right than he liked. Certainly some people of Asian
descent and Eastern beliefs bad already formed a stereotype in
the minds of Westerners. Exploiting their own sacred heritage
to earn American cash, they fit themselves into the New Age
wave. In the last twenty years, his homeland had become a
cliche among the people of this country.
•Anyway, it was Dallas who told me about the Babalon

42
 of a g ed an ge I s

Working I told your friends about in the motel, and now you.
And eventually, I guess, your boss next week. If that makes me
important enough in your eyes to help protect me, then I guess
that's one more I owe Dallas." Luther ran a finger along the
dashboard. "Except that he's dead."
"I'm sorry, Luther. I really am. He died in the fire?"
"He was killed. Suicided. He-and the others-they would
never kill themselves. It was those freaks who said they were
from the government. The Men in Black. When the guy found
me later, he threatened me. I know this is no joke."
"What did he say?"
"He asked me why I would tell anyone about Babalon when
I knew that people died when they talked about it. The thing
was, I hadn't talked about it. Not yet. I didn't even know it was
this important secret."
Perhaps, Ngan thought, there was more to these Men in
Black than he had believed. But what was their connection to
the Babalon Working? He nodded at Luther. Perhaps there was
more to what the stranger had said-
"So, do you people think you know who these Men in Black
are or what?"
The traffic grew thicker, but Ngan all but ignored it. Was
Luther attempting to redirect the topic slightly? No need to
press it now.
"Well, that's an interesting question, Luther," Ngan said
evenly. "Many people think they work for the government. It's
true that the United States government employs so-called 'black
agencies' that cany out covert operations. The Hoffmann Insti­
tute has dealt firsthand with agents in dark suits and cars that
work for such agencies. But there's actually a more interesting
theory regarding your Men in Black. You see, Luther, there are
stories dating back literally thousands of years dealing with
mysterious personages that seem interested in what we now
refer to as paranormal phenomena. These were people in black
cloaks or robes appearing to others, inquiring about what they
had seen. Sometimes these strangers shared advice or imparted
secret knowledge. Many philosophers and scientists describe

43
 m on te co o k

encounters with black-garbed individuals who inspired them or

even gave themthe ideasthat they're famous for. Even Thomas
Jefferson was said to have been visited by such a stranger in his
gardens regarding the design of the country's national seal. At
the same time, however, others of these strangers reportedly
suppressed secrets."
"Like they were controlling information flow."
"Yes, somethinglike that These individuals seem, from the sto­
ries, to be more than-or at least something other than-human.
After hearing what you have said and Agent Meara's report of the
assailant at the airport, I am beginning to wonder if the Men in
Black that we're dealing with have to do with these beings."
"Wow, man.. You're pretty out there," Luther said with a smile.
Ngan nodded. "That's a compliment I have never received."
"Well, it's true, though. I totally agree. These guys aren't
human. They're aliens or something. Count on it." Luther
pulled off his sunglasses.
"And they're obviously interested in information regarding the
Babalon Working," said Ngan, "ofwhichyou alone seem to be privy."
Luther sank down in the seat, his leather jacket whining
against the car seat.
Ngan drove in silence for a minute. There were fragments to
the mystery that needed to be considered before he could put it
all together. Luther needed to know the truth-only by being
honest with him could Ngan expect Luther to be honest as well.
"Luther, there's something called the Dark Tide. It's a way
of measuring the paranormal activity in the world. It's some­
thing that the Hoffmann Institute is very interested in. There
was a spike of activity in 1947, and I think the Babalon Work­
ing was a part of that."
"By paranormal activities, you mean like UFOs?"
"That's one aspect of it. The term 'flying saucer' was
coined in 1947. It was the beginning of a remarkable increase
in such sightings. A 'flap' or 'wave' as UFOlogists term it."
"And Roswell," Luther pointed out.
"Yes, exactly. I think that the aliens involved with Roswell,
the UFOs seen by thousands that year, and perhaps other
44
 of a g ed a n ge I s

paranormal activity experienced then, all have something to

do with that doorway opening."
"You think the Roswell aliens came through it?"
•Actually, I have good reason to believe the aliens known
as the Greys come from elsewhere."
Luther gave a thoughtful frown and nodded, eyebrows
raised-perhaps with a little respect? "Greys?"
•Aliens. You've probably seen images, drawings of them. Grey·
skinned humanoid creatures with large heads and wide eyes."
"Sure, who hasn't? Except that they're green a lot ofthe time."
Ngan nodded but said nothing.
•And so they're 'Greys,' but these things from the doorway,
they're not the same thing?"
Ngan continued, "No, I think this world simply became a
lot more interesting to the Greys when that doorway opened
and the 'monsters' came through."
"Is that good or bad?" Luther's demeanor had visibly soft·
ened. His eyes appeared a little moist.
"That, I do not know."

Unlike most Hoffmann Institute agents, Michael McCain

wasn't a member of some other organization before joining the
Institute-unless you count law school. The District of Columbia
bar notwithstanding, McCain got his real training informally from
other agents-mostly Ngan, but also from Institute agents whom
Ngan asked to instruct him regarding some specialty or another.
Agent Susan Harlick taught McCain to drive.
Now, ofcourse, McCain himselfwould say that his dad taught
him to drive when he was fifteen. After that, he took a driver's ed
class in school from Coach Niebling-a man both impatient and
reluctant at the same time.. But really, it was Agent Harlick who
taught McCain that driving was more than pressing the pedals,
turning the wheel, and shifting gears. She taught him to become
a part of the car-the thinking part. He wasn't a ma.Ii in a
machine, he was just one part of a machine. If Michael's job was

(5
 818011 co o k

to get from point A to point B, then he needed to work with the

car to get there. In order to do his job, he needed to know what
the rest ofthe car could and could not do so that he would direct
it to do only things it was actually capable of.
It was learning what the car could do that was most enlight­
ening. She showed him that a car can fit into places he would
have never suspected it could, and at speeds he would never
have guessed. She always told him a car could fit between two
other cars in traffic just as easily at ninety miles per hour as it
could at twenty-in fact, it could probably do it easier at ninety.
She showed him that a mid-sized car could slide into busy traf­
fic going the opposite direction without hitting other cars A car
.

could make hairpin turns without slowing down. A car could

spin a hundred and eighty degrees around and shift into reverse
so that it continues to move in its original direction but facing
the other way. All these things might hurt the various parts of
the car-particularly the tires-but it could be done.
As long as one part of the car operated perfectly-him.
As he had in the past, McCain called upon what Harlick taught
him now. A dark blue carfollowed him andJeane awayfrom the Hol·
iday Inn. McCain led them up onto the Kennedy and onto the 'fti­
State-away from wh�re he knewNgan and Lutherwould be going.
"We won't lose them on a highway." Jeane said, using the
rearview mirror to keep an eye on the blue Oldsmobile only a
few cars behind them.
"I know. I'm not trying to lose them. I'm trying to drag
them north. We'll lose them up there."
Jeane nodded. She checked the mirror on her side again.
"There's two of them in the car. Looks like two men."
"Does it look like the same guy from last night?"
"Actually, no. I think it's two dark-haired guys ."

"What color was the hair on the guy from last night?"
"I don't know. His hat hid most of his head the whole time.
It never so much as slipped."
"Wait a minute," he said. "Then how do you know it wasn't
one of those guys in the car back there?�
"I . . . I don't know. They just seem different."

48
 of a g ed an ge I s

Last night's encounter obviously still had Jeane a little

shaken, which was no mean feat, McCain knew. They had
worked together for a few months now, and in that time he'd
come to like her, though it wasn't doing her an injustice to say
that she could be a hard person to like. Jeane liked to do her
job, period. Woe to those who got in her way-friend or foe.
McCain saw the exit for Arlington Heights. He'd been hug­
ging the leftmost lane the entire trip, keeping his speed at
about seventy-five. Now, without warning, he--<>r rather, the
car and he-leaped across four lanes of traffic toward the off­
ramp. Tires squealed. A red sports car zipped around to one
side, blaring its horn only after it avoided the Contour. McCain
was more concerned aboutthe semi that was in the right-hand
lane, also looking to take the exit. As he swerved, he stepped
on the gas to make the off-ramp before the truck. Both he and
Jeane leaned hard into the accelerated swerve.
Ignoring the angry baritone horn of the truck, McCain
didn't allow himself to imagine what the truck driver was say­
ing at that moment but instead gauged how fast he could take
the exit down onto the waiting highway.
Jeane seemed to recover quickly. She turned around in her
seat, clutching the shoulder strap and stretching it out a bit to
give her more flexibility.
"Damn," she spat through clenched teeth. "Fitz, they made
the exit. They're behind the truck."
These guys were pretty good.
"It's okay," he said as he sped off the ramp and onto the
road. "We'll lose them in the jungles of the suburbs."
A few twists and turns later, and the dark blue Oldsmo­
bile was still behind them. The suburban streets wouldn't
allow for much speed. McCain couldn't manage to get far
enough ahead of his pursuers to turn off unseen. They were
able to react to his sudden lane changes and turns too
quickly for him to shake them.
"Time for drastic measures," McCain said to himself,
though aloud.
"How drastic?" Jeane asked carefully. "We've got hours to
47
 m onte eoo k

tiy to lose them, and we haven't established that they won't

eventually just give up."
"nust me: he said with a smile.
Seconds later, a sudden swerve sent their Ford Contour sail­
ing into the parking lot of a strip mall. The blue car followed.
With as much speed as he dared, considering how many shop­
pers and pedestrians were around in the middle of the day, he
drove all the way through the parking lot The blue car followed.
Ignoring the stop sign McCain sped the car across a side
street and into another strip mall parking lot. The blue Oldsmo­
bile was forced to stop for traffic still honking at McCain's crazy
maneuver. This was his break. He accelerated, forcing a man
with an armful of bags to run out of his way. He turned a comer
in that parking lot which fed behind a Chi Chi's Mexican restau­
rant and into a lot for a K-Mart. Instead of following that path,
however, he turned down the narrow road behind the K-Mart,
past the dumpsters and the loadingdocks. He slowed down, his
eyes more on the rearview mirror than the road ahead.
"Nice work, huh?" He smiled broadly.
The blue Oldsmobile turned the corner behind them at
great speed. It was their tires' turn to whine in protest.
"Don't say it," McCain told her.
He floored the accelerator. The blue car was still coming
really fast. He was speeding up, but not quickly enough.
"They're making their move," Jeane said. She drew her
.380 automatic.
There was nowhere to turn. Cardboard-filled dumpsters in
this back alley road made the path quite narrow. The K-Mart
was damned big. They weren't going to make t i to the end of
the building before-
The car lurched forward. Metal groaned as it folded. The blue
car had rammed them from behind. For a moment, McCain was no
longer a part of his car, he was a maninside a machine-astartled
man in a damaged machine. The steering wheel lurched in his
grasp. The Contour caught the comer of a dumpster. The car piv­
oted slightly around the point of collision and the rear of the car
slanimed into the back of the strip mall and finally came to a halt.
48
 of a u ed a n ge I s

At least McCain assumed they came to a stop. All he could

see was white as the car's airbag enveloped him and became,
at least for a second, bis entire world. It thrust him backward
into his seat and completely disoriented him.
Through the field of white, he heard Jeane shout, "Get out
of the car, Fitz!"
McCain struggled against the foamy plastic. It smelled of a
cross between new tennis shoes and a hair salon but a bit more
acrid than either. His left hand found the door handle, and with
that he squirmed out and fell on his backside. Without a pause,
·

he rolled to his stomach.

The car was between him and the others. He got to a
crouch in the V that the driver's side ofthe car and the side of
the building made when he heard the loud crack.
These maniacs were shooting at them.
Since there was no follow-up thud anywhere near him,
McCain ascertained that they were firing at Jeane. He didn't
see her but figured that the passenger side door was more
exposed to the bad guys.
Still crouching, McCain opened the rear door. On the floor
behind the driver's seat, McCain kept his briefcase, the outer
pocket of which was an ingeniously hidden holster containing
his 9m.m. He drew the weapon and checked the clip.
Another gunshot.
And another, but this one was close. It must be Jeane
returning fire.
"Look, back off and nobody gets hurt." Jeane's voice.
"Give us Blisset," came the response.
The voice seemed to have an accent, but McCain couldn't
place it. For a moment, it almost seemed like the bad German
accents that one hears when watching an old Hogan :S Heroes
episode. He dismissed any thoughts of Colonel Klink pretty
quickly. McCain had recently spent some time with some Ger­
mans, and that wasn't a German accent.
Whoever these people were, they didn't feel the need for
subtlety. Gun in hand, McCain peered over the back of the car.
The two cars had disengaged at some point. The blue Olds was

49
 monte eo o k

about fifteen feet back. The long doors were open, blocking off
all access that direction. A person crouched behind each wide
door. McCain doubted whether his rounds could penetrate
those sturdy doors, but perhaps it was worth a try.
Suddenly, like a blur, Jeane gracefully leaped feet first into
the short space between the vehicles. McCain saw the person on
the side of the Oldsmobile nearest him rise up behind the door
to take a shot. But Jeane was fast. She sprang toward the other
side ofthe blue car and threw her body into the door. The person
behind t i was caught as the heavy door closed, and a loud thump
sounded like a skull pounding against a car door frame. At least,
what McCain assumed such a thing would sound like.
But without dwelling on that, he didn't want to miss his
opportunity. He stood and leveled his pistol. A single shot sent
the man-he could see t i was a man now-spinning in a circle.
He must have hit the guy's right shoulder. The man went down,
and as if that was a stage cue, McCain vaulted over the trunk
of the Contour toward the Oldsmobile.
"Got this one," Jeane said from the other side of the car .

McCain bent over the open door to get a look at the man he
shot and got a face full ofpistol instead. He reeled back in surprise
and pain, almost losing his feet. The car door slammed shut, and
as he gainedhisbalance McCain saw a hulking man in a grey suit,
with dark hair, a thick beard trimmed close to his face, and dark
sunglasses. His right shoulderwas covered with a dark, wet stain,
and he held what looked like a .45 in his left hand like a club.
McCain lunged forward, trying to knock the man off balance.
It didn't work, and the two ofthem ended up in a messy grapple.
He felt like a real jerk-if it was one of those old Warner Broth­
ers cartoons he literally would turn into a big heel-but he freed
one arm and pounded on the man's wounded shoulder.
His opponent cried in pain, though he tried to mufile it. "Der'mor
Russian? McCain recognized the word. Back in college,
he'd learned to swear in eight different languages. These guys
were Russian?
· "Fitz? You okay? You got yours?" Jeane made it sound like

they were sharing the assailants like two halves of a sandwich.

5D
 of 1 1 ell an ge I s

McCain smashed his gun into the large man's face. "Yeah,"
he breathed out quietly.
The man droppe4. to his knees. He was clearly losing a lot
of blood. McCain's own clothes would attest to that.
"But he's pretty badly hurt: McCain added.
"We don't have much time," Jeane shot back. "Look for ID.
Let's figure out who these people are."
McCain reached into the man's coat pocket and pulled out
a wallet. Keeping his eye on his prisoner, he flipped it open.
Within it he saw a credit card and driver's license, both bear­
ing the name Theodore Blevins. McCain had enough experi­
ence to pick out the phony DMV photo and the not-quite-right
printing. The license was obviously fake. The picture was
really of Mr. Der'mo, however, so he would hang onto it.
A noise from the other side of the car attracted his atten­
tion. A quick glance revealed that Jeane was forcingher charge
back in the car.
"Get up," he said to Mr. Der'mo.
He waved the gun upward and toward the car. As the man
struggled unsteadily to his feet, McCain reached in and took
the car keys from the ignition.
He motioned again toward the car and said, "Get in."
The man climbed into the driver's seat. McCain picked up
his gun from the ground so that he was holding a pistol in each
hand. Then, as the car doors slammed, the two of them backed
toward their car.

"It'll get us out of here, right?" Jeane asked.

"Yeah, I think so."
"Good. I'm sure somebody's already called the police when
they heard all those shots."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
McCain circled around to the driver's side and opened the
door. He pushed aside the now-deflated air bag.
"Still, Jeane," he said, "please call 911. Get them an ambu­
lance, all right?"
Jeane paused a moment, then mumbled, "Fme."
Sometimes she scared him.
51
}4 uther dropped the calculus book. He was teaching
himself all the higher math that he never got in
school, either because of the poor facilities on the
reservation or because he dropped out in the middle of
his junior year. School had been difficult for him-not
because he couldn't understand the material but
because he had no incentive to learn. Now he needed to
learn as much as he could about practically everything,
and so he was quickly absorbing math, physics, and
even a little history. Math and physics came into play
in the continued work he wanted to do with his on-line
ritual. He had to understand a thing before he could try
to manipulate a thing.
The history was for Michelle.
"We have questions."
Now that the man was in the apartment, Luther
could see that the black jacket the man wore was made
out of a shimmering substance-as though the fibers ·
were of some plastic polymer rather than any cloth be

52
 of a g ed a n ge I a

knew about, real or artificial. The wide-brimmed hat and per­

fectly pressed pants were made of the same stuff, but his white
shirt appeared normal and fairly wrinkled, which made it stand
out from the rest of the suit even more. His sunglasses looked
opaque, but that was probably because they were inside and
the apartment was already pretty dark.
"We are from the government. We have questions." The
man's monotone was grating-as if his voice's pitch alone was
the sound of fingers on a chalkboard, but deep rather than
high. Behind the man, Luther could see that the picture on
Sarah's TV was covered in snow. Had he left the TV on?
Sarah had been gone for hours. She was at work. Luther
didn't know how she could take it-working as a legal assis­
tant. It was all so ordinaxy. So mundane. He'd always known
there was somethingelse out there for him, that he could never
be content with a normal life. With so manymonths in the com­
pany of Dallas and the rest of NOD-the raves, the magick,
and the drugs-the idea of going to work in an office, coming
home in traffic, and eating dinner in front of the TV all seemed
unreal to him. Deviant culture had become his reality, until
"normal" seemed strange. That mundane life seemed like a
movie. It was something that everyone knew about but no one
really experienced.
Not that his lifestyle was really doing all that much for him
now. His friends were all dead. He stood in the apartment of
someone he'd known in the high school he'd dropped out of,
with some terrifying man dressed in a black suit staring him in
the face-again. This man, or someone very much like him,
had come there just two days before.
In that time, Luther had done some surfing and found out
a little more about them. "Them" being the Men in Black. Some
people said they were government agents-just as this guy
claimed he was Others said they were something far. more sin­
.

ister. Dallas once told him, late one night after he was coming
down from an ecstasy high, already half-unconscious, that he
believed there were two forces in the world that influenced
everything. He said there was the White Lodge, a group of
53
 m onte co o k

magicians who worked for the betterment of all humanity, but

there was also the Black Lodge, a force dedicated to corruption
and destruction that preyed upon humanij:y. Luther would have
dismissed this as too many viewings of Star War.s if he'd not
heard his very own grandfather explain the same thing to him
once when he was a small boy. He'd even used the same
words-White Lodge and Black Lodge. When his grandfather
had said it, his mind's eye had seen a lodge house in the woods,
like the Native Americans of the West Coast had lived in. When
Dallas told him about it, it seemed as if "lodge" meant group­
like a Masonic lodge. Maybe it was both.
"We have questions about your activities and what you
know.�
There was something about being around this guy that
automatically set Luther on edge. There was a buzzing in
Luther's head, and his instincts told him to run.
"About what?" Luther asked, backing a few paces away.
Luther had been scared the first time the man had come,
but now that he'd read about how these Men in Black appeared
mysteriously when people saw UFOs, apparently to shut them
up, he was even more upset.
"I haven't seen anything," Luther said. "I've never seen a
UFO in my life."
The man stood silent. He turned around to look at the tel­
evision.
"So you can just go, then," Luther said. "Get out of here."
"You did have many friends before," The man said, turning
back to him.
Was that a threat? Luther swallowed hard and felt his own
fingernails bite into his palms as he balled both hands into
fists.
"They told you many things, we have thought.n
. What? The man had no accent, but he spoke as if English
was definitely not his primary language. If his skin wasn't so
absolutely white-almost grey, in fact-Luther might have
begun to suspect the man was Asian. His features almost
seemed to fit.
 af 1 1 ad u ge I s

"And what of Michelle? Where is she?" the man asked.

"What? Michelle?" Where was this going? "You stay the
hell away from her, man. n
"Why do you make a religious reference when thinking of
her? Has she left to a location of significance to your mystical
beliefs?"
"What are you talking about, you weirdo creep?"
The man stepped over to the table and picked up a ballpoint
pen. He looked at it closely, holding it at an odd angle near his
face, then began to laugh.
Luther shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands balled
into fists. "What's so damned funny? What's up with you? Why
are you back here again?"
The man said something Luther didn't understand and held
up the pen.
"What? I don't-why don't you just leave, dude. Get outta
here. You really creep me out, you know that?"
"You and I are different. You cannot see that I also com­
prehend you with difficulty."
"Look, I know you and . . . well, whoever you are . . . I know
you killed my friends in the Order. That fire-you killed them
all, didn't you?"
"Your popular conception has it that they suicided them­
selves."
"Yeah, but you know different. You leave Michelle alone,
you bastard.n
"But she is actually something that you don't understand
as well."
Whatwas this guy's problem? The weird way he talked, his
pasty white skin-was he even human?
Suddenly, something shook Luther's shoulder. Luther
looked around and saw that he was sitting in the front seat of
a van-the Voyager with Ngan. It was Ngan's touch that had
brought him back. These memory replays were getting more
and more common. He wiped his face with his hand.
"I apologize," Ngan said. "You seemed very deep in thought,
but we are here."
55
 m onte co o k

Luther looked up and saw the Thai restaurant they'd men­

tioned before.
"It's the binary perception thing I was telling you about.
Sometimes when I think about something that's happened, it's
like I relive it with perfect clarity.•
"I believe that people often refer to it as a photographic
memory. Still, it would seem incredibly useful, Luther.•
Luther looked out the window and saw the sign for the
Imperial Garden restaurant.
"Yeah, it's trippy. Uh, let's eat.•
Luther opened the door and got out.

. - · -.... : _ _

Whenever reality seems as complex as it can get, you dis­

cover a whole new layer to things. That's the thought that
went through Jeane's head as she rummaged through her
closet to find something new to wear. After the confrontation
with "Mr. Blevins" and "Mr. Sloan•-at least that's what their
IDs proclaimed-she and McCain circled around to get to her
apartment. There, they could clean up and get her car, which
at this point would be far less conspicuous than the Insti­
tute's banged-up Contour.
What she really wanted to do was go back to the office and
run a search for known operatives of any organization or group
whose pictures matched those they had taken from Blevins
and Sloan. While the identities were surely fake, the pictures
were real enough. She wanted to know who these men really
were-and whom they worked for.
She knew full well that they weren't the same as the man
she'd confronted in the airport parking lot, and that bothered
her. Clearly, more than one group was after Luther, and that
made things much more complicated. If she and Fitz had led
these two away from Ngan and Luther, who was to saythat the
other group wasn't still following them? Or worse, had already
made their move. She and McCain needed to get to the Imper­
ial Garden as quickly as possible to see if they had made it.

58
 of a u ed an ge I s

Full security protocols were required. She couldn't call

Ngan's cell phone, because even Hoffmann Institute issue­
the cutting edge of digital phone technology-could still be
compromised if someone was really trying. Only land lines
would be safe under Institute security protocols, and even
they were always suspect. Traces and taps were just too
damn easy. Further, they'd have to take twice the normal
time to get to the rendezvous, since their route would have to
be circuitous to throw off potential pursuit. They were really
taking a chance, in fact, in coming to her place at all. They
had definitely thrown their tail back behind the K-Mart, but
who was to say that the enemy-whoever they were-wasn't
watching her apartment? They could have picked up a new
tail. Unfortunately, that most certainly meant that they
If there
couldn't return to the office. At least not for a while.
was a chance her apartment was being watched, the office
certainly would be.
She slipped on a denim shirt and rolled up the sleeves.
Closing the closet door, Jeane went to her nightstand and
opened the drawer to get extra ammunition. No telling when
she would get another opportunity. She threw the clips in a
handbag and put on a light jacket. The light from the windows
was still bright, but she knew it would be cool in the evening,
and she could use the pockets to help carry a few more
things-she put her cell phone in one pocket, a handful of cash
in another, along with her keys.
Jeane walked out into the kitchen, where McCain stood
bare from the waist up, scrubbing at the blood stains that
marred his shirt.
· "Don't you have a baggy sweatshirt or something, Jeane?
You've got to have something that'll fit me. I should cram an
extra T-shirt into my briefcase. It seems like I need an extra
shirt more often than I need the laptop." He smiled and added, .
"Or maybe you just like me running around bare-chested."
Jeane wasn't amused and ignored the comment McCain's
boyish charms seemed just that to her-boyish and immature.
"Your coat was in the back seatofthe car," she said, grabbing

57
 monte co o k

it from where it lay draped over a chair. "I brought it in. It'll
probably cover up the . . . "
She saw something clinging to the back of his jacket.
McCain shut off the water and was drying his hands with a
wad of paper towels when he turned around.
Jeane put a finger to her lips and motioned for him to come
to where she stood. He did. She held up the jacket and pointed
to what she'd seen. They both looked at it very closely and saw
that it was metallic. It appeared to be some sort of sophisti­
cated chip in a thin metal housing with some barbs to get it to
stick to the fabric of the garment.
McCain mouthed the word: "Bug?"
Jeane shrugged. She mouthed the word: "Tracer?"
He made an exaggerated expression of deep thought and
shrugged. Carefully, he removed it from his jacket and set it on
the kitchen counter. He took a knife from a wooden block and
pried the casing open. After a moment of looking at it, he said
in a normal tone, "It doesn't look like a listening device to me.n
Jeane leaned in close to look at it.
McCain continued, "It doesn't seem to have any input capa­
bilities, so I'm guessing it's only a transmitter-a tracer of
some kind. It's like nothing I've ever seen, though."
He paused for a moment. Jeane stood up straight.
"It just looks like a processor chip to me," McCain said.
"We should probably assume that it transmits a signal some­
how, though, just to be safe."
Jeane nodded though1fully and said, "Yeah, you're probably
right."
"Which, if true, means thatsomeone still knows where we are."
"Look," Jeane said, "I was wanting to go back to the office
to try to find out something from those IDs anyway. Now I
want to go back to see if I can find out anything regarding this
chip, as well. I'll get it transferred over to CSC and get them to
look into it. It makes sense for me to take it there while you
join Ngan and Luther and make sure they're all right. H this is
a tracer, it'll go with me back to the office, where they're prob-
·

ably expecting us to go anyway."

58
 of a g ed an ge I s

Jeane knew that the CSC-the Chicago Specimen Collec­

tion-was never too happy to help out the agents from the field
office. The two Chicago branches of the Hoffmann Institute
were more rivals than allies. Still, she would be willing to jump
through whatever hoops she needed to this time. She really
wanted someone with technical experience looking at the
device. The CSC was oriented more toward biological speci­
mens, but they were still better equipped to figure out what the
thing was than the field office.
"Just to be safe," McCain said, "let's go to the other room a
minute."
Jeane followed him into her small living room. The room
was neat except for the mail piled up on the coffee table in
front of the couch.
"Here's the thing," McCain whispered. "Ngan told me
there might be some sort of leak at the office. That's proba­
bly why he didn't want us to meet there. If you're going back
there, watch yourself, and don't let anyone there know where
Luther is."
"What? A leak? Who?" Jeane asked. "How does he know?"
McCain shook his head. "I don't know. It might not be any­
thing, but it might have something to do with the people after
Luther. Ngan doesn't really know any specifics, and I know
less than him. I'm sure he would tell us both more about it if
he had the chance."
"So there's no calling for back-up," she stated rather than
asked.
"How would we know who to trust enough to V{atch our
backs?"
"Okay, I'll keep that in mind. I'll take my own car back to
the office, and you take a cab to the restaurant."
"I'll leave the banged up Contour in a parking lot some­
where first. Then I'll take a couple of cabs-switch around just
in case I'm followed from here-if that thing's a tracer we
might have a tail or two waiting for us outside right now."
"Right. And check the rest of your clothing for more of
those things. When could you have picked that up?"

59
 m onte co o k

"I wore that jacket last when we were at the airport. It's
been laying in the back seat of the car since then.·
"So somebody put it on eitherwhen you were in the airport
or while your jacket was in the car."
"The airport seems more likely."
"Unless Luther did it," Jeane said.
"That would be weird."
"Well, he's into tech, and we really don't know that much
about him. Maybe he's working for someone."
"But Dr. Nakami himself wanted us to watch over him.
Luther might not be telling us the entire truth, but I don't think
he's a player."
"But remember, you just said Ngan figures there's some
double-cl'06S going on in the Institute. Maybe bringing Luther
in is a part of that-m.a.ybe the leak's not looking for Luther,
maybe he'a workinc with him.·
"This ia makin{ my head hurt.•

19
 .
.

.l ust for a moment, let's play a game. Are you up for it?
...

While Luther attempted to find out where his

mysterious friend Michelle was, Jeane looked for a
way to identify her assailants, and McCain rushed to
catch up with Ngan and his young charge, Ngan medi­
tated on the whole issue and attempted to achieve clar­
ity and insight. Vipasyana meditation (insight
meditation) was a special method to uplift the mind.
Special insight was needed in order to penetrate into
the true, innermost nature of one's being, to penetrate
into the nature of the body self and the phenomenon
self. Such direct insight can purify and eliminate the
delusion and ignorance in our minds. The actualization
and realization of special insight brought the individual
to the first bhumi. From that point, there were ten lev­
els of bhumis. After reaching the ten· levels of bhumis,
one became a Buddha, with the maximum ability to
benefit others. The all-prevailing mind, the uncontrived
state, could not be perceived without meditation.

. 61
 m on te co o k

Ngan knew that he could only perceive the pure mind

through vipasyana as well shamata (calm abiding) meditation.
He knew that to free himself from all delusion, he would have
to apply the practice diligently to his everyday life. Since the
habit of laziness and delusion was so powerful, he decided to
use everyday life within his mediation. Through this, he hoped
to reach and to cultivate the enlightened mind, Bodhicitta,
based on wisdom and knowledge.
Once he entered this state, things changed. Perceptions
changed.

In his mind's eye, Ngan sees a game board, not unlike a

Monopoly set. On each space around the board, however, are
different answers to different questions. Ngan allows his mind
to drift further. Now there are players seated around the board.
There is a young woman with very short brown hair and large
silver earrings, and next to her sits a man with a reddish
goatee and dark-rimmed glasses.
On a third side of the table, you sit in a comfortable chair. In
your hand are two dice, smooth to the touch with slightly rounded
comers. This is not Ngan's usual place of escape, his secret spring,
but you don't really know that-you're lost in the moment now.
"Look, I'm first, okay?" theyoungwoman says in a superiortone.
You hand her the dice, a little grateful because you're still
a little unsure of what's going on. The last thing you remem·
ber, you were relaxing and reading a novel. Now you're playing
some strange game with perfect strangers. Perhaps you fell
asleep while you were reading the book, and this is all a
dream. In any event, you don't know how to play.
She takes the dice and tosses them onto the table. The dice
show a two and a three. The woman smiles and looks at the
man. They exchange a meaningful glance, and the man looks
to you and whispers, "Twenty-three."
The woman says, "What's the deal with Luther and this
Internet magic thing?"

ei
 of a g ed an ge l s

She picks up a game piece on the board that looks like a tiny
pyramid with an eye at the top. She moves it five spaces and
reads aloud what the space says: "Luther mixes the old (rituals,
chants, and equating signs and what they signify) with the new
(cycling probability generators and multidimensional virtual
constructs) to manipulate reality in small ways. This s i an inter­
esting factor, but it's not why so many people are after him."
She looks up at you and the man with the goatee, her face
a void of expression. The man simply nods and scoops the dice
into his hand. Cupping his hands together, he rattles the dice
around in them for a while.
"Who are the people after Luther?" he says in a monotone
but continues to shake the dice.
The woman looks irritated, but the man just looks at you.
Finally, he lets the dice drop to the table. The dice show a three
and a four.
"Lucky seven!" the man shouts.
"Cabalist," the woman says, her head shaking in disdain.
The man slides his piece, a miniature fifties-era flying saucer,
seven spaces. He reads what the space says, but only to· himself.
"Out loud," the woman demands.
"It's confusing." The man looks up at both of you, then
reads, "It says that there are two groups, though it seems like
three. But then one of the groups of people aren't really people."
"So, basically," the woman says, "you asked the wrong
question."
The man sheepishly looks back down at the board .

The woman pushes the dice across the board toward you
and says, "Your turn."
It seems clear that you have to ask a question and roll the
dice. But what question? Apparently, there are good and bad ques·
tions, as the man just proved. At this point, you begin to wonder
if you're just a construct in Ngan's mind-a tool for him to visual­
ize the complex threads of realitythat were coming together. That
may be the case, but it doesn't help you formulate a question.
Or does it?
You pick up the dice in your hand and hold them tightly. You

83
 monte co o k

look to the other two to see if they're willing to offer any guid­
ance, but they stare at you with expectant faces, as if you
should already know what you're doing.
"Is Ngan . . . and Luther, um." You cough. "Are Ngan and
Luther in any danger right now?"
Both of them stare at you, dumbfounded. The woman
begins to speak, but the clatter of the dice as you let them fall
on the board cuts her off. The dice reveal double ones.
The man laughs. "You crapped out."
"What does that mean?" you ask.
"It means you move two spaces," the woman says. "Unless
you're some kind of Vegas numerologist."
Is that a joke? It's tough to tell. You look down at the board,
and the only other piece is a horse with two knights riding it
at the same time. You pick it up to look at it a little closer and
see that large crosses are emblazoned on their shields.
"It's just two spaces,• the woman says, exasperated.
You move your piece two spaces ahead of where it was.
The space reads: "Draw a card." There is a small stack of
orange cards laying facedown in the middle of the board. You
look at the other players, but they're exchanging glances.
With a little hesitation, you draw a card. The card reads:
"Not now."
Not now? Does that mean they're not in dangernow or that
you shouldn't ask that question now? That's irritating.
"What does-" you begin to ask, butthewoman interrupts you.
"You rolled doubles," she says. "You get to roll again.•
She picks up the dice and hands them to you. Great.
You drop the dice with a ·sigh. You really don't know what
you're doing or what's going on.
"What's going on here?" you ask.
The man and woman don't react to your question, and
instead look down at the dice. Both show blank faces.
"You don't get to move," the man says "Draw another
card-you're still on a 'draw a card' space."
"But how can there be no . . ." you stammer. "How can I
roll a zero?"
 of a g ed a n ge I a

"Hey, you've already asked your question. Are you going to

play the game or not?"
Though you're tempted to just quit, you draw another
orange card. It has no writing but instead bears a line drawing
showing Luther sitting at a computer.

Ngan stirred from his mediation.

"Oh, Luther," he whisperedto himself. "What have you done?"

85
l I
;

J�t as a Saturday, so the office was empty. Located

at the end of a road in an industrial park, the
whole area around the Hoffmann lnstitute's
Chicago office was dead quiet-except of course for
O'Hare Airport's constant roar and drone. The sun­
shine that seemed to fill and expand the air over the
whole city insured that anyone who might have consid­
ered working the weekend was off doing something far
more entertaining.
Jeane Meara sat in front of her computer as she
scanned the driver's licenses taken from the men
behind the K-Mart. In retrospect, the whole encounter
suggested a desperate move on their part-whoever
they were. Once the pictures were scanned, she was
able to enter them into an Institute program to find any
possible matches against a database of thousands· of
known operatives in various organizations-from the
neo-Nazis to the Fmal Church to NASA.
Sometimes it took a while, however, so she leaned

88
 Bf I 11 ad II 111 1 1

back in her chair. The light from the windows was glaring on
her screen, so she was going to get up and shut the blinds
when she noticed that in the comer of her screen a small enve­
lope icon indicated she had email.
Jeane clicked on her email program and called up the new
message. It was from Dennis Carter, an Institute agent she'd
seen in the office a few hours earlier. Apparently, someone else
had been working Saturday after all. It was a general alert
addressed to her, Ngan, and Fitz. Apparently, the Chicago
police, investigating a disturbance earlier that day had found
two dead bodies in an apartment downtown. One of the corpses
was a Russian in the country illegally named Sergei Volostok.
Cause of death was unknown but appeared to be some sort of
brain hemorrhage. The email didn't mention what happened to
the other person or who he or she was .

Carter regularly monitored the police bands and checked

up on important cases that might relate to Institute concerns.
It hadn't taken Carter long to find that Volostok was a common
alias for an agent working for a covert organization known as
Psychotech. Founded back during the Cold War, Psychotech
specialized in research dealing with technology that could
enhance or interface with psychic abilities.
Jeane was pretty sure what the program might come up
with regarding the ID photos. The one agent who had spoken
was clearly Russian.
But why would Psychotech be after Luther? Did the kid
have psychic abilities they were interested in? He seemed
pretty computer savvy. Maybe he and his hacker friends had
done something?
Or maybe Psychotech was interested in that Babalon Work­
ing bull-
What was that?
A noise from the front of the building made Jeane. twist in
her chair. Maybe Carter had come back. She wanted to talk to
him, so she got up and looked out the hall door.
Nothing.
"Carter?" she called out.
87
 m onte co o k

Nothing.
She looked out the window and into the parking lot.
Besides her own vehicle, a large black Cadillac gleamed in the
sunlight She didn't recognize it-it certainly wasn't Carter's.
Another noise. This time, it sounded like something heavy
striking metal. It had a long, deep reverberation. She walked
out of her office and down toward reception.
Before even entering, she could see into the room. The light
was on, flickering. The door between the lobby and the inner
office area hung wide open, which shouldn't have even been
possible-it closed automatically and could only be opened by
a key card. She stepped cautiously into the room and up to the
receptionist's desk. She felt under the desk until she found a
plastic button. She pressed it in and held it for a few seconds.
That was supposed to activate the silent alarm.
She heard a noise behind her. She drewher gun and turned.
Nothing.
"You have entered this building illegally,• she said in her
most authoritative tone. "The police are on their way.•
A loud crash came from the direction of the office she
shared with Fitz and Ngan. She bit her lower lip, steeled her­
self, and ran down the hallway, even though her instincts told
her to get out.
Inside her office, Jeane saw her computer lying on the floor,
the monitor smashed. Holding the gun with both hands, arms
taut in front of her, she used the barrel to direct her gaze
around the room. The perpetrator was nowhere in sight.
"All right,• she said forcefully. "I'm armed. Coine out right
now."
She stepped into the middle of the room and slowly spun
around, securing the perimeter in sight.
The door suddenly slammed shut.
She lowered the gun and ran to the door, grasping the
handle and wrenching it.
It didn't budge.
"Hey!" she yelled, ineffectually.
Panting, she paused for a moment to figure out what was
68
 of a g ed a n ge l s

going on. As she did, she heard a noise in the room. It sounded like
something thick boiling on a stove. With the sound came a foul
odor, like spoiled milk mixed with something sickeningly sweet
Jeane scanned the room. She saw nothing out of the ordi­
nary other than her computer in disarray. Nothing until the
stutlight splashed a strange shadow on the wall behind her.
She whirled, .380 at the ready.
Drooping down from the ceiling vent was a long, snakelike
tendril. While most of it was green like stewed peas, some yel­
low mucus bubbled on its surface, seeming to boil in contact
with the air. ·
It reached for her.
She fired her gun at it. Missed.
The bullet shattered the window across the room. Glass
cascaded out of the building and into the parking lot.
The tendril slapped across her chest and shoulder. The
force knocked her off her feet. She looked up at the thing and
saw the light fixtures explode in a shower of sparks-but they
had been off. The tendril stretched farther out of the air vent,
coming toward her like a long, accusatory finger.
She struck it with the pistol with all the force she could
muster. As it flopped aside with her blow, she dived past it and
scrambled out of its reach. She pulled herself up using the
edge of the large meeting table and moved around it toward the
broken window. Her chest and shoulder burned where the ten­
dril had touched her.
Crawling out the window, not looking back, she cut her
hands on the remaining glass in the frame. Suddenly, it was as
if she couldn't move.
A moment later, she realized that she was moving-her
hands pushed against the window, and her legs flailed in the air
behind her, but she didn't move out of the room. Though she felt
nothing, something must have grabbed her. Letting go of the
window, Jeane hung in place. She floated in the air. Her shirtbil­
lowed around her. She tried to wrench around to see what held
her, but she saw nothing. Waving her gun behind her accom­
plished nothing-she had no idea whatwas holding her in place.

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Below the window were some ill-kept, innocuous bushes.

She grabbed the jagged glass-filled frame again and pulled
with all her might, thrusting herself through the window. The
bushes cushioned her fall as she rolled out and into them,
finally landing on her side, on the ground. Her gun was still
clutched in her tight fist.
Standingnext to the black Cadillac was the man she'd con­
fronted at the airport. In the bright sunlight, his skin was the
color and consistency of the cream in the middle of an Oreo.
His black suit and fedora resisted the light as though they
were made of darkness itself.
"We have-"
She fired five shots directly into his chest.
The man staggered but didn't drop. A milky substance, very
light blue in color, came out of his chest in random spurts.
Jeane rolled to her feet.
The man reached into his coat.
Jeane ran at an angle away from him but toward her car. As
she did, she saw that a small white tube stuck out of the man's
chest, still dripping blue fluid. She slammed into the side of her
car and smashed the driver's side window with her gun-her
hand was already bloody from going through the other window.
If that guy could take five slugs to the torso and still stand,
he must . . . well, she knew she had to get out of there.
She reached through the smashed window and opened the
door. As she got in the car, she allowed herself a glance toward
the man. Half-soaked in that strange fluid, he held aloft some­
thing brown and black that seemed to be wrapped around his
arm as well as clutched in his pale fist.
She threw herself into the car's seat, ignoring the glass.
Jeane thrust the key into the ignition and started the engine.
Something scraped across the metal of the car's trunk, and she
felt the whole vehicle vibrate. Without missing a beat, she
threw the car into gear and squealed out of the parking lot.
Don't look back, she told herself.
And she didn't.

70
 af 1 u ell an ge I a

McCain looked around the restaurant. The smell of red

chilies was so strong his eyes watered. The clientele of the
Imperial Garden knew what they were getting into when they
came here. You were a fool to even cross the threshold if you
didn't like hot, spicy food. Ngan loved it, and Jeane and McCain
could almost make it through a whole dish, if they ordered the
mildest thing on the menu. Jeane called Ngan an endorphin
junkie. Ngan said he just like the flavor.
After walking through the dining room that was a maze of
tables and booths, and after waving away the hostess and a
waiter who both wondered how they could help him, McCain
saw Ngan sitting alone at a table. His eyes were closed.
McCain recognized Ngan in one of his meditative trances. In
front of him sat a plate of food, untouched. Across the table, a
plate of half-eaten volcano chick�n was partially hidden by a
crumpled napkin. McCain walked up to the table, and watched
as Ngan began to stir to the conscious world.
"Ngan, where's Luther?"
Ngan looked around, as if in a daze.
"Oh, Luther," Ngan whispered. "What have you done?"
Ngan looked up and blinked.
"Michael," he said. "When did you get here? Where's
Jeane?"
"I just came in. Where's Luther?"
"I don't know." Ngan scanned the restaurant. "Michael, his
aura is difficult for me to hold on to and impossible to pene­
trate. He's a very strange young man, and I think he might be
in more trouble than we realized."
"Great. So, he was with you here and slipped away? How
long have you been out."
"Just a moment. I was trying to focus and get some insight
into the situation. It was . . . very strange.•
"Well, he can't be too far away. I'll check the men's room
and you check the front and outside."
Ngan got up out of the booth and headed toward the

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front of the restaurant. McCain went in the other direction.

Under a sign that said "Restrooms and Telephones," a yel­
lowing plaster hall led out of the otherwise brown-paneled din·
ing room. Between the door labeled "Men" and the other
"Women." there were two pay phones. McCain recognized the
bald head of the man at the phone. Luther held his black
leather coat in one hand and the phone in the other. .
"She's not there? Are you sure?" Luther spoke loudly into
the phone.
McCain walked up behind him and put his hand on Luther's
shoulder.
Luther turned with a start and immediately hung up the
phone. McCain saw Luther smile for the first time and didn't
care to repeat the experience. He saw through the false smile
like a window.
"Checking my messages," Luther said.
"The place where you lived burned down. What sort of mes­
sages are you checking?"
"I've got a service. I've still got a number back in California."
"You're lying. Look, Luther, I've had a crappy day. It's been
crappy because I've been trying to protect you. So no lies, or I
stop trying."
Luther sighed defeat.
"Last night I got some email from a friend. I was just
checking up on her, okay? It's no big deal."
"A friend?"
"Yeah. Her name's Michelle. She was in NOD, but she left a
while ago."
"So there's two of you still running around."
"Yeah, and so it's not surprising that I'm worried about her,
right? I mean, if they're after me, maybe they're after her."
"And . . ."
"And I can't get hold ofher. She said in her email that she's
going to England."
"What's in England?"
"I dunno," Luther shook his head with what seemed like
sincerity. "She was talking about Templars or some shit."
n
 of a g ed a n ge I a

McCain wasn't expecting that. Before he could ask how

that was related, his cell phone rang. He held up a hand to
Luther and reached for the phone. Luther motioned toward
the men's room, and McCain nodded as he clicked the
phone on.
"McCain here."
"Fitz, it's me, Jeane."
Something must have happened forJeane to call him on his
cell phone-that was dangerous if they were being monitored.
"What's wrong? Are you at the office?"
"No, I'm at the hospital. I had another run in with Mr.
Lighter Shade of Pale.•
"What? What happened?"
"He must have been wearinr some kind of body armor. I
ahot him, Fitz. Five times. He didn't drop. He stagcered, but he
didn't goddamn drop after five in the chest from my .380. Fen­
ton, now tb:ia guy . . I'm sWtinr to think it's the CUD·•
.
·

"What happened to you? Are you all richt?•

-Well, there was some kind of snake or tentacle or som&­
thing. It burned me.•
McCain said nothing. His mouth hung slightly open.
•Anyway, I think I've got some info. We should meet.
They're going to release me in an hour or so.•
•Are you sure-•
"I'm fine. Some doctor's just got to look me over, but the
nurse already said that the burns and cuts were pretty super­
ficial. I'll be fine."
"But are you still in danger?"
"I'm a little scared, I'll admit it. But I don't think I was fol­
lowed here. It's just that-we don't know our enemy's capabil­
ities at this point. Not at all.•
"Damn. I should come there.•
"No. I'll meet you."
•All right."
Security protocol demanded that if they thought they might
be monitored, they shouldn't actually disclose their location, so
Jeane hadn't told him what hospital. He wouldn't tell her that
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 m oote co o k

he was at the restaurant. "Meet me at the theatre that we went

to together last, okay?" He paused.
"Yeah, okay. I got it."
"All right. We'll all be there in about two hours."
"See you then."
As McCain clicked off the phone, a horrible thought arose
in his mind. He pushed open the men's room door, but Luther
was there, washing his hands.
Luther looked up at McCain and asked, "Making sure I
wash afterward?"
McCain smiled. "Yeah." He closed the door.
Luther and McCain soon joined Ngan back at the table. He
smiled when he saw them coming toward him.
"Luther," Ngan said, "I was a little worried about you."
"He was on the phone to one of his NOD pals-another sur-
vivor," McCain said.
Ngan's eyes lit up with concern, but he said nothing.
"I told you," Luther replied, "I didn't get hold of her."
"Look, we can hash this all out later." McCain sat down
across from Ngan and said, "We're meeting Jeane in a little
while. She ran into some trouble."
"Is she all right?"
"I think so. This assignment has sure gotten dangerous all
of a sudden.n
McCain couldn't help looking at Luther, who seemed a little
wounded by the statement.
McCain continued, "As soon as we all get together, we need
."
to talk
"You guys sure like to talk Luther said, raising his brow.
,"

"I don't doubt that what you've told us is the truth,

,
Luther " Ngan told him. "I think we need to hear a little more
truth. There is more to tell, isn't there?"
"Yeah," Luther admitted with a sigh, "I guess there is."
 �
. '

·· N gan drove the Voyager, with McCain to his side and

Luther in the back. McCain kept watch for a t.ail,
occasionally giving Ngan a look that meant they
were safe-at least for now. They drove mostly in
silence. Luther plugged headphones from his bag into
his laptop. In the rearview mirror, Ngan saw the young
man's face lit up from the screen of the computer, giv­
ing him a strange, pale green cast.
"Turn left here,n McCain said softly.
He and Jeane had agreed to meet outside a movie the­
ater they had gone to together a week before. It was fairly
near the office in Schiller Park. He could see the brightly
lit marquee now, and the Saturday night-full parking lot.
"Let's just park someplace and see if we can see
her," McCain suggested.
Ngan pulled into the lot and into a spot. He
turned off the engine, and he and McCain scanned
the lot and the front of the theater for Jeane. Luther
shut down his computer, took off the headphones,

75
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and said, "Now what? Are we going to a movie or-"

A knock on Ngan's window interrupted Luther. Ngan
turned to see Jeane standing next to his door. Both her hands
were wrapped in light bandages.
"Luther, open your door, please," Ngan said overhis shoulder.
Luther did, and Jeane poked her head. in.
"Hey," she said. Let's get out of here."
"

Jeane pushed Luther over and climbed into the back seat As
she put on her lap-belt she said, "I took the bus here. I don't think
I was followed. If you guys are tail-free, we should be goodto go."
"Protecting Luther is our foremost concern," Ngan said. "If
we have eluded our enemie�. we probably shouldn't return to
our residences or the office.•
"In fact,• Jeane said, "I can almost guarantee it Maybe we
should just {Ct a couple rooma at a motel.•
"Good ide&," McCain &aid. "That'll &Ne ua all a chance to talk.•
Ngan started the engine. "Yes, Jeane can becin by tellin' ua
what happened to her.•
"Yeah, you don't look � �.• Luther said to her.
Her face in the rearview mirror suggested to Ngan �t she
didn't care for Luther and statements like that were only exac­
erbating the situation.
Ngan drove while Jeane spoke. "The office is compromised.
After I called Fitz, since I'd already given away my position to
anyone scanning for my phone's signal anyway, I phoned
Hunter and left a message on his voice mail instructing him to
get a security and containment unit sent in right away. I'd have
liked to have been a part of that, but we have other concerns."
"Compromised?" McCain exclaimed. "What happened?"
"I'm not exactly sure. There was an MIB like I saw at the
airport-pretty different than the operatives you and I encoun­
tered earlier today, Fitz. By the way, there's every reason to
believe the more human agents work for Pyschotech."
"The old Soviet military outfit?" McCain asked.
"Right. Seems one of their agents was found dead down­
town early today. I wasn't able to make a match on the data­
base, but two and two equals four."

78
 of a g ed an ge I s

"And the bug?" McCain asked.

"I left it in my trunk back at the hospital. I couldn't get it
off to a lab-I was interrupted."
"What 'bug'?" Ngan interjected.
"We found some kind of tracer or transmitter on Fitz's
jacket," Jeane replied. "It was pretty weird. Neither of us could
really place it."
Ngan sighed through his teeth. He'd heard horror stories
back in the sixties and seventies regarding the organization
the west called Psychotech. Terrible experiments conducted
upon those they identified as psychically aware, using strange
devices. Computers implanted in people's heads, human brains
wired into machines-all ending in very grisly deaths.
"If it was a Psychotech device," Ngan told them, "it could
have been a psionic homing device. A trained psychic could
have focused on it and used his powers as though he were right
there in that room. He might have been able to sense anything
near the device, as well as being aware of its exact location.
I'm glad you don't have it anymore."
"But isn't Psychotech supposed to be out of business?"
McCain asked.
"It's no longer being funded by the Russian government,"
Ngan answered, "but it could be they're independent now."
"So really, we're still in the dark regarding who we're deal­
ing with here," Je.ane said.
"If it helps," Luther said, sitting up a bit, "I've never heard
of Psychotech, and the guy that came to my friend's apartment
didn't sound Russian." .
"I know what you mean," Jeane said with a grimace. "The
man I encountered at the airport and the office didn't seem like
the obviously Russian agents that we saw today. He was . . .
different."
"Perhaps if you could be clearer on those differences, we
could understand," Ngan said, keeping an eye out for a motel
as he drove.
"Well, for one thing, I shot the guy five times, and he didn't
drop."

. 77
 m onte coa k

"Jesus,• Luther said.

"I figure he was wearing some sort of sophisticated body
armor. I saw some sort of fluid draining from where I shot him.
Perhaps it's some sort of liquid concussion diffusing sub­
stance, to help divert the force of the iinpact.•
"Or maybe," Luther said, "he wasn't human at all."
"Look, let us wony about this, okay?" Jeane stated tersely.
"That wasn't the strangest thing, though; she continued. "I
was attacked inside the office by somethingthat came out of the
air vent in the ceiling. It was like some sort of snake, covered in
an oxygen-active chemical. It burned me just with a light touch.•
"Jesus,• Luther said again.
Ngan watched in the mirror as Jeane gave Luther another
withering look.
"But I'm sure that's all perfectly explainable."
Luther looked away, rolling his eyes.
"The attack interrupted my work. The perps smashed my
computer."
"And your hands?" McCain asked.
"I cut them crawling out a shattered window. That's when
I ran into the guy and shot him. He had some kind of . . . some­
thing. I don't know. It might have been a weapon. Something
scraped across the back end of my car as I drove away. When
I looked at it tonight, it looked like something burned as well
as scraped against the paint. If it was some kind of projectile,
it wasn't anything I've ever seen."
Ngan saw a sign for a motel called The Traveler with a lit
vacancy sign. He pulled into its small parking lot.
"It seems to me," Ngan said, "that we are dealing with two
different forces. While the people who you led away from us

todayin the car may very well have beenworkingfor Psychotech,

this being you descnbe, Jeane . . . well, I'm not certain I disagree
with Luther's assessment. The thing that attacked you, and the
strange man, do not sound like things of earthly origin."
Ngan could see that McCain was unconvinced. Surprisingly,
however, Jeane didn't argue with him. She was quiet, holding her
tongue with her lips and looking down at the floor of the van.

78
 of a g ed a n ge I s

"Let's check in," Ngan said. "Maybe there's someplace in back

we can park the van for the night-just to be on the safe side."
"Great place," Luther said, looking at the row of white
doors and the fading blue paint of the single-story building.
"I'll take care of this," Ngan said, pulling out an Institute·
issued credit card.
The agency provided its agents with a plethora of untrace·
able identities, including passports, driver's licenses, and
credit cards, which they regularly rotated in and out.
Ngan got out and walked to the office. His conversation
with the young woman behind the desk was brief-she didn't
seem to like speaking. She took his card without question. The
tiny office smelled of fake pine and practically rattled with the
sound of a television's volume, though Ngan couldn't see a set
anywhere. He presumed it was in the small room behind the
desk, hidden by a half-closed door.
Ngan didn't feel much like talking himself. His meditative
vision still bothered him. Luther was in danger, and it had to
do with something he was doing himself. But what? Ngan now
began to suspect that the man in black Luther saw and the
man in black Jeane had confronted-twice-were not only one
and the same, but that they were somehow connected to
Luther's story of the Babalon Working.
Perhaps they were creatures from beyond this reality.
Luther had called them aliens, but Ngan knew that was incor·
rect. In a case like this, precise terminology was important.
Ngan had encountered extraterrestrial beings in the past, but
these were something different. Aword came, almost unbidden
to his mind: ultraterrestrials.
Where had that word come from? Visions of a distant
past-his distant past-flooded into his mind, right there in
the motel office with the laugh track of an unseen sitcom
loudly punctuating each thought. He saw the creatures he rec·
ognized to be yeti, standing in a circle. Their hirsute bodies
blended with the snowy terrain in a pleasing way, as though
they were more a part of their environment than a human could
ever hope to be, or even understand.
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 m ante co a k

The creatures, he understood, had taken him in when he

was very young. He consciously knew very little of what hap­
pened during his time with them, but what he saw now
seemed less a precognitive experience than a real memory.
Perhaps a real memory locked away, keyed to a specific
thought pattern that would trigger it.
Ngan saw the yeti standing tall, their massive arms held
aloft. They were chanting, but he didn't understand the words.
The sounds they created echoed off every surface-rocks,
snow, even the air molecules-around them. The echoed
sounds seemed different, as though the touch of the surfaces
changed them. Ngan somehow knew the surfaces around them
were carefully chosen for just the right modulation of change.
He could see their breath with every utterance of the chant
They repeated the words over and over again. The sounds canied
emotion. He felt fear, and duty, and a sense of protectiveness. He
knew that they were attempting to stop something from happen­
ing. And, despite the potency of the power around him, he could
feel that they were failing. He wanted to help, but he was unabl�
to. As they failed, they seemed to fade. They blended more and
more withthe land aroundthem. One by one, Ngan could no longer
see them, but he heard the chant, distant but distinct. Fmally, only
one yeti remained. He wasn't chanting, but he came to Ngan, who
was little more than an infant He held the child aloft
"Remember this, little one," the yeti said inTibetan. "We knew
of the threat too late and weren't able to stop it You will return to
your people nowbut you will remember this when you need to. We
tried to stop them from coming, but they came anyway. These
aged angels return to this world to claim what was once theirs.
Your people will call them ultraterrestrials, for they come from
beyond anything you know or understand. But you called them
gods and demons long ago, when theywere here before. They are
not your friends. You cannot understand them, and they cannot
·

undei:stand you. But you can stop them. You must."

In the distance, Ngan heard the barking of dogs and the
sounds of human voices.
"Now we go, and you return to your people. You will
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 of a g ed an ge l a

remember this when you need to, and other memories may
come as they are needed, but only when they are needed."
The girl behind the counter pushed a slip of paper at Ngan
for him to sign. With a start, he looked at her, then at the credit
card slip. He signed it with the name Xing Mengrui, though he
wasn't conscious of the act. The clerk pulled the receipt back,
not bothering to check the signature, and pushed forward a
key attached to a red plastic "23."
Ngan smiled and walked out.

Inside the shabby motel room, Luther set his bag and computer
down on one of the two beds, which was covered in a threadbare
bedspread. Jeane walked into the bathroom and clicked on the
light, looking around like she expected something nasty to jump
out Nothing did. McCain smiled at the thought of the poor rat on
the wrong end of Jeane's temper. This place didn't really seem bad
enough for rats, though, he thought-well, not many anyway.
Ngan was the last to come in, clutching the key.
"You only got one room?" Luther asked no one in particu­
lar. "I mean, I've crashedin worse places, but I figured you
guys could afford more than one room. I thought the Hoffmann
Institute was big time."
"It's not a matter of expense," Ngan told him. "It's a matter
of security. Not all of us will be sleeping at any one time," Ngan
said. "At least one person is going to be on surveillance duty­
watching for our enemies."
"Whoever they are," McCain added, helpless to keep his
brow from rising as he did.
"I've got another idea," Jeane said. "Another explanation
for what I saw and experienced."
"All right," Ngan said, locking the door.
"Low-frequency sound waves."
McCain noticed that Luther looked uncomfortable. He won­
dered why.
Jeane continued, "There might have been low-frequency

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sound waves coming from somewhere in the office-subsonic

sounds that can be seen in the form of surrounding vibrations,
but not heard. Experiments have shown that a standing wave
acoustically stuck inside the walls of a building-say, an infra­
sound wave viorating at about nineteen cycles per second-can
cause a variety of adverse physiological effects, such as shiver­
ing, anxiety, and breathlessness. These responses can lead
people to think some unseen danger is imminent or feel like
they're being watched. Infrasound might even cause hallucina­
tions. The human eyeball has a resonant frequency of eighteen
cycles a second and will vibrate in sympathy with infrasound
waves that have a similar frequency. Under these conditions,
there would be a smearing effect capable of making someone
see hallucinations in the periphery of their visual field."
"Been saving that one, haven't you?" McCain asked with a
smile.
HJeane was right-and she very well could be-then these
low-frequency waves could explain away a lot of the Institute's
case files and a lot of what the three of them had seen in the past.
Maybe.
"So, where," Ngan asked, "would these sound waves come
from?"
"Could be something as simple as a fan, up to a high volt­
age transformer," she replied.
"But-" Ngan started.
"Look, I know what you're going to say. We've never had
these experiences in the office before. But what if Psychotech
has figured out how to create standing waves in low frequen­
cies and use them as psychological weapons? That seems right
up their alley."
McCain nodded. It was a good point.
"Imagine," she said, "a weapon that could create cold
chills, a sense of paranoia and distress, hallucinatory figures
·

glimpsed creeping in the shadows."

"Like a haunting ray," McCain said. "Zap! And your house
is haunted."
Jeane raised her brow. "Something like that."

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 of a g ed IA ge I a

"It might even be more common than we think. A standing

wave could be caused by wind blowing past a cracked window in
a long, narrow conidor. It's sort of like the deep tooting sound a
glass bottle makes when you blow across the top ofit. Archae­
ologists have discovered that a number of Neolithic tombs were
seemingly constructed so as to make sounds bounce off walls
with the intentional effect of being, well, scary.•
Luther sat down on the bed closest to the door, his arms
folded tightly in front of him. McCain sat on the other and
leaned back, listening to Jeane but looking at Luther. Ngan
leaned against the table by the window.
Jeane continued to stand, and to explain. "The tombs uni­
formly create this acoustic environment through the familiar
recipe of a long, narrow entryway with an opening to the outside
at one end. The ancient architects of these tombs may not have
understood infrasound frequencies and Helmholtz resonance, but
spookiness was a desirable feature for a tomb, for the purpose of
instilling reverence for the dead and discouraging grave robbers.
Through trial and error, they might have struck upon· the most
sonically foreboding design possible, and stuck with it."
McCain was intrigued. Long, narrow conidors with the
wind blowing through them, ancient tombs-these sounded
like creepy settings. What if, psychologically, people had been
influenced in these settings for so long by these sorts of waves
that now even a verbal description of the place was scary?
Low-frequency waves would no longer be needed.
McCain noticed that Luther vil>rated his leg while he sat on
the bed, listening to her. Something she was saying was mak·
ing him nervous.
"Lutherr he asked. "You okay?•
Luther turned around to look at him. "Yeah, fine. I've just
never heard of this before. It's weird.·
McCain was a little puzzled. Luther talked about magick
and aliens like a real believer, but this freaked him out?
Seemed hard to swallow.
Jeane looked down at the ground. "I'd be wrong not to tell
you, though,• she began, "that it doesn't explain everything."

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She cleared her throat and looked up at the others.

"While I was there, well, specifically after I encountered the
thing in the air duct, I tried to leap through the window-the
one by the meeting table. But for a moment, I couldn't do it."
"What do you mean?" Ngan asked softly.
"It was like something was holding me back, or maybe it
was that I couldn't move forward. It seemed as if I was
weightless and without momentum. A low-frequency standing
wave isn't going to explain what held me in mid-air for at least
twenty or thirty seconds."
Everyone was quiet.
"Wow," McCain said. •Are you sure?"
Jeane gave him a withering look. He nodded back.
"Ifwe're speculating on Psychotech weaponry," McCain pointed
out, "we can't overrule anything, though, right? Who knows what
they might be able to do or make you think you experienced?"
"Maybe true, but I'm not sure it's wise to buy into Psy·
chotech's own propaganda," Jeane cautioned. "I'm not sure I
can believe in truly psychic spies with the ability to control
minds."
"That's not what I'm saying," McCain told her. "What I
mean is, if they can alter your perceptions to think there's a
monster in the office, or at least to give you the creeps when
you're around one of their Men in Black, couldn't they maybe
give you a weightless sensation for a moment? Hell, maybe it
was just a side effect of the technology they were using."
Jeane scrunched up her mouth on one side, then the other.
"Yeah," she said finally. "Maybe so."
Ngan shook his head. "But did you not say you didn't feel
these Men in Black were connected with Psychotech?"
"Yeah, I still think that the people in the car were Psy­
chotech agents and that the MIB at the airport and the office
was somebody differenf," Jeane said. "But we don't know that.
We don't really know anything, and that's the problem."
At the same time, as if on cue, they all turned and looked
at Luther.
"Okay, so now what?" Luther asked, looking defensive.

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"Now it's your turn to talk," McCain said. "It's time we

heard everything."
Jeane pulled a chair away from the table. "Why don't you
start by telling us more about NOD?"
"Well, I don't know what more there is to say. Like I said
before, I've never heard of Psychotech or anything like that,
but I have seen these guys in black: As for NOD, it wasn't
involved in anything like what you're talking about. NOD was
cool. It was all about freedom. We wanted to change things. We
wanted the power to accomplish stuff-good stuff. We . . .
wanted a lot of things."
"What, exactly." Jeane asked, "didyou do to furtheryour goals?"
�e were into lots of different things. My friend Dallas and
me called what we did cyberoccultism. We learned how to mul­
tiply the efficiency of any given magical working by running it
through a computer-the processing speed was enough to per­
form what we needed a million times over. Plus, once we'd run
it through the Internet, we've spread our magickal focus
throughout the whole world in an instant. It was the World
Wide Spell Web, I'm telling you."
"So, what does NOD believe in, then." Ngan asked.
"Nothing. That's the point of Ka.os Magick. It's not the philoso­
phy behind the working but the working itself. Belief can tie you
down and messyou up. You get caught up inthe 'why' ofsomething
and start putting labels on things, and you might lose sight of what
really works. Take me, for example. I've seen magick really work.
I've seen t i influence people's minds, I've seen it change files in
computers. But do I know how it works? I don't have a frickin'
clue. I just do what I do and get results. I know that some people
think it's psychic energies, and some people think magick s i com­
manding spirits, and some people thinkit's manipulating an energy
field like the Force in Star War.s. I don't know, and I don't care.
"As it was taught to me, these are the core tenets of Chaos
Magick: 'Belief is a tool, not a straightjacket. It's malleable. It
can and should be changed at will to affect change on oneself
and the world. Everything else--<:osmology, technique, philos­
ophy-is negotiable.••

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 m onte co o k

Luther raised his brows and looked at them. McCain realized

then that he'd said that bit manytimes over and over. Somebody
had made him memorize it-maybe he'd done it on his own.
"That's like the OTO was supposed to be," Luther contin­
ued after a moment, "or so I've heard, before it got all compli­
cated with dogma and shit. NOD was never into all that
Masonic crap or pseudo-Christian Gnostic stuff like they were."
"But, Novo Ordo Diana" Ngan said. " 'TheNewOrder ofDiana.'
That is the pagan goddess Diana, correct? That implies belief."
"Or was it Diana, as in Princess Diana?" McCain inter­
jected. "The Institute knows that cults are beginning to start
up in various areas that worship her as a goddess or saint. It
doesn't really sound like it fits, but . . ."
Luther laughed a little and looked down at the floor. "No."
He looked back up again. "Diana was the acrobat chick on that
old Saturday morning Dungeons and Dragons cartoon. The
founder really liked that show."
McCain laughed. Dungeons and Dragons? Were these dan­
gerous anarchists or just kids watching cartoons? McCain's
opinion of Luther seemed in a constant state of flux.
Ngan sat on the bed. "Who was the founder?"
"Luther Blisset."
"Huh?" McCain started.
"Look, it's complicated and it doesn't really matter now, but
see there's this thing called Neoism-"
"Right. You told us," Jeane said. "You love everything new."
"No, not neophile. Neoism. It's something completely unre­
lated and different. Neoism is . . . well, it's hard to explain. It's
sort of like a controlled process to promote anarchy. Sort of."
"And what does that have to do with anything, then?"
"In Neoism, everyone adopts the same name . . . Luther
Blisset."
"Why?"
"Because the Man can't control what he can't name. If every­
body has the same name, it's like nobody has a name. By taking
the name Luther Blisset, you deny the ability to be controlled:
There were a few other NOD Luther Blissets, but they're all

88
 ef a 1 ed a n ge I s

dead now so it doesn't really matter anymore. The aliens, or Psy­

chotech, or whatever, aren't after me because of Neoism.•
Jeane's face twitched when Luther said "aliens," but she
didn't reply to that directly. Instead, she said, "Why are they
after you, Luther? That's really the point here, right? Because
of this thing-the Babalon Working?"
"Well, I've been thinking about that, and it's possible
they're not really after me at all.•
"Come again?"
"Well, the second time the MIB came to where I was stay­
ing, after the fire-•
This time McCain interrupted. "The second time?"
"Yeah. They-he-it-whatever came back a couple of
days later. He asked about my friend Michelle."
"Who's Michelle?" Jeane asked.
"A friend of mine at NOD. She wasn't in the house when
they burned t i down, either. She was on her way to England.
Michelle is really into that whole medieval spell thing. Wiz­
ards, wands, magic circles-that sort of thing. Merlin, Gandalf
. . . you know. Real old school. Lately, she's been talking about
nothing but Templars, Masons, and shit like that.•
"So then why would the people after you be after her?"
Jeane asked. Her exasperated tone betrayed her impatience.
"I don't know. Really, I don't.•
Luther shook his head with what McCain took to be sin­
cerity. When he'd first met Luther, McCain took him to be a
tough little punk with attitude. The more time he spent with
him, however, he saw those toughened layers peel away. As
what he assumed was the last layer fell off, he saw the
younger man as nothing more than a kid in way over his
head. Despite his first impression, McCain found himself
starting to like Luther.
"Well, then," Ngan said, "perhaps we have accmµplished all
·

we can tonight."
"Good. I gotta take a piss,• Luther said.
He got up from the bed, walked into the bathroom, and
closed the door. McCain heard the fan start up.

87
 m ante co.a k

Ngan scooted forward on the bed and spoke in a low voice.

"Impressions? Assessments?"
McCain leaned back. They probably had a minute or two
while Luther was in the bathroom. Jeane spoke first, her voice
low and throaty.
"I think he's pretty much telling us the truth," she said. "I
think Psychotech is involved, and they're after him. I've
already said I think the agents in the car were with Psy­
chotech, and until we have evidence to the contrary, I think we
should assume the pale-skinned MIBs are too. I think they
want the details of the Babalon Working. Maybe they think it's
related to their own psychic research."
"I don't believe the inhuman men and the obviously human
agents that you saw are in league," Ngan said. "I think there
are two different groups at work here. One might very well be
Psychotech."
"No offense, Ngan," Jeane said, "but you haven't seen any
of them."
"Still, I believe there are two different forces at work here.
One is certainly terrestrial. The other obviously isn't."
Jeane shifted where she sat. McCain knew she would find
Ngan's implied finger .pointing at the paranormal uncomfort­
able, though it seemed like she was at least thinking about
that explanation on her own.
McCain decided to throw in another idea. "We can't rule out
the Masonic connections. The OTO-the guys who did the
Babalon Working in the first place-is a Masonic organization
of sorts. Perhaps they're trying to cover their tracks. Maybe
Luther and Michelle are the only non-Masons left who know
anything about it.•
"My dad was a Mason," Jeane said. "They have some silly
rituals, but it's just a fraternal organization. It's not really
practicing all this occult business Luther keeps talking about."
McCain shook his head. "There's more to the Masons than
that, I think. Perhaps most of the members don't know any­
thing, but the highest degrees definitely have an agenda. The·
Institute's got files on them that are practically endless."

BB
 of a g ed a n ge I s

Ngan looked as if he had something to add, and McCain

knew his lifelong friend well enough to realize it was some­
thing both significant and new. Luther opened the bathroom
door just then, so Ngan said nothing. Instead, he just smiled
and looked down into his lap.
Luther grabbed his bags from the bed. "Um, I gotta check
my email."
"I don't think getting on-line is a good idea, Luther: Jeane
·
said, standing up.
"Look, I know what I'm doing, okay? We've done this dance
before. This is what I do. No one can trace me-I'll be connected
for about twenty-five seconds. On and off. Bangbaddabom." o
Jeane scowled.
"I'm not a prisoner, am I? Can't I do what I want?"
"We're tryinc to protect your dumb-·
•1 think it will be all right,• Ncan interrupted.
Jeane scowled again. lfcan remained hia calm, impassiYe
self. McCain could see Jeane bated Ng&n tllinc Luther'• side.
She looked a.way u Luther unpacked his computer.
"Michael, why don't you and Jeane try to get some rest? I'll
stay up while Luther ch�ks his email and keep a watch after­
ward."
"Okay," McCain said. "I'll crash on the chairs. Jeane, you
can take the bed." He knew they'd save the other bed for
Luther.
Jeane nodded and lay down on the bed nearest the door, flat
on her back. McCain pushed the two chairs by the little round
table around so that he could sit on one and prop his feet up on
the other. With his foot, he reached up and clicked off the light.
That left only the light from the bathroom on, and it cast his
portion of the room in deep shadow.
McCain watched from his uncomfortable perch on the
chairs as Ngan approached Luther. Luther sat on the other bed,
sitting cross-legged on the pillows and leaning back against
the headboard. He turned the computer screen to him. A line
to the phone jack stretched across the room to the wall by the
desk. His face was illuminated in the bluish-green light of his
18
 monte co o k

laptop and bis fingers clicked atop the keys with furious, obvi·
ously often-used strokes.
An expression of interest and surprise was clearly betrayed
in the computer's light as Luther suddenly stopped typing. He
stared at the screen, only occasionally stroking the touch-pad
on the keyboard.
Ngan sat on the same bed as Luther, speaking softly. "Did
you get the email you expected from Michelle?"
Luther looked up, startled. "What? How did you know?"
"I am sorry if this is harsh, Luther, but who else is there
you would be getting mail from?"
Luther bit bis lips together. He looked away for a moment,
into the dark part of the room. McCain feigned sleep.
"Yeah, okay," Luther said. "But don't worry. Not onlywasn't I
on long, but Michelle uses an incredible encryption program." His
face suddenly softened, and bis eyes shined in the dim light "See,
there's combinations of words, sounds and images that together
. . . well, they create a sum much greater than their parts because
of the way the information altogether processes in the human
brain. It becomes a new language based on primal brain functions
rather than higher language-processing functions. It's like, you
type in various words that conjure up specific images, and it
transfers different words in the reader's mind. They'll see words
on the screen that aren't really there. Of course, you need the
right software to decode the images in the first place."
"Fascinating," Ngan said.
McCain could tell Ngan was sincerely impressed. Come to
think of it, if what Luther just said was true, McCain was
impressed too. It sounded increchbly advanced.
"Yeah, I don't know exactly how she did it. I mean, it's like
magick, and in fact that may be how it really works, to be hon·
est-depending on yolll' point ofview-but even if it is, it's not
really her kind of magick. I don't know . . ."
"Is your friend all right?" Ngan asked.
"Yeah, I guess so. She's scared for me. She'd like me to
come to Edinburgh." Luther frowned.
"Well, I can understand her feelings, but that obviously

10
 of a g ed a n ge I s

isn't possible right now. You've got an appointment to speak

with Dr. Nakami in a few days."
"Yeah, I know."
"And you are, of course, safest with us. She would actually
be safer if she was with us as well. Perhaps you should-"
"I didn't tell her I was going to go to you guys for help. She
doesn't know I'm with you."
"That was prudent," Ngan said, nodding.
McCain was amazed at the rapport Ngan had developed
with Luther. Never were there two more different people, he
thought, but here they were talking like friends--0r perhaps
father and son.
"Anyway," Luther continued, "Michelle wouldn't come back
here now. She's on to something big."
"On to something?"
"Yeah, she's . . ." Luther pressed his back against the head·
board. "Well, it's probably confidential. Besides, it doesn't
really have anything to do with anything."
Ngan looked at Luther intently. McCain could tell that Ngan
want.eel more information-that he feltthe "Michelle issue" needed
further exploration-buthe didn'tknow if t i would be rightto push.
Push, McCain thought, but then realized that his own tac·
tics didn't always work as well for other people.
Instead Ngan changed the subject. "I'm interested in the
Neoism philosophy you mentioned."
That seemed to catch Luther off guard. McCain admired his
old friend's technique. Ngan was a very wise man.
"It's really not a philosophy," Luther said with a shrug that
brought his body into a more relaxed position. "It's more like
an agenda. Remember, I'm not into beliefs."
"Oh, come now." Ngan smiled warmly. "Everything you've
done and said has betrayed some deliberate and unconven­
tional beliefs, Luther."
"Okay, I get what you mean. Sure, I believe that freedom is
good, the rich suck, that most people don't have a clue, and
crap like that. What I'm saying, though, is that I don't have a
religious philosophy like Christianity or Buddhism to explain
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 m onte co o k

how the world works. That's sort of what Neoism is about.

Rejecting structure over results."
Ngan shook his head and gave a little shrug.
"I'm not a good teacher, I know that," Luther said. "Here,
look at this." Luther clicked a few times on the touch-pad of
his laptop. Then he typed something and turned the screen for
Ngan to see. "This is something I found on the Internet a little
while ago."
Ngan read aloud softly, which told McCain that Ngan knew
he and Jeane were awake and listening in.

Program of the Neoist Alliance

1. RELIGIOUS. To undermine all monotheistic creeds and

to propagate crazy cults; mysticism, para-science, and anti­
phil08ophies.

Z. ETHICAL. To introduce debasin' codes and practices,

corrupt morals, weaken the marriage-bond, destroy family life,
and abolish inheritance.

3. AESTHICAL. To foster the cult of the uglyand whatever

is debasing, decadent, and degenerate in music, literature, and
the visual arts.

4. SOCIOLOGICAL. To break up large corporations and

abolish privilege. To provoke envy, discontent, revolt, and class
war.

5. INDUSTRIAL AND FINANCIAL. To lower the ideals of

craftsmanship and abolish pride in handicraft. To encourage
standardization and specialization. To wrest control of finance
from the corrupt ruling class.

6. POLITICAL. Tu secure control over the press, broad­

casting, cinema, stage, and all means of influencing public

u
 of a g ed an ge I s

opinion. To break up the ruling class institutions from inside by

creating dissension.
When Ngan finished reading, he asked, "Do you really do
this kind of thing? Corrupting and debasing things? Promoting
violence?"
"Of course not. Not really. As someone said, 'the best thing
to come out of Neoism is Anti-Neoism.' "
"I'm afraid I do not understand." Ngan shook his head.
"Exactly. Neoism was created to be something people like
you will never get. See, it's the idea of rejecting the conven­
tions of society, the power centers, the culture . . . everything.
It's like, people on TV try to show you this life, but that's not
the life we want."
"What do you mean, 'people like me'?" Ngan asked without
anger. "Do I really seem so terrible?"
"No, no. It's not that. It's just a new way of thinking. Look,
it's not like you're Joe Accountant sitting in his little house in
the suburbs watching network sitcoms. That's really the guy
who doesn't get it. Neoism, and everything that NOD stood
for-it's all about expanding consciousness beyond what They
make you think."
"We're not so different, Luther."
McCain smiled, and began to actually fall asleep.

. 93
� ;k any member of the Ordo Templi Orientis, and
she'll tell you that the organization can trace its
roots back directly to the Bavarian lliuminati-a
group some say is the ultimate in evil, manipulative
conspiracies and others say was interested in trans­
forming humanity through illumination. Either, way,
the OTO members like the implication. It makes them
seem edgy-dangerous.
What mayvery well be the truth is this: The original
organization was a splinter Masonic lodge called the
Bavarian illuminati, founded in 1776 and led by Adam
Weishaupt Since you had to be a Mason to join, it was
effectively a secret society within a secret society. Its
leaders had· some high ideals-they wanted to change
the world by supporting democratic movements and
being generally anti-royalists and anti-papists. They
believed in the freedom and power of the individual­
such belief was the beginning of true illumination, they
thought. The order was declared dangerous and illegal by

H
 of a g ed an ge I s

the local government in 1785, effectively dispersing the group.

However, in 1880, a new illuminati was formed from the ashes of
the old by a Freemason named Theodor Reuss who also helped
found the Theosophical Society with a man named Leopold
Engel. In 1901 Reuss and Engel produced paperwork that proved
they were the rightful heirs to the official charter of the Bavarian
illuminati and in that same year founded another group called the
Ordo Templi Orientis to cany on that succession.
By 1912, Reuss was offering the ninth degree of illumina­
tion of the OTO to a man named Aleister Crowley, who was
already malting a name for himself writing occult books. Reuss
felt that Crowley had already learned the magickal secrets
important to that rank of the OTO. Later, Reuss appointed
Crowley as his successor as the Outer Head of the OTO. Crow­
ley advanced the teaching of what he called Thelema, a phi­
losophy detailing the rights of the individual and the bringing
forth of massive social change stressing freedom and peace.
Contrary to his reputation, he didn't advocate human sacrifice
or anything so violent, morbid, or dark.
Still a quasi-Masonic group, the OTO was officially recog­
nized as a religion by the United States government. In
Thelema, they had a bevy of saints, including King Arthur,
Mohammed, Parcifal, Buddha, Sir Francis Bacon, John Dee,
Simon Magus, and many more, and they regularly carried out
Gnostic masses. There were many OTO lodges all over the
world and, since Crowley's death in 194 7, many claimed to be
at its head. Jack Parsons belonged to the lodge in southern
California kiiown as the Agape Lodge.
Parsons was a rocket scientist in the days when the term
could actually be used with accuracy. He helped start the Jet
Propulsion Laboratory. A devout disciple of Crowley-whom he
never actually met face to face-Parsons's two lives (one of sci­
ence, one of magick) brought him into contact with people as
varied as writers in H.P. Lovecraft's circle of correspondence
and scientists who would work on the Manhattan Project.
Patterning his magickal work after the Elizabethan
occultist John Dee, he set out to bring forth what Crowley

95
 m on te co o k

referred to as the Moonchild. The Moonchild would be a mag·

ickal individual who would usher in a new age by calling upon
the power of nearly forgotten gods. This new age-the Age of .
Horus-was the ultimate culmination of the teachings of
Thelema. In order to accomplish the creation of the Moonchild,
an entity called Babalon would have to be invoked. Thus, Par­
son set about creating the Babalon Working.
To help him, Parsons called upon his friend L. Ron Hub·
bard. The two worked on the ritual together in the desert for
weeks in 1946. In his own workings, Dee used an accomplice
as well, and history repeated itself, for Dee was eventually
betrayed and undermined by his helper just as Hubbard even­
tually cheated and betrayed Parsons.
But where did the idea-let alone the details involved-for the
Babalon Working come from? Crowley; smprisingly, wasn't behind
il In fact, he dismissed the whole thing because Parsons wasn't
ready for such an undertaking. Parsons spoke of visions or even a
strange meeting out in the desert with an unknown individual who
might have led him to the formation of the magickal rituals.
This was all in the notes Luther had compiled on the sub·
ject. Of course, he'd read Parsons's books Freedom Is a 1Wo­
Edged Sword and TheBook ofthe AntiChrist in his early days at
NOD. Though he would never admit it-he was against the
idea of heroes in general-Parsons was very much Luther's
hero. He skimmed through the text file now, while McCain
watched out the window and Jeane and Ngan slept.
Parsons gained knowledge from a mysterious stranger, just
as Ngan had been talking about earlier, with mysterious fig­
ures in black showing up at various times in history imparting
secrets. If the Men In Black were somehow here because ofthe
Babalon Working, perhaps it was all connected. And now they
were after him? But why? And not just him, it would seem.
Luther's mind drifted to Michelle. Though he didn't share
her exact beliefs, the fact that they were the only surviving
members of the order strengthened whatever bond had previ­
ously existed n i to one of almost overpowering devotion.
Again, Luther would never admit it-even to himself-but he
96
 of a g ed an ge I s

felt protective about Michelle now and wonied about her

alone in Europe. The Man in Black had asked about her. They
were after her, too. He hated that idea, and found it difficult to
word in his head a reply to her email that would convince her
she was in danger. In fact, even if he could convince her, what
would he tell her to do? He had no idea.
Maybe together they would be better off. She wanted him
to join her, and with each passing moment, sitting in that dark
motel room, he knew he would have to do just that. These Hoff­
mann Institute people had turned out to be nice enough, but he
needed to be doing something rather than just hiding and talk ­

ing all the time. Perhaps he could come back later and talk to
their director, whose name he could never remember.
From Jeane's soft snoring she was clearly asleep. McCain
had been pretending to sleep, but now he too was snoring.
Even Ngan had nodded off after his conversation with Luther,
his head resting on the headboard.
Luther's long, bony fingers began to carefully play across
the keyboard of his laptop. He called up a new file, then began
to copy various bits of code, routines, and image-generating
bits of software into that file. The idea that formed in his mind
was something he'd never tried before but had long thought
possible. Now was as good a time as any to find out.
Ironically, Jeane had given him the idea. All her talk about
sound waves affecting consciousness was exactly one of the
things he and his friend Dallas had been exploring right before
NOD was suicided. In fact, he suspected that somehow Jeane
and the others had found out and she was eventually going to
confront him about it.
He called up a text file named Erotomancy. The name
always made him laugh-he couldn't help i . It sounded like
t
the magick of pornography. Instead, however, it was something
entirely different Erotomancy centered around a concept that
Luther could never remember the name of if it didn't appear at
the top of his screen when he opened the program: "anacoustic
dendroptotic allophony." Luther thought it worked something
like this:

. 97
 monte co o k

If a tree fell in a forest, and no one was present to hear it,

it turns out it would make a sound-but not the same sound
you'd hear if you were there. It might resemble horse hooves
on a pavement or bells or a dinner conversation or something
entirely new. Dallas once referred to this is as an anti­
Pythagorean heresy, whatever that meant. Your presence, the
theory went, would change the sound. The explanation was
that when something creates a sound, and that sound travels
away from ts
i origin point, it's changed by the environment, the
distance, and even the listener. Just like when Luther stood
next to the stereo speaker, the bass sounded different than if
he was across the room, or just like how a crowd of people
sounds like a single, strange noise from far away rather than
the individual sounds heard when close up. Environment
changes sound.
Erotomancy took this concept a step further and put forth
the idea that sound change� the environment.
The ritual, of course, would be handled by the computer. It
was a complex process of tuning sound to match the environ­
ment. Luther had to enter in a number of variables at certain
prompts in the program. He typed in the approximate size of
the room (he'd become fairly adept at sizing up an area-when
he first started, he was terrible at it), the contents of the room,
the number of listeners, the listeners' approximate distance
from the sound source, and a few others. Then he entered the
desired effect: a deep, and very long sleep.
Erotomancy is based on a very old book called the Cinae­
dopolis. The most interesting notion in the Cinaedopolis, to
Luther, was the theory that when a sound is produced, each
time it echoes off a wall or a rock it would sound different. At
first the change is imperceptible, but if it repeats often enough
it starts to sound like something completely different. If he
spoke a word and it echoed long enough, eventually he would
hear a different word. He'd never been able to figure out how
to make that work.
Nevertheless, the Cinaedopo/
is also discussed the effects
of certain musical modes. These modes can induce various

98
 of a g ed a n ge l s

mental states and advanced application could transform phys­

ical reality. One of the simpler modes could cause babies to
cry. One, according to the Cinaedopo/is, could bring about the
end of the world. These modes had fanciful names like Cim­
merian, Ogygian, lcenian, Hyperborean, and Epidian. They
sounded like something out of Conan the Barbarian.
The mode that induced sleep was called Umbran. He set up
the computer to run the required subroutine, setting it to begin
in about thirty seconds. He knew .it would work all the more
effectively on his three targets, since theywere already dozing.
Reaching into his bag, Luther pulled out his MP3 player and
placed the headphones on his head. He slid off the bed and
walked into the bathroom, the headphones already masking
the sounds coming from his computer.
He waited about ten minutes and clicked the player off.
Luther listened for a moment but heard nothing. He yanked
off the headphones and looked into the room. The computer
sat on the bed, its 'bluish screen unheeded by the sleeping
people. None of them stirred. Luther had worried that perhaps
somehow Ngan would be able to resist it, but it seemed as if
he had worried for nothing. Somehow, that fact disappointed
him a little.
He shut down the computer and thrust it into its case. He
zipped up his bag, and went to the door. One last look back
showed Ngan, McCain, and Jeane all engrossed in a deep sleep.
"Sorry guys," he whispered with a shrug. "See you later."

99
J� uther was gone.
Ngan awoke to find both Jeane and McCain
asleep and Luther, his luggage, and his computer
gone. While waking the others Ngan forced himself to
remain calm. McCain was apologetic-he said he'd
tried to stay awake but failed. Ngan, however, knew it
was he who was supposed to stay awake with Luther
and said as much.
"Oh, Luther," Ngan whispered to himself. "What
have you done?"
About ten minutes later, McCain discovered that his
passport and credit cards were missing.
"That little bastard," McCain said.
Somehow, Luther must be planning on using the
passport, thought Ngan, though he couldn't imagine
how. Luther and McCain were hardly look·alikes.·
"A passport," Jeane said, "means he's headed out of the
counby. England. He's goingto find his friend Michelle."·
"I have to agree, Jeane. With Michael's passport,

100
 of 1 g ed a n ge I a

however, t i shouldn't be difficult to follow him. We can catch up

with him. He can't have traveled far."
"
"Right. Let's go.
Jeane drove.
At this point, they couldn't afford to worry about an Institute
leak. They would never find Luther without some help. Using his
cell phone in the car, McCain called the Institute's central office
in Washington and put a trace on himself. The phone rang before
they'd hardly moved a hundred yards in Chicago's morning traf­
fic. "Michael McCain" had boarded a plane for London three
hours before, with a connection to Edinburgh.
The three reached O'Hare Airport and booked the next
flight-a connection through Newark to Glasgow. McCain
called the Institute again and asked for a new passport and
card to be sentto the Newark airport where he could pick it up.
He also asked for someone to search the Hoffmann Institute
database for areas around Edinburgh that corresponded with
the keywords "magic," "wizard," and "Templar," based on wliat
Luther had told them about Michelle's research.
Ngan was impressed and happy to see his young friend
adapting so completely to the Hoffmann Institute. In less than
a year, he'd acquainted himself with the benefits and capabili­
ties of the Institute's agents beyond even Ngan.
But then Ngan found himself once again facing the prospect
of getting in an unreliable machine and hurling himself higher
than any mountaintop in Tl.bet. As he sat in the hard, rounded
seat in the terminal, he used a breathing technique to render
calm within himself. He blocked out the airport noises, the people
around him, and the sight of airplanes through the windows.
Ngan hated to fly.
"Oh, Luther," he whispered to himsell. "What have you done?"

The train ride from Glasgow to Edinburgh was brief. They

rented a car and made their way out of busy Edinburgh traffic
south. Jeane was happy to let McCain drive. She was tired-

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she hadn't slept much on the plane, and barely grabbed a few
moments of sleep on the train. The jet lag drained her muscles
of energy-adrenaline was a dist.ant memory.
They stopped briefly on Bridge Street to buy "breakfast."
Jeane didn't want to know whatmeal it really should be according
to her internal clock, still set on Chicago time. Even in early sum­
mer, the morning air was chill and a little damp. They went into a
store to buy a change of clothes. Jeane bought only a long-sleeved
shirt that she put on with her leather pants and boots, zipping up
the light leatherjacket she broughtfrom home overit. McCain got
one too and put it on over a T-shirt he wore with jeans, canying
the sport coat he'd brought. Ngan bought a long-sleeve, white
shirt, some lightweight pants, and some different brown leather
shoes. The blue suit he'd been wearing was thoroughly crumpled.
Jeane wished she could remove the bandages that covered
her hands. The cuts were healing, and the bandages were
annoying. Still, it was a little too early. The burn on her chest
still hurt, but it was easy enough not to think about it with
everything else that was going on.
The Institute database had come up with one serious line
of inquiry using the keywords McCain had given them-a place
relating heavily to Templar history: Rosslyn Chapel. This was
a fourteenth-century church located near Roslin, a tiny com­
munity near Edinburgh. The agent had told McCain that some
of the Knights Templar, after being excommunicated and out­
lawed in France, fled to Scotland and settled in this area. Leg­
end had it that they'd brought some secret treasure with them.
Jeane pointed out that Roslin was the village where Dolly
the sheep was cloned-the first successful cloning experi­
ment. When she did, McCain and Ngan exchanged meaningful
looks but said nothing. An interesting coincidence considering
how small Roslin was.
Rosslyn Chapel was a long shot, but at this point they were
desperate.
Still early in the morning, they entered a thick, wooded
area far different from the urban landscape they'd just left.·An
old winding road up a massive hill had signs for Roslin, and
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they followed them into the tiny village. Little stirred in the
town, and they followed another sign that led them to Rosslyn
Chapel.
McCain parked the car in a small lot next to a handful of
other cars, though the chapel was nowhere in sight-the
woods were too thick. A stone path suggested their next step.
A thin mist clung to the ground, the trees, and the old stone
buildings. Jeane had heard about Scottish mists, and now she
saw them in person. You could easily get lost in such a mist­
and it was said they came and went seemingly without warn­
ing. Memories of a cemetery south of Chicago came to mind,
and she shuddered. If there were any real haunted spots on
Earth, surely this, like that cemetery, was one of them.
But then, maybe that was the whole point Was that why
Luther-and Michelle before him-had come? For a moment,
Jeane imagined finding Luther with some woman, in a circle of
candles, chanting in Latin. Though that wasn't the sort of thing
Luther was interested in. At least that's what he said.
Moss, more black than green, coated the stones of the
buildings like splotches of paint. The carpark was lost to them
now in the trees and the mist. The path led them to a wall,
about five feet tall, which joined two buildings-<me of which
had two stories. Nothing moved or suggested inhabitation.
Then, through the green leaves and the white fog, they saw
thatbeyond the wall was a tall, ornate building of considerable
age. The top was covered in some modem canopy of glass and
metal, and the whole supported by a complex lattice of scaf­
folding. On the whole, it appeared that Rossyln Chapel might
be closed for repairs.
"Well," McCain said, "do you think we can get in?"
"The sign by the parking lot gave times for worship serv­
ices," Jeane said. "Do people ever visit this place? Maybe we
need an appointment. n
Ngan walked up to the door of the two-story building. It
was unmarked. He paused in front of it, obviously a little
unsure of what to do. Jeane and McCain caught up to- him
just as he opened the old wooden door-and they all found
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themselves looking into a very modern-looking gift shop

with tourists buying a Rosslyn Chapel T-shirt from a young
girl behind a counter.
McCain laughed. Jeane cringed.
She walked in and saw the shelves of postcards, booklets
on the history of the place, even a shelf of small ceramic mod­
els of the chapel. She looked at the half-dozen people in the
shop, half-expecting to see Luther glancing over the selection
of Scottish shortbread displayed at the counter. Of course he
wasn't there.
Ngan purchased three tickets to get inside and tour the
place while McCain browsed the books on display. He held up
a thin, amateurish book whose cover shouted out about the
mysterious "Mason-Templar connection." Connection with
each other or this place? Or both?
Despite her job-despite the Hoffmann Institute's fields of
inquiry, which of course included not only aliens and the para·
normal but organizations more often than not referred to as "con­
spiracies"-Jeane didn't believe in the alternate historical views
including the idea that the Freemasons had controlled practically
every historical event or that the Templars had carried on some
legacy that enabled them and those who secretly followed them
to run the world or some such thing. When push came to shove,
Jeane wasn't exactly sure who killed Kennedy, but she was sure
it wasn't some medieval knight or any member of a fraternal
order of insurance agents and used car salesmen.
She rolled her eyes at McCain and moved toward the door
marked "To the Chapel" on the far side of the shop. The three
of them walked into the walled inner courtyard that surrounded
Rosslyn Chapel. The ground was damp from recent rain and
smelled of thick lushness and growth. A stone path led to the
chapel. A sign described (and apologized for) the construction
in process. The managers were seeking to build some sort of
shield over the structure to help dry out the roof and protect it
from any further damage. The whole thing had obviously been
going on a long time. Jeane noted the permanency of the scaf­
folding-it had been there for years and was empty of workers.

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The lower half of the building was visible through the sup­
ports of the construction and displayed the heavy hand of
medieval stonework-the exterior was alive with gargoyles,
angels, and crosses. The crosses all had a unique scalloped
edge that Jeane had never seen before.
Inside the chapel, however, was a clear step beyond the
outside-it was a symphony of stonework from floor to high,
arched ceiling. Angels and people of stone cavorted about the
pillars, the ceilings, and around the stained glass windows,
carrying various objects whose significance was almost in
every case beyond Jeane. Scalloped crosses, roses, and sym­
bols she didn't recognize were everywhere.
Ngan, who had purchased a guidebook, began pointing out
various bits of the carvings and reading descriptions of them.
A few other people wandered through the large sanctuary and
did the same. It appeared that virtually the entire buildin' was
this single room. It was unlike anything she'd ever seen.
Jcane learned more of the place from what N�an read. Built
in 1446, the chapel was meant to be part of a larger structure
that would serve as a center for learning as well as spiritual­
ity. The peculiar crosses were a symbol of the St. Clair, or Sin­
clair family, who had traditionally supported the chapel and
had sponsored its creation. Master masons, the Sinclairs'
influence showed in the Masonic symbols seen throughout the
stonework.
Legend had it that the chapel was built to resemble Herod's
Palace in Jerusalem, an important structure to both cru­
saders-like the Templars-and to Freemasons, due to its
location, its architecture, and its history. According to some,
the carvings meant many things-most of them pertaining to
Freemasonry, the Knights Templar, Rosicrusians, the Sinclair
family, and of course Christianity, but others pertained, oddly,
to pagan beliefs like the Green Man and the Tarot. All ofit was
supposed to lead the viewer to one conclusion-that.this was
the resting place of something, perhaps an object, or perhaps
simply knowledge, of great importance. In Gaelic the name
Rosslyn, apparently, had connotations of "ancient knowledge

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passed down the generations." The secret rituals of the Holy

Royal Arch Degree of Freemasonry supposedly contained the
clues needed to truly understand the carvings, but, Ngan
pointed out dryly, the guidebook didn't contain those secrets.
McCain and Jeane both laughed. McCain said to Jeane,
"Freemasons again. They're behind everythi-"
"Shut up," she said, rolling her eyes.
She didn't want to start that again, and besides, she knew
he was just trying to annoy her. He didn't believe all that any
more than she did.
Ngan interrupted their friendly argument by pointing out
the stonework around one of the windows that clearly showed .
ears of corn.
"But didn't you say this place was built in 1446?" Jeane
asked. "Corn was unique to the NewWorld until after Columbus."
"Yes," Ngan said. •The book says that this is part of the
proof suggesting that sailors associated with the Sinclairs
traveled to North America long before Columbus."
"Really?" McCain asked.
"Yes," Ngan replied, still with his face in the book. •Appar·
ently, there are stories of a Prince Henry Sinclair of Orkney, a
man who was both the Grand Master of the Knights Templar of
his time and the one credited �th the completion of Rosslyn
Chapel, sailing with a small fleet to Greenland and even into
Nova Scotia in the early fourteenth century. They had contact
with the Native Americans and thus knew about corn. Accord­
ing to the book, there are tales from the Micmac Indians of that
area that suggest a corroboration of the tale."
"Okay, fine. But this doesn't help us find . . . " She stopped.
A familiar feeling crept into her mind that put her on edge
and gave her instincts reason to urge flight. This was followed
by an all-too-familiar figure stepping into the chapel. He stood
over six feet and wore a long, black coat and a wide-brimmed
hat. His face was milky white. With a stiff, slow motion and a
grim expression, he scanned the room.
Jeane turned her back to him, whispering tersely, "MIB-at
the door."

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She glanced over her shoulder and saw Ngan and McCain
trying to act inconspicuous, but perhaps it was for nothing. The
man seemed not to register any of them and instead stepped
into the place and walked purposefully toward the front of the
chapel-what was known as the Lady Chapel. He paused at a
carving on a wooden chair that read "Into Arcadia."
Jeane grabbed McCain's sleeve and gently pulled him back­
ward. Ngan was out of reach but came as if tugged. Together,
they watched the man look intently at the three altars in the
Lady Chapel.
"Is that the same guy, Jeane?" McCain whispered.
"Yes," she said, though honestly, she knew that she'd never
actually got a good look at the MIB's face. "Or someone very
much like him. From the airport and outside the office."
"What's he doing here?" McCain asked.
"Perhaps the same thing we're doing," Ngan replied.
"Looking for Luther," Jeane said.
"Or Michelle," McCain added.
"We should watch him," Jeane said. "Follow him."
The Man in Black suddenly moved toward the steps that
led down into the sacristy. He navigated the old steps slowly.
Jeane watched his hat bob down the stairwell.
"I'm going to watch what he does," she announced, moving
forward.
The stairs were poorly lit and worn by years of footsteps.
The man was already out of view. She stuck to one side and
descended. Ngan had read to her that this was the oldest por­
tion of the church. It seemed so. The small room at the bottom
of the steps had fewer stone carvings than the chapel above,
but the Sinclair cross was still prominent. Daylight came
through a single stained glass window. Tombstones lined one
wall, each bearing what she now knew were Templar swords
and stars, as well as Rosicrucian roses. A small altar was near
the far wall. The man ignored those and looked through a door­
way into a tiny alcove now used for storage.
"It was here," he said in a loud monotone that startled her.
Jeane stuck to the stairs, retreating back up a few. The man

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appeared to be talking to himself, not to her-and there was

no one else in the room. There were also no exits. She backed
up the steps, all the way to the top.
It. What was it? What was he talking about? He wouldn't
refer to Luther as an "it," would he?
She heard him coming back toward the steps and retreated
back to where M:cCain and Ngan stood, pretending to read the
guidebook. McCain looked up as she approached, but she
shook her head before he could say anything. Ngan looked up
from the book, and she could see in his face that the MIB had
come back up the stairs.
She shrugged to both of them. When she reached their side,
she turned, and the three of them watched the strange man
leave the chapel.
"Let's go," Jeane said.
They followed the M.IB outside to a massive grave memo­
rial for two of the Sinclairs, with a. few benches a.mid the
vibrant green and well-kept lawn within the churchyard. Jeane
looked around, keeping her body hard and tense-ready for
whatever might happen. She saw the dark-dressed stranger
round the side of the chapel opposite the entrance. She walked
that way, sensing McCain and Ngan right behind her.
He was gone.
Jeane looked around the comer of the chapel but couldn't
see the man she was following.
"Damn," she whispered, walking forward and breaking into
a run around the next comer, past scaffolding and a small
wagon filled with masonrytools and materials. The other side
of the chapel was shrouded in trees and closer in, more scaf­
folding supports. He wasn't there, either.
Jeane looked back and saw only McCain.
"Ngan went around the other way to see if he could find
him," he told her.
"Good," she replied. "You stay here and watch for him I'll .

keep circling around."

Before he could respond, she walked away, still around the
old chapel. Another comer rounded, and she was back on the

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side with the entrance and the two-story building with the gift
shop. A few tourists stood looking at the chapel or reading a
guidebook. None of them spoke. For a moment, Jeane thought
about how this was the sort of place that instilled reverence in
people, even those who weren't religious. The stillness, the
lush growth, the ancient structure, and the intricate stonework
all melded together to make a place truly worthy of the words
"holy ground." Yet, none of it had really had any effect on her.
Why was that? ·

She realized she didn't have time to think about that now­
she had a job to do, and perhaps, she thought, that was also
the answer to her question.
Ngan came around the other side of the chapel and walked
carefully toward Jeane. She met him halfway, shaking her
head.
"I have not seen him ," Ngan said quietly once they were
together. "Where is Michael?"
"Back on the other side, keeping an eye out."
"I will check the carpark. Why don't you get Michael and
meet me there?"
"Right."
Jeane turned and went back the way she came. McCain
stood where she left him. He shrugged and she shook her head.
Where did he go? Jeane thought.
She looked at the wall that surrounded the churchyard. It
was about five, maybe six feet high. Could the MIB have leaped
the wall? It seemed hard to believe. He didn't look that agile,
and the black suit certainly didn't seem like it would help him
move quickly or with much flexibility, and he would have had
to get over the wall fast.
"Come on, Fitz. We're meeting Ngan by the car. Let's
regroup and figure out where we lost this guy."
The two of them walked out of the churchyard, Jeane giv­
ing one last glance at the remarkable stone chapel. They went
up the path and toward the carpark. Ahead, Jeane saw two fig­
ures standing near the car. She hurried her steps.
In the center of the carpark, amid a van, their rented Ford

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Mondeo, a tiny French car she couldn't identify, and a long,

black early 60s Cadillac, Ngan stood facing the tall figure in
black. Each stared at the other, completely motionless. Ngan
was in a fastidious martial pose, the other standing perfectly
straight and still.
"Ngan!" McCain called out.
There was no response. Ngan and the Man in Black seemed
locked together in a mutual gaze. Neither moved nor showed
emotion.
Jeane ran forward.
As she ran down the stony path, the mysterious figure
moved. He reached into his long coat. When he drew his hand
back out, he held a brownish thing with a long tail-like
appendage coiled around his arm. She recognized the thing as
the weapon she'd seen before.
The Man in Black lowered it at Ngan.

110
.M e was the kind of man who would put his packages
into the trunk when driving home from the store,
even if all he bought was a greeting card. Careful,
quiet, reserved, Nicolas-never Nick--Oarret looked
forward to only a handful of things in life. Nicolas
enjoyed the daily paper, which he read dutifully each
night; he anticipated every Tuesday, which was
spaghetti night at the Lodge; and he loved the extra
affection he got every third night, when he treated
Samantha his cat to the brand name can of cat food as
opposed to the cheaper store brand.
More than any of that, however, Nicolas loved the
library. He looked forward to every Saturday afternoon
when he would walk up and down the stacks like a
policeman in a black-and-white movie walking his beat.
The library was his territory-his domain. Perhaps
even more than his own apartment, he felt perfectly at
home there, perfectly relaxed and· perfectly confident.
He was the master of every shelf-he'd seen every

. · 111
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book in the library, and taken it off the shelf. He'd caressed its
cover, usually in its hard, smooth plastic jacket. He'd flipped
through its pages and, in many cases, read some or all of it.
Nicolas had spent every Saturday afternoon in the Water·
town, South Dakota, library for the last twenty-fiye years
except when a holiday distracted him or the time back in 1985
when he had a particularly bad case of the flu. It was a small
library, started on the Carnegie Library program in the late
1800s, and it had been a lot of Saturdays. He knew the vol·
umes on those shelves better than any of the lil>rarians he'd
seen come and go. And they knew him, referring to him by
name when he checked out books, though he never took such
overly familiar steps with them.
When Nicolas saw a newbook onthe shelf, he wasn't surprised.
Surprised would be the wrong word. Distressed would be
more accurate. Buried back in the science section, between geol·
ogy and physics, a new book stared out from the shelf, its gleam·
ing yellowish-brown cover mocking him. This wasn't the new
book shelf. New additions to the library were always shelved on
the new shelf near the middle of the library in the main aisle
between fiction and periodicals, in front of the reading carrels.
The new books remained there for exactly three weeks before
being shelved on the regular shelves. He acquainted himself
with the new books on the new book shelf every week so he
could slowly acclimate himself to their presence.
The sudden appearance of a brand new book, bypassing the
new book shelf . . . well, that just never happened. Perhaps
long ago, maybe-once when a new librarian tried out a dif.
ferent system back in the late seventies when he was still get·
ting to know the place. Maybe, but he doubted it.
He stared at the book for at least a full minute before he
even thought to look at its title. He walked forward two cau­
tious steps and tilted his head to read the printing on the spine.
It read: Nicolas, take me.
Nicolas stood and blinked. He read it again. He breathed.
He read it again. Nicolas blinked twice and read it again. How
could that be?
m
 of a g ed an ge I s

He smiled. A coincidence. Just an odd coincidence. It must

be a mis-shelved novel. Certainly, if a new book could get put
on a shelf by accident it's no bigger leap to think that it's on
the wrong shelf. It must be a novel-a romance, perhaps. The
fact that the title had his name was just a strange coincidence
there in aisle twenty-three. He would take it down from where
it was and give it to a librarian to be properly re-shelved. With
a self-reassuring smile, he reached for the book and pulled it
from the shelf.
The cover read: Read me, Nicolas.
He would have dropped the book in utter surprise if his
years of being in the hbrary badn't conditioned him to be very
careful about making noise. That overriding conditioning
forced him to hang on to the book and stare at the cover. Stare
and breathe. Stare and blink. Stare and reread.
This was beyond the realm of coincidence. This had to be
some sort of a practical joke. He bad no idea who would do
such a thing, but clearly someone was trying to fool him. He
looked down the aisle one way and the other. There was a
man at the end of the aisle, near the engineering section. He
was pale and dressed all in black. Nicolas had never seen
him before.
Nicolas looked back atthe book. The cover was blank except
for the title. If this was ajoke, it was an elaborate one. The print·
ing on the cover was very professional looking. It seemed in
every way a real book. He looked again at the strange man, but
the man didn't look at him. No one else was around.
He opened the book.
Hello, Nicolas, it began, impossibly. There are things you
must know. l* have come to give you secret knowledge. You don 't
like change, but you must be ready for it. Soon, everything will
change.
He breathed heavily. He looked around. He kept reading.
Thefirst thing you must do to ready yourselffor the changes to
come is to make a phone call. Mang phone calls. Call all ofyour
relatives andfind ifany ofthem know where your niece Michelle is.
What? Why?
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 RI Oll tB CD D k

A$ if in response, the words on the page continued. You

mustdo this. You don 'tneed to understand now. When da Vind was
instructed in how to create the Shroud of Turin, he did not need to
understand how or why. He learned and he acted. That s i what s i
important. So thus he prospered.
This was too strange. Nicolas closed the book and looked
at the man. He was looking back at him with a stare that was
intense, yet impassive. He approached.
"Usually," the man said without inflection, "we ask ques-
tions. But sometimes we come bearing secrets."
"Who are you?" Nicolas asked with a quaver.
"Think of we as the angels of old, returned."
Nicolas shook his head. "So you put this book here."
"That is correct."
The man's voice was a monotone. His responses came at a
steady rate, as though mechanically, methodically produced,
with an accent that Nicolas couldn't place. He smelled of some·
thing acrid, like a kitchen cleanser. The odor made Nicolas
tense, and something within him bade him turn and leave.
"Well, I . . . I can't call anyone to ask about Michelle."
The man in black stared, his face a blank page.
"Michelle," Nicolas continued, "is dead.•
"Michelle Ryan, who was the member of the Novordodiana
organization in San Francisco?"
Nicolas scowled. "Michelle Ryan died six months ago in a
car accident. I was there. I saw the body at her funeral.•
"No,• the man dragged on in his monotone voice. "There
was a Michelle Ryan on SanFrancisco more recently than that."
"I'm telling you that that's not the case.• Nicolas shook his
head. "Not our Michelle. Maybe it was a different Michelle
Ryan."
"Michelle Ryan said she was come from WatertownSouth
Dakota." The man's voice seemed to sputter a bit now, and his
eyes began to fidget.
"Then she was lying. She was somebody else pretending to
be Michelle.• .
The man paused. "Thank you, Nicolas.•

114
 of a g ed a n ge l s

"Look, what's all this about, anyway? When did you talk to
her? How do you know her?"
The pale faced man ripped the book from Nicolas's hands.
Nicolas was totally unprepared, and it slipped right through his
fingers.
"Hey, what about the secre.t? The coming changes?"
"Thank you, Nicolas." The man turned away and walked
between the towering shelves of books. Nicolas followed.
"I don't understand. What about the secrets I needed to
know? Come back!."
The man rounded the corner into the main aisle that led
past the new books to the door. Nicolas followed, shouting
"Come back!"
Heads peered out from carrels and from behind book­
shelves. A librarian, one whose name Nicolas knew was Nancy
(though he would never call her that) walked sternly toward
him, her face smothered with angry concern. Nicolas froze.
Shouting in the horary. Evezyone was looking at him. This
was the sort of nightmare he had on nights with little sleep.
But this felt more like waking up from a dream than a dream
itself. He stopped and shook his head at the charging librarian,
mouthing a fumbling apology, but no actual words came out.
She stood within two feet and whispered sternly that he
would have to leave. He looked away from the storm that was
her face toward the man in the black coat. Was he also in
trouble?
The man was nowhere in sight.
Nicolas was kicked out of the library. He had no secrets.

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.. t
.

ililere was a buzzing in McCain's ears, like static. He

felt a little like just running away.
"Where is Luther Blisset?" The Man in Black's voice
was an unmodulated, single-note stream of quickly spoken
words without accent yetwithout real familiarity, as though
they didn't belong coming out of his mouth.
McCain looked at the thing covering the man's right
hand. It was brown and looked like some sort of insect
clothed in overlapping chitinous plates. One end had a
tail or tendril that ran up the man's arm and coiled
around it like a constrictor snake. The other end was
just a gaping black hole, as if the creature-if it was a
creature-had a large mouth that it held open. There
was something particularly frightening to McCain
about that black hole.
Jeane pulled her pistol out of her jacket.
"We have questions about Luther Blisset." The man
raised the device/creature toward Ngan with implied·
menace, though his face betrayed no emotioll.

118
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The still air, damp with the morning mist was shattered by the
sound of Jeane's .380 exploding to life. The strange man's body
jerked as if shoved, but he didn't fall-nor did he make a sound.
"Ngan, get down!" Jeane shouted.
Onlyth�n did McCain notice his old friend. Ngan stood motion·
less in front of the mysterious stranger: His body was tense but
not rigid. his bands aloft in a position that McCain had seen before
when Ngan practiced his rather unique style of martial art.
The thing. on the man's hand fired, or rather spat, some­
thing at Ngan. McCain reached instinctively for his weapon but
it was in his briefcase in the car, and the car was on the other
side of the Man in Black. Ngan's body fl.owed like water, and
bent like a blade of grass in the wind. Some small dark
object-much larger than a bullet-flew past him and landed
with a metal-tearing thud in the side of a car in the lot. Still,
Jeane leaped at Ngan to push him out of the way of the projec­
tile, acting a little too slow to have saved him if he'd not
already saved himself. She knocked him two steps to the side
and held her gun in front of her. She fired directly into the
man's chest from four feet away.
He recoiled but didn't so much as step backward. His white
shirt was torn open by the blast, and McCain saw a thick
bluish-white fluid spurt out from the hole. Ngan had been right.
This man wasn't human.
The thick Scottish mist that had hid ancient Pictish shamen,
rebellious Highlanders, and who knows what sort ofloch-dwelling
beasts, rolled in at that moment like white fingers to grab them
all. McCain knew he had to do something. He ran forward toward
their foe. &. he did, he saw.the black mouth of the insect thing
vomit forth something new. Blue fire-like a thousand discreet
bolts of lightning entwined and writhing around each other­
reached forth and connected the insect thing and the projectile
that still clutched at the side of the car. This arc of energy swung
around, flailing like a whip. Jeane ducked down, but Ngan held his
ground and his position, staring intently at the man.
McCain reached down and grabbed a rock from the gravel of
the carpark, silently reminding himself to ask Jeane how she

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got that damn gun on the plane, let alone into the UK. He threw
the rock at the man's head but it arced over and to one side. His
target didn't seem to even notice. Instead he stared intently at
the whipping energy that came closer and closer to Jeane and
Ngan. If the mist got any thicker, he wouldn't be. able to see
them, despite the fact that less than ten feet separated them.
McCain threw another rock. He felt powerless and pitiful,
like a child or perhaps even a Neanderthal meeting some
advanced being whose powers it could only explain bythinking
it some angel or demon. He missed again.
The car door, impaled with the insect thing's projectile and
now subjected to these blasts of searing current, blackened
and melted. The metal would clearly soon begin to burn.
Jeane rolled across the ground, under the whipping energy
stream. Ngan kept motionless. When Jeane slammed into the
man's legs, the energy abruptly disappeared. He looked down
· at Jeane. She looked back up and pushed herself backward
into a sitting position. Holding the pistol with both hands she
fired directly into the man's face. She fired again and again,
without stopping, until she was out of ammunition and the
man's face was nothing but a milky, bluish-white mass of
shredded flesh. Except that it didn't look like flesh-it looked
like tom plastic, the way plastic stretches and grows thin
before actually tearing.
His sunglasses shattered and fell to the ground. There was
no sign of eyes or nose any longer, but the man's mouth hung
open, spurting out liquid. His head fell backward as if his once­
rigid neck had finally snapped. His black, wide-brimmed hat
fell off revealing extremely short blond-white hair.
Wobbly but still standing, the man-the thing-took two
steps backward. McCain ran forward. As Jeane struggled to
wrest a new clip from her jacket, McCain charged into the man
with his shoulder. White liquid spattered over McCain's jacket,
but his foe was unmoved. Instead, the thing took its free hand
and smashed it into McCain's face, knocking him off his feet
and onto his backside next to Jeane. Then it moved its other
hand, the one still bound within the insect thing, and pointed

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it at the two of them. The black mouth prepared to spit forth

another cloying projectile. McCain thought he should prepare
to die but realized he didn't know what to do.
A blur flew over McCain's headjust before some taut mass
crashed into the blue-white thing that once was a Man n
i
Black. The man-thing stumbled, and the insect-thing spat its
discharge into the ground to the right of its feet. The blur­
Ngan-rolled over the top of the thing and landed in a crouch
behind it Blue electricity showered forth from the insect crea­
ture. McCain wondered if the being that was a Man in Black
was even in control of the weapon anymore. It no longer had
eyes, and if its brain was in its head it must be so bullet-ridden
i could hardly function.
t
The creature swung around to "face" Ngan. It carried with it
the stream of energy, and to McCain's horror the energy slashed
across Ngan and enveloped him. His old friend's face contorted
in agony. McCain struggled to his feet, nose pouring blood down
his face so that his mouth was full of the thick, sticky fluid. He
grabbed the creature's right arm and pulled with all his might. It
was hard, like a steel girder, but then he heard-and felt-a
snapping sound, and the creature's arm gave so that he could
pull it back and away from Ngan. The energy arc disappeared.
To McCain's left, Jeane was on her feet now. She held up
her gun, obviously reloaded, and pressed it against the thing's
back. She fired. McCain, still holding the now-limp arm, felt
the creature shudder. The semiautomatic fired rounds into the
creature until, with shudder after shudder, the rounds started
blasting out its front. Jeane, covered in bluish-white fluid,
moved the gun a few inches to the side and continued firing.
When the clip was gone, she pulled back the gun and
stepped away. McCain hardly even realized that the thing's arm
was still in his clutches. When what was once the Man in
Black collapsed to the ground, he let go.
Jeane stared at the thing as if she could do nothing but
breathe. McCain stepped around it, almost slipping in the fluid,
to get to Ngan. His body was covered in terrible welts and
burns, but he was alive.

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Alive.
McCain lifted Ngan's unconscious body but was barely able
to do so without falling over.
"Open the car door, Jeane. We've got to get him to a
hospital!"
But how would a hospital, he wondered, deal with wounds
from a weapon McCain could hardly grasp the existence of, let
alone explain?

120
 .
� ;
� i.'.

�t Ille world was black. but at least it was peaceful

and free of pain.
Then the world was a slit of white, a horizontal
gash sliced across the former blackness like a knife
wound. It was bright and uncomfortable and reminded
Ngan of his pain.
The world was black again.
Except now Ngan heard voices. This sound com­
pelled him back into the white gash, and worse, to
widen it-slowly, slowly, until the white gash became
the bluny image of a room with white walls. He lay in
a bed. Bluny versions of Jeane and Michael stood by
the bed with a man whose blur he didn't recognize.
"Ngan?" he heard. It sounded like Michael's voice,
though things were still bluny enough that he couldn't
tell which blur was speaking.
"Don't try to talk," a voice he didn't recognize said.
It had a strong accent. Scottish, Ngan believed. ·He
remained silent.

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 m ante coo k

"You're in Edinburgh," Jeane's voice said. "You're all right.

We all are.tt
Ngan relaxed. He only now realized he'd been afraid, but
he'd not known of what. Now that fear was gone. His friends
were safe. He closed his eyes again, and the world became
black. He allowed himself to drift off again, despite the sound
of more voices. ·

When Ngan awoke again, it was easier to open his eyes,

and when he did the blurs quickly formed into recognizable
shapes. McCain was there, seated in a chair and reading a
book.
"Michael,» Ngan said with a smile.
McCain smiled back. "Hey there. Good to see you awake."
Ngan stopped smiling. "You should tell me what happened."
McCain stood, put the book down on the chair, and came to
Ngan's bedside. •rt was a real mess. That creature-you were
right, by the way, it wasn't a man-tried its best to kill you, but
as you can see, it failed.n
"Thanks to you and Jeane, I'm assuming."
n
"Well, McCain replied with a frown, "we destroyed it.n
"Michael, you should know. In the carpark I was . . . while
you and Jeane struggled against it, I was attuning myself to its
spirit and its mind.n
McCain said nothing.
"I saw into it and learned what it was. It was neither man
nor animal."
"Huh?"
"If it was anytlung we have a name for, it was a machine.n
"You mean, like a robot?"
"These are clumsy and imprecise words. In Tibet, we would
say tu/pa, a sort of mental creation, but still very real. Do not
doubt that."
"So where did it come from?" McCain seemed surprised to
be the one asking the questions already.

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"They come from a world unimaginably removed from our

own-not just another planet, but another reality. That thing is
a tool made to interact with humanity. They are very different
from us, Michael, and have a great deal of difficulty communi­
cating with us in a way we can both understand. That tulpa
was as close to a human as they could manage."
Ngan stopped talking. He looked around the hospital room.
It seemed like any other, small with only the bed he was in.
The door was closed.
"Michael, are we safe here? Is it safe to be having this con­
versation?"
"As near as Jeane and I can determine, yes. You've been out
for four days now. The Institute has been trying desperately to
get hold of us, as you can imagine, butjust to play it safe we've
spoken to no one. To keep the investigation going, though, we
haven't been keeping strict security protocols-we've been
using cell phones and the Internet. We're still trying to figure
out where Luther went."
"So, we're still in Edinburgh?" Ngan asked. "Is that safe?"
"This little hospital is just outside Edinburgh, as secluded
and private as we could manage. There's been no sign of more
MIBs or any tails of any kind. Jeane's been a genius with the
local cops-we got away from the chapel quick enough, but
somebody took the hospital's report of your condition and the
'pyrotechnics' used in the fight and put two and two together for
the Edinburgh police. Jeane threw together a convincing story
about you, a hotel bathtub, and a precariously placed hairdryer.
Turns out the doctors here backed up the story by confirming
that your wounds showed signs of electrocution and nothing
suggesting any kind of known weaponry. I can't believe no wit­
ness has shown up placing us at Rosslyn Chapel-but now
maybe we can get out of here, and I can stop worrying."
"Good," Ngan relaxed a little. His limbs ached with a dull
pain. "What of my condition?"
"Well, the doctors are amazed at how quickly your wounds
are healing. What looked like some really severe bums turned
out to not be as bad as Jeane and I feared. Like I said, we told
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the doctors that you were electrocuted, and they seemed to buy
it. Apparently, it's pretty close to the truth. Whatever that
thing was, the energy it produced was at least a little like high·
voltage electricity."
"What became of the weapon, Michael? And the body?"
"Well, the body started collapsing and disintegrating right
away. It was like nothing I've ever seen. By the time we got
you in the car it was practically a puddle. Even the milky stuff
all over our clothes was completely gone by the time we found
this hospital.•
"And the weapon? It disintegrated too?"
"Um, well . . . no.•
"Where is it?"
"We got a couple of hotel rooms in Edinburgh, and-"
"You took t
i with you?" Ngan was shocked. The danger of
such a thing-they knew nothing about it.
"Yeah, Jeane insisted. We wrapped it up in my jacket,
bought a suitcase, and . . . It hasn't done anything since we've
had it, though we're pretty sure it's alive on some level. It
·

seems to be breathing.•

Edinburgh s
i a city full of ghosts and black magic-signs
fill the streets telling you so. "Ghost Tours,• "Witchery Tours,"
and various tours describing medieval torture techniques
abound. In these tours, a guide takes you around the city,
almost exclusively at night, to tell you tales of the supernatu·
ral in graveyards, spooky alleyways, and old vaults under
bridges for five pounds fifty (or thereabouts).
If he and Jeane hadn't spent all their waking time looking
for Luther, McCain might have been tempted to take one of the
tours, but eventually he decided he wouldn't be able to stom­
ach it anyway. After the things he'd actually experienced, the
idea of a spook tour seemed ultimately foolish. He imagined a
stunt pilot probably didn't think much of roller coasters for the
same reason.

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It was raining as he drove Ngan to their hotel the morning

after he'd regained full consciousness. The doctors, of course,
hadn't been happy that he was leaving, but even they had to
admit Ngan had recovered very quickly. Ngan had attributed it
to a healing meditation that his body was trained to undergo
even when he wasn't fully conscious. That was a little more
than McCain could fully accept, but he'd seen Ngan perform
some amazing feats in the past, and he certainly couldn't deny
the results. He knew that psychologically speaking, the body
could be taught to respond to the mind to aid in healing. Nev­
ertheless, he wasn't entirely convinced that Ngan should be
leaving the hospital so soon. He agreed, however, that they
needed him in their search for Luther and really probably
ought to leave Edinburgh as quickly as possible, so he helped
convince the doctors to discharge Ngan.
"We've been doing whatever we could think of,• he told
Ngan in the car, "without drawing too much attention to our­
selves. Calls to local police departments, hospitals, airports,
train stations-all using phony names and excuses to try to
find Luther. Or me, assuming he's still using my passport. Oh,
yeah. We tried to call the credit card companies to find out
where the most recent transactions were on the credit cards he
took. Apparently, the little . . . well, he bought the plane ticket
in the states and got a sizable cash advance here-in Edin­
burgh-five days ago, and that's it."
"You said yesterday that the Institute has been trying to
contact us," Ngan said, looking out at the rain-soaked streets
of the Scottish city.
"Yeah. Emails, calls on the cell phones. They want to know
where Luther is and why he missed the appointment to speak
with Dr. Nakami. That was supposed to be yesterday. They
know we're in the UK, of course."
"That means their offices here are going to be looking for
Luther as well-and for us, too."
"So isn't it about time you told us why we're hiding from
the Institute on this one? You mentioned that you think there's
a leak or that we can't trust everyone there anymore."

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 monte ca o k

Ngan sighed. "Yes, I suppose it is." He shifted in his seat

and continued, "Even before we got the assignment con­
cerning Luther, I had begun to notice things. Small things.
Oddly worded messages from various Institute personnel
that seemed to n
i dicate that they knew things about our
assignments they could not know-not unless we've been
monitored in the past without our knowledge. So I started
doing some research on my own. I found information gath­
ering reports made by other Hoffmann Institute agents indi­
cating that other agencies and organizations occasionally
seem to be in possession of knowledge that should be
unique to the Institute. I do not know if anyone else in the
Institute is aware of this or not. It is not blatant-you need
to be looking for it.
n

"And you haven't told anyone about this because you're not
sure who you can tell and who you can't.n
"Correct, I am afraid." Ngan's voice was quiet, tinged with
sadness.
"So you suspect a leak-not a sinister aspect of the Insti­
tute as a whole," McCain said, hoping that such was the case.
"Well, there seems to be some sort of secret allegiance
between the Hoffmann Institute and one or more other groups,
Michael, but I don't know how far up this affiliation goes."
"What groups?"
McCain liked the Hoffmann Institute. He liked his job and
he liked being a part of the organization. He hated to hear
these things. It was necessary, he knew, but on some level, he
really didn't want to know. Even in an organization like the
Hoffmann Institute, which was supposed to be about intelli·
gence and the truth, ignorance could sometimes be bliss.
"Secret groups that we're supposed to oppose," Ngan said
after a moment. "The Final Church. Aquarius. Perhaps others."
"Damn. They're the worst of the worst."
"Exactly."

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Jeane shut down the email program on McCain's laptop.

She'd finished reading the latest request for information from
the Institute. The day before, both she and McCain had
received email directly from Dr. Nakami, the head of the Insti­
tute, wondering where Luther was. She could see her career
crumbling before her. Jeane hated-absolutely hated-not
responding to her superiors. That sort of thing just wasn't in
her. Still, it seemed prudent. IfNgan suspected there was good
reason not to communicate with the Institute, she took it seri­
ously. She hadn't known Ngan as long as McCain had, but she
knew him well enough to trust his instincts. Ngan would never
suggest that there was a leak without good reason.
But the situation made Jeane question what the future
held. If they couldn't trust the Hoffmann Institute, then how
could they justify continuing to work with it? Perhaps the
whole mission was a bust. One glance at the suitcase near the
bed, where she knew the insectile energy thing lay, and she
remembered that no matter what, clearly someone was after
Luther, and whoever-or whatever-they were, theywere dan­
gerous and alien. As much as she disdained his company, she
felt responsible for Luther. Clearly, he needed their help and
didn't realize it. If he did, he wouldn't have left. Stupid kid.
At this point, there were only two probable situations. They
knew Luther had reached the UK, because he withdrew money
on McCain's credit card. After that he either joined up with his
,

friend and they were laying low somewhere, or the people after
him had nabbed him. After their encounter with the thing at
Rosslyn Chapel, it seemed unlikely that the alien beings had
him since the MIB had been asking about Luther.
,

Of course, there were always the Psychotech agents. It

now seemed highly unlikely to Jeane that the people who
chased her and McCain in the car back in Chicago could be at
all related to the thing that they fought in Scotland.
.
A cold chill ran down her arms when she thought about
that thing she'd been assuming was a Man in Black. Clearly, it
was no man. She could imagine; however, that such a thing
might be the product of advanced technology. In retrospect,

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 m onte co o k

she was unsure whether it was organic at all. Of course, ¢..e

thing in the briefcase certainly seemed to be alive. It seemed
to be respirating through spiracles throughout its carapace,
and it secreted some sort of sticky mucus on its underside. She
was determined to hang on to it until they could get to a lab
they could trust.
She rubbed her hands, glad to be fre·e of the bandages now
that her cuts had healed. One more day cooped up in a hotel
room incommunicado and she would go crazy. If only there was
another avenue she could take in trying to find Luther.
The day before, she and McCain had combed some of the
more "obvious" places he might be if he was still in Edinburgh.
There was a gothic-themed restaurant called the Witchery, and
a few occult bookshops, but visiting them produced no clues.
McCain even got them into an underground "occult" rave that
he found out about from a girl in one of the bookstores. Lots of
kids, lots of drugs, lots of loud techno-ambient music .mixed
with a few occult trappings. She'd found herself in a conversa­
tion with an older man about alien abductions. There was a guy
there calling himself "Luther Blisset," but it wasn't their
Luther. Apparently, the intentional anonymity of Neoism actu­
ally worked to a degree. Damn it.
Jeane wondered what Luther's friend Michelle was ike. l
Like Luther? In her imagination, Jeane decided they were
actually fairly different. Pulled together, perhaps, by mutual
loss and a shared feeling of isolation. Still, she thought, if I
found something of real interest to me, would I call Luther?
Probably only if I thought he might have something I needed­
Luther seemed to know a great deal about a lot of esoteric sub­
jects. He was clearly a smart kid. Still . . .
The door opened.
"You missed me so much you decided to hang out in my
room," McCain announced as he walked in. Ngan smiled as he
entered behind him.
"I was using your computer to check my email," she said
dryly. She turned away from him to face Ngan. "How are you
feeling? Are you sure you should be out of the hospital?"

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 of a g ed a n ge l s

"Hello, Jeane," Ngan said, still smiling. "Yes, yes. I will be

·

fine. Our main concern should be with Luther."

Jeane half-smiled and nodded.
"Perhaps, Michael," Ngan said, motioning toward the lap­
top, "we should check to see what the Institute has to say,
however."
"They're probably wondering if we've gone rogue," Jeane
said, flopping down on the bed.
"I think we have engendered a little more trust than that,"
Ngan replied.
As McCain turned on the computer, he said "I don't know.
Luther disappears, we disappear-it might look pretty bad.
Maybe we've sold him to the highest bidder."
"I can't imagine we'd get much," Jeane said, a little sur­
prised at herself for saying it out loud.
McCain laughed. "Jeane, you have to be careful-you're
getting downright funny in your old age . . . whoa! Look at
this."
He leaned in close to the computer screen. Jeane and Ngan
crowded around the machine, so that all three of their faces
pressed in closely. The screen held an email from Luther.
Jeane began reading, but the words made no sense. It
seemed to be talking about a vacation in Florida. As she read,
however, the words on the screen changed.
"Hey," McCain said, "something just opened a file on my
computer's hard drive-a program I didn't even know I had."
"The translator that Luther was talking about," Ngan said.
"The little shit snuck onto my computer and put it on here,"
McCain said.
"Don't be too upset," Jeane said. "It's working."
The message, once translated, read:

Hey dudes,
Bet you 're wondering where I am. Well, I'm going to tell you
because I want you to come here. Really big stuffgoing on. I'm in
a little backwater place called Renne le Chateau in France.
Michelle's here, but I didn 't tell her I'm sending this to you. No

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 m oate cu k

sign of the big bad Men in Black, but I get the feeling I'm being
watched orfollowed here. You gotta see what we've found. This s l
amazing shit.
Luther Blisset.

"Can this be real?" Jeane asked.

"He seems scared," McCain said.
Ngan remained silent.
"Let me check out an on-line atlas and see if I can find this
place Luther mentions," McCain said, already typing.
"We don't know this s i actually from him," Jeane said. "It
seems too good to be true. Why would he run off, then tell us
where he is."
"Luther only ran off because he wanted to go see this
Michelle and find out what she was doing, and he knew we
wouldn't let him," McCain said. "He's done that now. Remem­
ber, Luther came to us-Qr at least to the Hoffmann Insti­
tute-in the first place. He was scared then, now he's scared
again."
"And scared he should be," Ngan said. "Before, while he
was still with us, I had a sort of vision. In it I saw that Luther
had made some decision-Qr would make some decision-that
would lead to some sort of major event. I fear that the decision
may be have been going to see his friend and getting involved
in what she is doing."
"Here it is,• McCain interrupted. "Rennes-le-Ch..iteau. A
little place way south in France."
"We should go," Ngan said. "Luther needs us."
Jeane agreed, but she was worried. There was something
going on here that they didn't know about. She hated making
decisions without all the facts.
"All right, then. Off to France," .McCain said, turning to
Jeane. "Now, show me how you got that gun on the plane."

130
..t
. tltey didn't book any flights ahead of time-it was
standard procedure under security protocols to buy
tickets at the airport, using cash. This resulted in air­
port security suspicions, but as long as one didn't mind
having one's checked luggage X-rayed, it really caused no
problems. It turned out that Jeane still had a friend or two
at the ATF and wasn't stupid enough to have turned in her
ID. It wasn't easy, but theygot the weapons through. Noth­
ing to worry about, though someone at the ATF might
eventually wonder why ex-Agent Meara needed to carry a
gun from Scotland to France. This was goingto cost her at
least a pair of basketball tickets.
Unfortunately, there were no convenient flights
from Edinburgh to Paris anytime soon. Instead, they
would have to fly to London, then on to Paris.
Ngan wished there was some other way, but a train
or car-even using the Chunnel-would take a great
deal longer than they wanted. Once again, he worild
defy nature and fly.
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McCain and Jeane had bought some clothes in Edinburgh

and so actually had luggage now. They checked their bags
except for McCain's laptop and the small bag with the insect
weapon. McCain bought a large tin of crisps in Edinburgh,
emptied out the snacks, and shoved the now-sticky creature
into the can, hoping that no one in airport security would look
in it. Jeane reminded him to stick some holes in the can.
Ngan was uneasy taking the thing with them at all. It was
alien in a way that even one of the enigmatic Greys was not.
He conceded to Jeane that it seemed like a good thing to study
later, but now it might be dangerous.
In the end, of course, they brought the alien insect thing
with them on the plane.
The short flight from Edinburgh to London was trying but
ultimately uneventful. Jeane made a comment about the plane
from London to Paris being a larger one, implying that the size
of the plane might make Ngan feel differently. Clearly, she didn't
understand his feelings on such a basic level that he decided
not to try and explain that it was the unnatural act of flying­
not the relative safety of the plane-that bothered him.
During their three-hour layover at Heathrow Airport, they
found three seats together amid the crowd and settled in.
McCain excused himself to use the restroom. Ngan attempted
a relaxing meditation, and Jeane read a magazine.
Ngan's meditation was interrupted, however, by an odd
sensation. He looked around and noticed a blonde-haired
woman staring at him momentarily. She stood near a currency
exchange booth, reading a London travel guide.
When McCain returned, Ngan said softly and slowly, "I
think we are being watched. Let's move down the terminal a
bit so I can see if this is true."
Without a word the other two grabbed their things and
stood. The three of them did as Ngan suggested and stopped
near a newsstand. The crowds were thick and the hallway con­
gested. As casually as he could, Ngan looked around, pretend­
ing to still be speaking with his partners.
He saw the woman again, this time by the nearby restrooms.

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She had the look of someone trying to appear casual.

"Yes, I believe we're being followed," Ngan stated softly to
Jeane and McCain.
"MIB?" Jeane asked through clenched teeth.
"No. WIB. Woman in Beige. Blonde,• he said.
The others seemed stunned, probably at his attempt at a
joke. Ngan had to remember that he did that so infrequently
that it caught his partners off guard and probably cost them
·
some time. Finally, McCain began to laugh.
"I don't recognize her,• Ngan said, "but she seems to be try­
ing to keep an eye on us.•
"Ah, I think I see her," McCain whispered. "It shouldn't be
hard to lose her if we split up for a while. •
"We've got to get at least some information, guys," Jeane
said. "I say we confront her.•
"There are many people about," Ngan said. "I wouldn't
want to jeopardize them."
"We won't,• she replied. "I'll move around her. You two lead
her down the hall, and I'll nab her."
"Right," McCain said, nodding slightly. "We'll either lead or
herd her to you, depending on how she reacts.n
"Right,• she agreed.
All of them stood and casually grabbed their things. Ngan
and McCain wandered slowly toward the men's room. Jeane
moved quickly through the crowd, past the woman. Ngan
watched as their tail slowly moved away from the restroom
entrances. It didn't seem that she saw Jeane.
They kept moving slowly with the crowd. The woman moved
away, glancing back occasionally. Eventually, she realized that
Ngan and McCain had noticed her-now they were following her.
The woman began moving quickly away from them, but
then she stopped. Maybe she realized they were herding her.
She cut across the wide hall and moved through the crowd
away from Ngan and McCain to the other side. Ngan stopped.
McCain kept walking. He made a curving hand signal back at
Ngan, suggesting that he should circle around. Perhaps, Ngan
thought, he would find Jeane and bring her as well.

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Looking back at the woman, he saw that she'd stopped,

and was looking at him. She was reaching into her purse.
Slowly, she pulled out a cell phone. Ngan tensed. He would
have to stop her from making a call-
Suddenly, Jeane was standing next to the woman. With a
broad smile Jeane threw her arms around the woman's midriff
in a boisterous hug. Jeane said something, but Ngan was too
far away to make out what she said. In a quick motion, Jeane
guided the woman through a door marked "No Admittance."
Ngan looked �ound for McCain but didn't see him in the
crowd. He walked across the hall to the door, through the con­
tinually moving crowd. By the time he reached the door,
McCain was right behind him.
"Where's-" McCain began.
Ngan pushed the door open and grabbed McCain's cuff,
leading him in.
Beyond the door was a narrow hallway with exposed pipes
and ducts. The low hum of machinery was pervasive.
Jeane held the woman against the wall. The blonde
woman's cell phone was on the ground. Anger filled her eyes,
and she pursed her lips shut.
"Look," Jeane told her. "You're made. We've spotted you.
Go quietly and things will be easy and you won't be hurt."
Jeane let go of her as she saw Ngan and McCain come close.
"Who is she?" McCain asked.
"She won't talk." Jeane took the woman's handbag, rifling
through it quickly. The woman didn't resist. Jeane pulled out a
small card and handed it to Ngan.
It read Clarisse Duchesnois, from Paris. Ngan handed it to
McCain.
"Well," McCain said, "this is obviously fake, but it doesn't
look like the IDs we took off those Psychotech guys."
Ngan understood what he was doing. He looked at
"Clarisse" closely to see if the name Psychotech had any effect
on her. It didn't seem to.
McCain began to slide into his cool, calm questioning
mode. Ngan had watched people say things to Michael McCain

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they'd never say to someone else. People were willing to open

up to him in a way that was . . . uncanny.
"Who sent you here?" he asked.
She said nothing, looking at the floor.
"Come on, Clarisse,• McCain said. Clarisse looked up at him.
"Who do you work for?"
Still nothing.
"Well, nothing else in here,• Jeane said, "except this.• Jeane
pulled a small handgun from the bag.
"Were you sent to follow us or kill us, Clarisse?" McCain
asked.
"I have killed no one,• Clarisse said, with a thick French
accent.
"That's not what he asked,• Jeane said, the small pistol still
in her hand.
"I was not going to kill you,• Clarisse said, her gaze back
on the grimy floor.
McCain took a step closer and smiled. He raised his eye­
brows in a friendly way and asked, "Clarisse, who do you work
for? You might as well tell us. We'll find out soon enough any­
way. We might even be working for the same people.•
Ngan could see the indecision in the woman's face. He
could feel the inner conflict as something within her was bid­
ding her to speak.
"Look, you can tell us or we can look up your face on our
database and find out who you really are and who you work for
anyway. Surely you've heard how extensive our organization's
files are?"
"Then you must know," Clarisse said back into McCain's
"that the Preure de Sion brooks no interference in its
face,
affairs and will surely kill you if you proceed further.•
McCain shot a look at Ngan, and Ngan nodded. He'd heard
of them. The Priory of Zion was a European secret society
almost a thousand years old. They were linked with-
The Templars. At least something made a logical connection.
"How did you know we were going to be here?" McCain
asked her. "How did you know to look for us at all?"

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"Email does not leave Rennes-le-Chateau without our

knowing about it.•
"I see. How foolish of us," McCain said. "We should proba­
bly just go home."
Clarisse said nothing, but grimaced and rolled her eyes.
"You can call off your plastic-skinned automaton MIBs,"
Jeane said. "We've had enough of them."
Clarisse looked puzzled, glancing back at Jeane as if she
was insane. The expression seemed genuine to Ngan. Clarisse
knew nothing of the creatures. Ngan understood why Jeane
wanted to think the MIBs were the creation of some earthly
organization, but he knew the truth-they were ultraterres­
trial. Either way, however, it appeared they weren't linked to
the Priory of Zion. At least not as far as Clarisse knew.
"
"We should go, Ngan said, looking around.
"Wait," Jeane said in a very officious tone. "Miss Duches­
nois here might call her friends, or even the authorities with
some BS story to try to screw with us."
Clarisse's eyes flashed fear. She looked at the three ofthem,
perhaps for a friendly face. Ngan began to say something, but
Jeane produced a set of handcuffs from Clarisse's bag.
"Wow,• McCain said. He looked at Clarisse. "That's quite a
bag. You keep a getaway car in there too? "
Jeane looked behind her and dragged Clarisse backward
toward a door that hung slightly ajar. Jeane flipped it open with
her foot. Ngan and McCain stepped forward to see inside. It
was a small storage closet full of mops, floor polishers, and
other cleaning equipment. Jeane pushed Clarisse n i and
grabbed her arm, handcuffing it. Then she brought the cuff
around a pipe in the wall and cuffed her other hand. Clarisse
looked frightened.
"Don't worry," Jeane told her. "We're not going to hurt you.
We don't do that-we're the good guys."
Clarisse scowled at that, but her expression was short lived
as Jeane shoved a clean rag �he saw on a shelf in Clarisse's
mouth and secured it by tying another around her head to hold
it in place. "That should hold her until our plane's in the air at

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least. Someone will find her-but probably not too soon."

She walked out of the closet and closed the door. The three
of them slipped back into the terminal proper.
They waited to say anything until they were in a small
restaurant and had ordered drinks.
"Preer . . . what?" Jeane said.
"Priory of Zion," Ngan said. "Despite the name, it is not a
religious organization-not really."
"It sounds Jewish,• McCain said.
"It's not. Not even remotely. It dates back to at least the
eleventh century. By most accounts, they were behind the ere·
ation of the Order of the Knights Templar."
Both Jeane and McCain nodded. Jeane spoke. "So they've
got some connection with Rosslyn Chapel, and apparently
Rennes-le-Chateau. •
"Right," McCain said, "but not, I don't think, with Psy­
chotech or the MIBs. •
"I concur," Ngan said, nodding. He sipped the mmeral
water he'd ordered.
"But that still doesn't tell us one thing," Jeane said.
"What's the connection to Luther?"
After a moment, Ngan answered her. "We only know of one
thing that connects the two places: Michelle.•

137
4 �d suddenly you're back playing the game.
And you're losing.
It's still not clear how the game actually works,
but the young woman with very short brown hair and
large earrings is exclaiining that she's winning, and the
man with the goatee and glasses isn't contradicting
her. Instead, he seems to be re-adding the point tally on
a small scorecard.
You didn't even know they were keeping score. Nei­
ther of them is paying attention to you, so you look
around the room. The three ofyou are playing in small
room, on what appears to be a dining room table. The
chairs are comfortable, and there are only three. The
walls are white, though light wood paneling runs up
halfway from the floor. The paneling matches the trim
on the window. Through the window, you see Ngan,
who's placed himself in a trance on the plane as he flies
from London to Paris.
"It'll keep his mind offflying," you whisper to yourself.

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 of a g ed a n ge I s

You know that this is a new type of meditative state for

him. You don't remember doing this whole game thing other
than the one time before. You wonder how long it's going to go
on. This really is weird.
"Are we going to play or not?" The woman's voice brings
you back to the board. "It's your turn."
She hands you the dice.
Not again. You sigh and shake the dice in your cupped
hands. The other players stare at you until you let the dice go.
One lands on the board and shows a three. The other bounces
and rolls off the table, landing on the floor. You look at the
woman, whom it must have landed nearest. She doesn't move.
Instead, she says, "As above, so below."
You look at the guy, who nods and shrugs.
You get up from your chair and find the errant die. It's on
the floor next to the wall under the window. It shows a three.
"Told you," the woman says in a sing-song voice.
You move your playing piece-the horse with two
knights-six spaces. The space you land on says "Go Directly
to Jail."
"That's what you get for playing wrong," the man says.
"You didn't ask a question first."
"Oh, right. I . . . forgot. It's been a while."
·
They look at you as though you've just said something
crazy. You realize that to them, this game didn't stop before,
back when it seemed to stop for you and you went back to
reading.
"Don't worry," the woman says. "It's not like it's really
you're going to jail." She picks up your piece and puts it in a
space marked "Jail."
She picks up the dice. "Wait," you say. "Don't I get to go
again? I rolled doubles. Maybe I can rollwhat I need to get out
of jail."
"Nope. You lose that right when you go to jail. Now, then.
My turn." She shakes the dice. "ls Luther safe right now?"
She tosses the dice onto the table. She rolls a four arid a
one. "Five," she says. "That's the number of magick."

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Moving her pyramid-shaped piece five spaces she lands on

a square with the words "Not as safe as he thinks he is."
The young man laughs. "Nice answer," he says. "What the
hell does that mean?"
Scooping up the dice, he gets ready to roll them, but then
pauses.
"First, I'm going to buy a hotel. No . . . a church.•
He produces a tiny plastic church, a stony, Old World build­
ing, and places it on the square he currently occupies.
This game is more complicated that you'd thought.
Finally, he throws the dice on the table, and as he does he
asks, "What can be found in Rennes-le-Chateau?"
The dice show a three and four. "Appropriate," he says.
. "The number of GOO."
The woman snorts. "Which god?•
The man moves his little flying saucer piece and reads
what the space says to you and the woman. "The secrets of
God."
The woman laughs. "Like I said, which god?"
"The secrets of God?" you ask. "What does that mean?
What does any of this mean?"
"Just playthe game," the man says, his voice full of dejection.
"The answers have become really useless," she says.
You pick up the dice. "How do I get out of jail?"
"You have to roll doubles,• the woman tells you.
You get an idea. You shake the dice in your hand and let one
fall on the table, letting the other one go a moment later, toss­
ing it so hard on the table that it bounces off and lands on the
floor. They both stare at you, their mouths open.
•As above, so below,• you say with a shrug.
The die on the table is a four. You reach over and pick up
the die on the floor. It's also a four.
"You're cheating!" The woman exclaims.
"Hey, you've got to do what you've got to do in order to get
anything out of this game,• you say. "You said yourself, the
·

answers aren't coming very clear.•

They pause.

1•0
 of a g ed an ge I s

"I think that's right," the man says, pushing his glasses up
on his nose. He turns to the woman and says, •Ask about
Rennes-le·Chateau again. Let's focus and get some real
answers."
"But I want to win," she says.
"Getting answers is why we're here," he replies.
"Fine." She sighs with forced exasperation and takes the
dice in her hand. "What's in Rennes-le-Ch.iteau?"
She drops the dice on the table. 1\vo sixes makes twelve.
"1\velve, for the apostles," the man says.
She counts out twelve spaces. Her pyramid lands right in
front of you, and so you look down at the space. It says to draw
a card. She does and reads it aloud.
"The Templars knew, and now Psychotech knows, and
that's really all that matters."
"See, it's not any better," she says, rolling her eyes.
"You rolled doubles," you say.
She picks up the dice again. "Okay, how about this: What is
the Man in Black?"
Her toss si a six: a four and a two.
"The number of man," the man says.
"Enough Biblical crap, all rightr the woman complains.
She moves her pyramid six spaces and draws yet another
card. She slaps the card on the board and crosses her arms in
front of her as she falls back into her chair.
The man picks up and reads the card. "The yeti already told
you what they are. Go back to start."
The man laughs as he picks up the dice. "That pretty much
puts you out of the game. All right, my tum." He thinks for a
moment. "It seems like whatever it s i in that place keeps push·
ing us away. It keeps dancing away from our questions."
"Keep trying," you tell him.
The woman glares at you.
"How can the secrets of Rennes-le-Ch.iteau be discovered?"
He rolls the dice and counts the spaces. He reads, "The
woman in the church can tell you what you need to know."
"The church?" you ask. "Does that mean Rosslyn Chapel?"

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"There was no woman in Rosslyn Chapel,• the man says,

"it was a man-the Man in Black.•
You wonder for a moment who these two people really are.
They obviously know what's going on with Ngan, McCain, and
Jeane. You decide not to think about t i too much, because you
realize that you don't really know how you're involved in all
this.
"So it's a different church," she says. "Duh."
You slide the dice into your hand, tapping them on the
board. Suddenly, it comes to you.
It's the ultraterrestrials. They're the key, and you haven't
asked any questions about them. You think about careful
phrasing, but it seems too difficult. You decide to just ask what
you want answered, as simply as possible.
"What are the ultraterrestrials doing here?"
You roll the dice and stare dumbfounded at the result You
count the spots on the dice, which are far too numerous. One
has eleven spots, the other twelve.
"1Wenty-three?" you ask, confused.
Suddenly, the entire board changes, so that it now holds
only these words:
"They were here a long time ago, and in that ancient time,
because they had what seemed like immortal powers, they
were thought gods, demons, and angels. But they were driven
away by others who were also concerned with this world,
though they also weren't native to it. They were only able to
visit for short periods and in small numbers before, but they
returned in force in 1947, when a door was opened for them.
They are the moonchild. They are Babalon.
"Now they seek what they lost. They left something here
long ago, and they want it back. But it is well-hidden. A few
are very close to discovering it, however-and they are native
to this world and thus in great danger.•
"Damn,• the man says, slapping his forehead, "you win.•

14l
,

C. harles de Gaulle airport in Paris was a large and

confusing place. McCain was grateful that the
signs were all in English as well as French. Now if
only someone would show them signs that explained
what was going on with Luther, Psychotech, the ultra­
terrestrials . . . all of them.
They gathered their luggage. When they did,
McCain had an idea.
"I'm going to poke around here in Paris. I want to
find out more about the history of the Knights Templar
and the Priory. Don't worry. I won't blow our location.
You guys take the train. I'll rent a car and probably get
there before you. n
Ngan looked pensive. Jeane spoke up. "That's prob­
ably a good idea. I'm afraid my history is a little rusty,
and I could use a little brushing up on my knowledge of
the Knights Templar. Find out whatever you can, Fitz.
Maybe you can even find out something about this little
town we're headed to."

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 monte co o k

Ngan smiled and said, "All right, Michael, but be careful.

We know there are multiple enemies involved here, and we're
still not sure what they're after. And while you're looking, see
if you can find any references to a church in Rennes-le·
Chateau.•
"Huh?" McCain replied. A church? Where did that come
.

from?
"It's a sort of . . . hunch.•
McCain smiled. "Okay. Whatever. See you in a little while.•
Jeane held up the suitcase with the insect thing inside.
McCain had almost forgotten about that. "I'll keep this safe,·
she said.
"Good luck," Ngan said. They both headed away.
McCain walked to the exit, looking to hail a cab. He had to
wait in a line, as plenty of people ahead of him had the same
idea. The street was crowded. The last bit of afternoon sun
was beginning to fade. When he finally got in a cab, he asked
to be taken someplace where he could access the Internet.
Luckily, the cab driver seemed to understand the request and
tore off into dusky Paris.

The Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon

was formed in 1118, in Palestine. The knights were
charged with the safety of pilgrims who came to the Holy
Land and watched over the city of Jerusalem itself, pro·
tecting those things sacred to the Christian church. Even·
tually, however, the order would become known as a friend
to all pilgrims of any religion, and its members were known
to interact peaceably with Arabic and Islamic groups as
well as Christians.
In time, the order grew in size and in power. Their wealth
increased, and they used it to lend to those in need, turning a
fair profit in interest. This granted them even more power.
With this power came resentment from many quarters-not
the least of them being Pope Clement V and the king of France,

lU
 of a g ed an ge I s

Philip rv. After a few secret meetings, the Pope denounced the
Templars, charging them with heresy and devil worship. Many
of the knights were arrested when the order to do so was
issued by Philip on Friday, the thirteenth of October, 1307.
Their lands and wealth were seized.
The charges of heresy came from some rather odd rituals
and behaviors exhibited by the Knights Templar. The Templars,
according to some reports, placed a great deal of importance
upon the image of a head known as Baphomet. The kindest
tales said that the head represented wisdom. Others said that
it represented the head of John the Baptist, a figure whom they
revered greatly. A few said it was a devil they prayed to. What­
ever the truth, Pope Clement called it idolatry.
Another of the charges was that a part of the Templar ini­
tiation was to deny Christ and to defile a crucifix. Difficult to
believe of a highly religious order-yet shreds of evidence did
exist to at least suggest that their views of Christianity dif­
fered substantially from the Church and in particular, the
Holy See.
Even one of their most common symbols, two knights on a
single horse (which was intended to represent the vow of
poverty taken by the knights), was said to be a symbol,
instead, of homosexuality. The trials tainted everything the
order used or claimed as their own. Confessions of heresy and
even witchcraft were tortured out of captured knights using
gruesome and inhuman methods. Many, including Jaques de
Molay, the Grand Master of the knighthood at the time, were
burned at the stake or otherwise put to death.
Of course, not all the Templarswere caught. Many, it's said,
fled to countries not so interested in following the lead of King
Philip or the Pope. One such place was Scotland. Rumor has it
that the Order existed in secret in Scotland for manyyears after
that, and that they passed on their secrets to those who would
form the Scottish Rite of Freemasonry, including Henry Sinclair,
the Templar Grand Master and Master Mason who supposedly
sailed from Scotland to Orkney and eventually to North America
with twelve ships and two Italian navigator brothers named Zeno.

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 IR onte coo k

But some tales went further. Some said the Templars pos­
sessed more than simply the secrets of their own order, but
some grand secrets as well-some that would shake all of
Christendom. Secret scrolls with lost gospels, lost teachings,
or suppressed doctrines. But perhaps not all the order's
secrets were even Christian in nature. Their dealings with Ara­
bic groups, including the infamous Assassins, might very well
have made them privy to knowledge that other Europeans
hadn't. Such secrets, it's said, could have come from the
ancient Phoenicians originally, the Babylonians, or from times
even more ancient.
In some versions of these tales, however, the secrets the
Templars brought with them to Scotland weren't secrets at
all-but secret treasures, long since thought lost. Holy relics
of importance, ancient maps or simply vast caches of gold
from the crusades. The truth is, no one knew for sure.
McCain sipped some coffee, staring at the screen in the
little Parisian Internet cafe. So many unanswered questions.
Next, he chose to look for any references to the Priory of
Zion, assuming that he probably wouldn't find anything. He
was surprised when he came upon the text of an old French
magazine that someone had placed online.

A veritable secret sodety of121 dignitaries, the Prieure

de Sion, founded by Godfroi de Bouillon in Jerusalem in 1099,
has numbered among its Grand Masters Leonardo da Vind,
VictorHugo, and Jean Cocteau. The Order convened its convent
at Blos
i on 17January 1981 (theprevious convent datingfrom
5June 1956, in Paris).
As a result of this recent convent at Blois, Pierre Plan­
tard de Saint-Clair was elected grand master ofthe Orderby 83
out of92 votes on the third ballot.
Thi
s choice ofgrand master marks a dedsive step in the
evolution ofthe Order's conception and spirit in relation to the
world; for the 121 dignitaries ofthe Prieure de Sion are all emi­
nences grises of high finance and of international political or
philosophical societies; and Pierre Plantard is the direct

148
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descendant, through DagobertII, ofthe Merovingian kings. His

descent has been proved legally by the parchments of Queen
Blanche of Castile, discovered by the Abbe Sauniere in his
church at Rennes-le-Chiiteau {Aude) in 1891.

So it was clear that the Priory of Zion was linked to both

the Templars and Rennes-le-Chateau. Further, McCain noted
the name Pierre Plantard de Saint-Clair. Saint-Clair, or Sin­
clair, was the name of those prominently involved with Ross­
lyn Chapel, and it was Henxy Sinclair who supposedly sailed to
North America before Columbus.
Tune was quickly slipping by, and he knew there was so
much more to learn. Out of necessity, he did a search for
Rennes-le-Chateau.
More surprises came with this search.
The small village of Rennes-le-Chateau, he discovered,
lay at the center of a mystery that appeared to be at least
a hundred years old and was likely much, much older. The
mystery centered around a church (a church, McCain
noted, just ike
l Ngan said) filled with strange iconography.
He'd seen that before-it was like a theme. As if the old
angels in a church still held secrets tightly in their stone
hands.
Clues found in the church apparently led some investiga­
tors to believe that just outside of the village was the real
tomb of Christ. That he'd, in fact, faked his death on the cross
and come to what was then Gaul with Maxy Magdalene. These
researchers then claimed that the two of them had children
that began a "holy bloodline," kept secret but continued in the
royal lines of Europe. Secretly, they claimed, the kings and
queens of Europe were the semi-divine descendants of Jesus
known as the Merovingians.
Interestingly enough, these same researchers believed
that the Templars were placed in charge of protecting this
secret, and that theywere eventually destroyed by the Vatican
because the Church had decided it was no longer in it.S best
interest to allow anyone to ever know the truth of the matter.

147
 m onte· co o k

More Merovingians. More bloodline talk. And Roslin had

been the site of the cloning of Dolly the sheep-was this an
mportant
i relationship to the emphasis these people put on
genetics and lineage or just a coincidence?
McCain finished taking his notes, having printed out a
number of pertinent web pages and jotted down the high·
lights. He canceled the temporary account he created, let·
ting one of the pseudonym credit cards the Institute issued
handle the billing. By the time any of that was processed, he
would be long gone.
After a quick meal, McCain decided it was time to make
tracks for Rennes-le-Chateau and meet up with his friends,
share this information, and-hopefully-find Luther.
Obtaining a rental car was easy, and soon McCain was on
his way. The countryside outside of Paris was rolling hills­
farmland and pastures dotted with picturesque houses or the
occasional village. The deep darkness of the night prevented
him from enjoying it much. Mostly, it took on the sinister
quality that the dark unknown often creates. He told himself
that during the day it was probably very nice.
Hills and farms passed by in rapid succession. McCain tried
to keep his mind on all the research he'd done. Perhaps this
unfettered time to think would allow him to have an epiphany
about how this all fit together.
McCain had been traveling for over two hours-musing
about Templars and treasure-before he realiied that the white
van behind was following him and had been for a while. Worse,
just as he came to that realization, the van was speeding up.
He decided to try to stay ahead of it for now, and look for a
place to ditch his pursuers. He stepped on the gas and pulled
ahead. A moment later, however, the van started to catch up to
him again.
McCain accelerated. Be a part of the machine, he told.him­
self. Now he was driving at over ninety miles an hour, at least
as near as he could calculate from the metric speedometer.
·
Still the van crept closer.
"Damn," he said out loud. "That's some van."

148
 of a g ed an ge I s

The road he traveled offered no turn-offs. It was a smooth

straightaway he'd normally be happy to see, in order to make
good time. Well, he was making good time now, but he began
to wonder if he would actually reach his destination.
A check in the rearview mirror showed that the van was
very close now-just a few car lengths behind. A glance ahead
showed that the road curved around a bit to follow the edge of
a river. He wasn't sure he could handle the speed around those
curves, particularly in an unfamiliar car.

At the last minute his discretion took over, and he eased

off the accelerator as he came into the first turn. A sudden jolt
from behind proved that to be a mistake. The van didn't slow
down and slammed into him from behind. He managed to keep
control of the car and headed into the next turn. The van was
speeding up behind him again. If it hit him hard enough, he
could sail right off the embankment and into the river. To keep
this from happening, he used what little time he had before
the collision came to slide over into the other side of the road.
This might give him more maneuvering room when-
-the van slammed into him again. McCain's head flew
forward, and his body strained against the seat belt. He
swerved to divert some of the impact, but the van had come
at him even faster this time, and the wheel was lurching in
his grasp. He looked back for a moment and saw that the
impact had locked the two vehicles together. Rather than
accelerating and thrusting him off the road to his death into
the river, the van was screeching to a stop, slowing him
down as well.
When the two vehicles had slowed to about thirty, McCain
slammed on the accelerator and attempted to twist the wheel
to break free of the van. With the twin high-pitched squeals of
straining tires and metal in agony, his plan worked, but the
sudden lurch of his own vehicle sent him flying off the right
side of the road, away from the river but into a wooden fence.
The impact didn't stop him, but the angle of the impact sent the
car rolling over onto its side, and-finally-it stopped, upside
down in a cow pasture.
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 m onte co o k

Still held fast by the seat belt, McCain struggled to

maintain consciousness. His vision was blurry, and he
tasted blood, though he couldn't remember getting hurt.
Thrashing about, he finally freed himself from the seat belt
and found himself in an awkward position with his back
somehow pressed against the roof of the car's n i terior.
Before he could move any farther, his door opened and
thick, strong hands reached in, dragging him out. They
pulled him into the tall grass of the pasture, dragging him on
his backside by his arms, with his legs dangling. He started
to resist.
"Hey, what's going onr he asked the darkness. "Who are
you people?"
A familiar French-accented voice, speaking English-per·
haps for his benefit?-came from off to his left. "Do not listen
to anything he says,n the voice said.
Clarisse.
"He has a way with words-<lon't you Mr. McCain?"
A sharp blow to the back of his head never had the
chance to cause him pain before thrusting him into uncon·
sciousness.

150
 J �·.was difficult-no, impossible-for Ngan to look
at the village of Rennes-le-Chateau, shrouded in
twilight, bathed in history, and entwined amid
secrets, and not be moved. The whole mountainous area
was only lightly wooded with oak, mostly covered in
rough scrub brush, leaving plenty of bare, jagged rock
to claw upward toward the twilit sky. The place seemed
dangerous, as if one wrong move could send one
hurtling toward sharp stones and sure death. A single
winding road climbed steadily up the side of a steep hill.
They had taken the train south out of Paris to a
town called Carcassonne. There, they rented a car to
take them the rest of the way. Rennes-le-Chateau was

The village itself was

too small and too remote to have its own train station.
surrounded by defensible but­
tressesthat gave the place the feeling of a locked box, pro­
tecting something. As Jeane steered the car into the quiet
little town, with its narrow streets and old stone buildlngs
with orange rooftiles, Ngan shuddered. There were places
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 m onte co o k

of power in the world, he knew. Places in 1lbet, in the American

Southwest, Madagascar, andthe Outback ofAustralia, but none of
them resonated with more power than this place.
Rennes-le-Chateau was a community whose inhabitants
numbered in the hundreds. Except for the occasional car or
more frequent motor scooter, it seemed a place trapped in the
past like a fly in amber. Ngan imagined that it probably didn't
appear much different a hundred years ago. They made
arrangements for rooms in the Hotel la Tour, a handsome
gabled villa that was once, they were told, the presbytery of
the nearby church. They ate dinner in a small but welcoming
place called the Pomme Bleue. Jeane used a French phrase­
book she bought at the airport to describe Luther to a few of
the people they met and asked if they'd seen him. The people
were courteous, but none of them were able to offer any help.
"I think this might have been a set-up," Jeane said as they
finished eating. "I don't think Luther's actually here. It might
not have even been him who sent the message."
"You maybe right, Jeane, but as of now, I believe Lutheris here."
"Then it shouldn't take us long to find him. This place isn't
very big."
"I believe we'll find him soon."
"I wish I had your optimism."
"If not Luther, then who. Who do you expect to find here?
Who do you think brought us here?"
"The Priory of Zion seems like a good candidate," she whis­
pered, looking around. "Especially after our encounter with
'Clarisse.' "
Ngan nodded thoughtfully. But Clarisse had said they moni­
tored communication out of the town. He believed, at least then,
that she was sincere. It didn't sound like they'd sent the message.
Perhaps they'd used it, however, to trace it to the one who did.
"Perhaps," Ngan said, "they have Luther in their custody."
"I hadn't thought of that," Jeane nodded. "If they have him,
we're going to need to find out more about them before we can
·

hope to get him back."

Ngan nodded again, and smiled. "But I don't believe that to

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be the case. I think Luther is safe-though he may be in dan·

ger soon. That is why we must find him.•
Jeane looked around. "Ngan, I feel like we're beingwatched.•
"Indeed. This place makes me feel uneasy as well.•
"No, Ngan-it's not the place. I really think someone's
watching us. I think this whole little village might be a trap-­
probably under the control of the Priory."
Ngan bit his lower lip. The place had a palpable aura about
it. Not sinister-not exactly. It was like nothing he'd ever
experienced. It was as if the very stones held some sort of
secret they would never relinquish.
It bothered him a little, though, how quickly Jeane was to
adopt new enemies. She'd only just learned of the Prioxy of
Zion and its possible involvement, and now she seemed pre­
pared to see them waiting around evexy comer.
"And Psychotech?" he asked her.
She shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe they work with
the Prioxy. Maybe they're enemies. We just don't know, but I
want to try to find out.•
Ngan didn't bring up the ultraterrestrials. Jeane seemed to
need to have a more concrete foe to maneuver against.
As they walked out onto the now-dark street, a young man
on a bicycle fumbled with a small radio he had mounted on the
handlebars. It played nothing but static.
Something flashed in the night sky. Jeane looked up, and
Ngan followed her gaze.
"It can't be," she whispered.
A bright light moved quickly across the starry sky. '.fhe
man on the bicycle rode off without looking up or at them. It
seemed to Ngan, as he lowered his gaze to watch him, that he
pedaled away in slow motion. As if time slowed.
And suddenly the man and the bicycle were gone. Ngan and
Jeane stood on the street staring at each other. There was no
light in the sky-it seemed, in fact, as if there never was.
"Did you . . . ?" Jeane's question trailed off, unfinished.
"Yes. It was as though time stopped for a moment, or per·
haps as if we stopped in time.•

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Jeane breathed heavily. "That's what it felt like to me, too.

Sort of."
Ngan looked around. Evecything was in the same place, though
the man on the bicycle was gone and a light was on in the building
across the street-where he'd specificalremembered
ly itbeing dark.
"The Institute files are full of things like this," Ngan said,
thinking out loud.
Jeane nodded. "I've seen some of them.;,
"Strange objects falling from the sky. Tuads found embedded
within trees. Lightningforminginto balls and floatinginto people's
houses. People unintentionally transported halfway across the
world. All of this-it is as if sometimes reality . . . hiccups."
Jeane began walking back to the hostel.
"When you encountered the ultraterrestrial at the airport in
Chicago, it snowed," Ngan stated.
Jeane stopped and stared back at him.
"When you had your experience at the office, you said you
felt weightless for a while. As if gravity had been affected.•
Jeane nodded. "And there was a . . . thing in the air duct."
Ngan motioned acceptance, but he believed that was actu­
ally something else-a creation of the ultraterrestrials like the
insect-weapon they'd captured.
"When we dealt with the creature n i Scotland, the mist
moved in so thick-at least from what I remember before
fading into unconsciousness-that we could hardly see.•
"And so you're saying . . ."
"Ultraterrestrials are not just alien to us. They are alien to
this entire reality-the things we call the laws of physics, the
standards that we depend on like weather, gravity, even time
itself. I think they disrupt these things with their presence. The
world, quite literally, does not know how to act around them."
Jeane looked around. Her body tensed. •Are you trying to
say you think they're here?"
"I don't know. But perhaps it's here that we'11 learn why the
ultraterrestrials are interested in Luther.•

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The next morning, Jeane ruminated on her low-frequency

sound wave theory from just a few days before, back in
Chicago. It was still an interesting theory, and it seemed to
suggest a link between Psychotech and the strange experi­
ences, but the fact that the true "bad guys" involved now
seemed to be the Priory of Zion conflicted with the theory.
Things were complicated. It seemed like there were three
forces involved ("involved" meaning "after Luther"): the Priory,
Psychotech, and the things Ngan liked to call ultraterrestrials.
As they drank coffee and shared a light breakfast bought at
a small bakery, Jeane said as much to Ngan.
"In the time we spent together, I did my best to establish
an empathic link with Luther, " Ngan said. "With that
empathic link, I attempted to use meditative techniques to
better understand his situation, and who was 'after' him, as
you said. I learned that while it seemed like three, there were
actually only two interests focused on him.•
"Really?" Jeane felt herself caught up in what he was say­
ing, even though a small part of her rebelled at the idea of
investigation through mediation. Still, she couldn't deny the
fantastic things she'd seen Ngan accomplish. "How could that
be, though? Luther doesn't know who's after him."
"Yes, I know that. I also believe, as strange as it may
seem, that Luther is able to process information in a very spe­
cial way. He can absorb details with an accuracy of which his
own conscious mind is unaware. He spoke of being able to
process information in a binary, rather than linear fashion."
"What does that mean?"
"I am not completely sure. I think, however, that it might
be Luther's way of expressing his special ability-his
attunement with his surroundings. Luther is in touch with
something much larger than himself.•
"But what is it?"
"I don't know yet, but I'd like to find out."
Jeane didn't know what to think of that.

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"Which would the two be, then?" she asked. "We know the
are after him. Whatever they are, they got
'ultraterrestrials'
to him before we did, and the MIB at Rosslyn Chapel asked
about him."
Ngan nodded.
"And we know those people we presume are with Psy­
chotech were after him, since they followed us in the car and
were staking out wherever we took him. Even, t
i seems, our
homes." She remembered one more thing. "And the Psy­
chotech chip planted on Fitz. Yes . . . they're definitely after
him. Thatjust leaves the Priory of Zion.•
Ngan nodded again, this time more thoughtfully.
"But,• Jeane continued, "if they're not after Luther, then
their involvement must be centered around . . .•
"Michelle," they both said atthe same time.
"Perhaps," Ngan said, "we should be looking for her rather
than him."
Easier said than done. "We don't know anything about her.•
"Luther said she was interested in the Templars, 'old
school' magic, and other medieval things."
Jeane looked around. "She came to the right place. I see where
you're going, though. Let's see if there are any places around here
with Templar connections. It worked for finding Rosslyn.•
Of course, she reminded herself, they had no actual proof
that Michelle had been there, only that it was the most obvious
place in Scotland for them to look. On the other hand, the MIB
certainly seemed to believe that Luther would be there.
She remembered something else. He'd said something else
while in the chapel. It was here, or something like that. Unless
he had a very strange way of referring to Luther as an "it,"
which she supposed was possible, but unlikely.
The whole thing made her remember something more. Fitz
was supposed to have arrived by now.
"Do you think Fitz is all right?" Jeane asked as she sipped
her coffee.
"I expected Michael to arrive some time last night, but I'm
not sure we should start to worry just yet.•

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"He could have arrived last night. He bad no way of know·

ing where we were staying,• Jeane added. "Of course, it's not
like there's so many different options in a town this size."
'Tm surewe'll find him today;" Ngan said with a reassuringsmile.
Jeane wasn't entirely reassured, however. Her instincts
told her that something was wrong. Despite security protocols,
it seemed to her that McCain would have used his cell phone
to locate them or to tell them he would be late.
They went out into the street, leaving the lofty bakery aroma
behind them. The air was cool and dxy. The sky was a hazy blue.
Ngan approached a dark-haired man holding a small boy's hand as
they walked down the street. Both were dressed in short sleeves.
"Excuse me, is there any place around here with important
historical connections?" Ngan asked the man.
"Historique? Oui. Do you . . ." he said slowly in accented
English, "Do you mean the church? Eglise de la Magdaliene?"
"The church," Ngan said, nodding with a gleam in his eye.
"Yes. Could you direct me to the church?"
The man looked at Ngan like he was an idiot. He pointed at
the small church next to the hotel. •And also the Tour Mag­
daia," the man said, pointing in another direction.
Following the man's hand, Jeane saw that on the opposite
side of the hotel from the church, a small tower rested at the
edge of the village and the edge of a cliff overlooking the coun­
tryside. It clung there precariously, yet clenched the rock tightly,
impassive and immovable. Jeane noted the place-it seemed old,
but not as old as some of the other buildings in the village,
strange because it resembled something from the Middle Ages.
In short order, they reached the church. It wasn't large
and in fact could be considered plain. A meager, dreary grave­
yard stretched out behind and around it on one side. A bell
tower stood above most every other building in town. Accord­
ing to a sign, the church had served as a chapel for the now
ruined castle from which the village took its name. The win·
dows were stained glass and glinted in the sunlight with a
multicolored glitter. Jeane and Ngan came closer, and
approached the front door.

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In the lintel about the door, a number of Latin inscriptions

had been incised around a statue of Mary Magdalene. At her
feet, it said, "Terriblis Est Locus Iste"
Jeane took a little Latin long ago. It was more than enough
to read this.
"This place is terrible," Jeane translated.
Ngan nodded.

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 J
.

t w�sn't so much the words that were confusing, it

was that the question was being asked by Abra­
ham Lincoln.
McCain sat on a stool. It was the kind of stool thatwas
round, had no back, and you could easily spin-covered in
red vinyl. It was the kind of stool McC.ain remembered from
a particular lunch counter he'd been to when, as a small
boy; he got to go to work with his father. It didn't happen
often, but the memories were strong. There was no lunch
counter now, though. no black-and-white tile floor, and no
waitress. Everything around him was pure darkness.
"Michael," an unfamiliar voice came from out of the
darkness. It was a rough voice, aged but solid.
McCain turned around and around on his stool but
saw no one.
"Yes?" McCain asked.
A figure walked out of the darkness with a slQw,
steady gait. He was tall and pale, with rough skin and
a beard, and he wore a black suit.

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"Michael McCain," Abraham Lincoln said, "why are you

here?"
"I don't even know where here is, sir," McCain replied, staring
up into the historical president's face-a face he'd only ever seen
in movies, books, the five dollar bill, or on the huge statue in his
monument McCain was a little in awe, but mostly confused.
"What are you doing in France, son?" Lincoln asked.
McCain looked around. "We're in France?"
Lincoln shook his head disapprovingly. He closed his eyes
and sighed his disappointment. His hands, clutching his tall,
black stove-pipe hat, tightened a bit.
McCain tried to get hold of himself. He couldn't really be
talking to Abraham Lincoln. This didn't feel like a dream, but
that was the only explanation. Still, it felt bad to disappoint
this historic figure. Lincoln was a boyhood hero of his, and
even if he weren't, the man standing in front of him com­
manded both respect and loyalty.
Lincoln turned and walked into the darkness.
"Wait, uh . . Mr. President?"
.

It was too late. He was gone.

McCain spun in the stool. He thought for just a moment
that he should get off the stool and run after President Llncoln,
but something told him he shouldn't
Or was it that he couldn't? It was hard to tell. In any event,
McCain remained seated. He thought about how thirsty he was
and how he would order a root beer float at the lunch counter
with his father. His father would order coffee, except that one
time he also ordered a root beer float.
McCain heard footsteps. They were approaching, and it
sounded like more than one person. Hard shoes against tile.
Black-and-white tile? Was this the lunch counter with the
lights all off? There seemed to be a small light around him. He
looked down and saw himself, the red of the vinyl seat cover,
and yes . . . the black-and-white tile of the floor.
Three men walked toward him. Their blond hair and dark
clothing made them look like some sort of Aryan march, he
thought. Behind them, however, floated something McCain

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could barely see. It was swirling-almost amorphous-two or

three feet across, and mostly round.
As the men came near, McCain said, "Hello,• in a small
voice.
His vision got a little bluny, and he wondered for a moment
if he was drunk. He could feel the effects of something like
alcohol. The men didn't answer but instead walked right by
him on the stool, almost close enough to touch. The object that
followed them was like a balloon on a tether, but as they
passed McCain could see enough of it to realize what it was. It
was the sun, swirling with energy and light, except that it was
all dark. A secret sun, an invisible sun.
The sun whispered to him in a language not his own-but
McCain could understand the words.
"When they sent you here, did you know anything about
what you were getting into? Did they brief you about what you
would find before you left?"
"Who?" McCain replied to the sun.
The sun stopped, and the three men disappeared into the
darkness at McCain's back. The black sun gave off no heat, but
it seemed to absorb his instead. He was cold.
"The Hoffmann Institute," the sun replied in a conspirator­
ial tone.
McCain's mind swirled, and it was difficult to see. "I don't
know what you're talking about," he managed to get out.
Another voice echoed from far away, indicating to McCain
that the room he stood within was vast. "It's no secret that you
work for the Hoffmann Institute, Fitz." He couldn't place the
voice but it bothered him that the person had called him "Fitz"
with such a casual tone. Mocking he could take. Familiarity
bothered him.
He looked around. The sun had faded completely away.
Something shambled out of the darkness, slowly, as if each
step was an agony. McCain saw a glint of black-blue, as if
something was glistening darkly. .
"It's no shame to admit that you work for the Hoffmann
Institute, is it Fitz?" the voice said, closer now.

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McCain felt it grow chill, and it seemed that the darkness

grew closer, constricting around him. The glistening shape
took on a form barely visible in the darkness. The thing
appeared to be a man, stooped over and bloated. In fact, how­
ever, he saw moments later that it was no man-nothing
human at all. It was covered in a complex, shiny quiltwork of
beadlike scales. Its fingers were long and webbed, its chest
thin and tight with its flesh clinging to rib bones. Its stomach
was bulbous. Its arms hung down to its knees, but its legs
were short and stubby. Protruding, fishlike eyes glistened in
the light with no source, positioned on the sides of its long,
narrow head.
"What the hell?" McCain sucked in his breath.
"Nommos," the creature said with the voice he'd heard
before.
"What?"
"Do your masters at the Hoffmann Institute know about
Rennes-le-Chateau?" The creature's mouth slid unnaturally
across its wide jaws as it spoke, as if in a parody of chewing.
It raised one of its webbed, clawed hands and took a step
closer.
McCain rolled his head back in revulsion. The creature
stank of brine. "They will,• he said, taking a moment to choke
back bile, "when I tell them all about it."
"That won't do, Fitz," it said with slippery jaws.
"Go to hell," McCain shouted.
He was angry now. His head was clearing, and he saw that
he was being interrogated here. He just wasn't sure why it was
by a fish man.
As if it knew what he was thinking, the creature said, "The
first of the Merovingian kings, Merovee, was said to have been
sired by an amplubious manlike creature from the sea. Accord­
ing to legend."
"Yeah, so what's with these Merovingians, anyway? Why
are they so important?"
"I'll ask the questions, Fitz.•
"Is it that whole bloodline of Jesus thing?"
18�
 ef a a ed a n ge l s

The fish thing just stared at him, which was as wmerving

a thing as had ever happened to him. Its cold, moist eyes held
no life, yet still managed to bore into him like a drill.
·rm not talking to you," McCain finally said.
An outline appeared around the creature, rectangular in
shape. Within, and seemingly behind it, everything became
white light. The fish being took on a slightly different appear­
ance in this light. It seemed flat, as if on a screen.
With a sudden flicker the white rectangle changed to dark
green, and when itdid the creature disappeared with the white
light. In the upper left comer of the dark green area, a small
yellowish-white box blinked. Appearing on the screen next to
the box, a letter at a time-as if someone was typing-McCain
saw the name •Luther Blisset."
This was followed by the question, also appearing one let­
ter at a time: "Who is this?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," McCain shouted
at the screen.
A pinch in his arm made him look down, but he saw noth­
ing amiss. Still, he could feel something poking him. Pricking
him and filling him with a cool sensation. Almost immediately,
his head began to float around the dark room. He could no
longer feel the stool underneath him-he was flying high
above it now. But the screen was still in front of his face.
•Who is Luther Blisset?" it read.
"You mean you don't know?" McCain said in a conversa­
tional tone. He could hear bis words slur a little, which was
strange since he 'didn't mean to say them like that. "You must
be the only ones."
The cursor seemed to blink angrily at him.
"Tell us . . ." the screen showed.
"Go to hell," McCain said.
". . . who Luther Blisset is . . .• the words read as they
appeared.
McCain said nothing.
". . . or you will die,• the screen finished.
"He's just a friend of mine, that's all,• McCain found

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himself saying. A small voice far below him, though it was

his voice, said "Shut up! Don't tell them anything."
McCain waved dismissively downward. "It'll be all right,•
he said softly.
"What s i Luther doing in Rennes-le-Chateau?" The words
on the screen asked.
"Just visiting,• McCain said with a smile. The small voice
half-sighed, half moaned beneath him. "You're so doped up you
can't do anything right," the voice said.
"Doped up?" McCain said out loud.
To a part of him that made perfect sense. It was something
he realized before the prick on his arm. But to another part of
him-the part that seemed, unfortunately, to be in control-it
made no sense. And talking fish-men and black suns and giant
computer screens did.
"The Masons made me do it," McCain said, thinking to him­
self (at least a part of him was) that it was hilariously funny.
"The Masons? Which Masons?" appeared on the screen.
"I dunno. Whichever. Maybe it wasn't them-it was . . .
Psychotech!" He felt so clever.
There was a pause, and the screen went blank. "You work
for Psychotech?" appeared on the screen.
Even in his addled state, McCain realized it was significant
that his questioners knew who Psychotechwas. The small part
of him buried deep below was amazed that his clumsy, childish
ruse actually yielded something valuable.
"I dunno," McCain said again.
"Psychotech will not succeed," someone or something
typed.
" Uh good," he replied.
,

The screen faded altogether. He could hear voices in the

distance, tantalizingly inaudible, like when his parents would
talk to his teacher in school and he had to stand out in the hall.
But then the darkness that he swam in became lighter, and he
could hear distant words. Most of them were in French. He did
managed to hear one voice say in English, "I know he's resist­
ing, but if you give him more it'll simply kill him."

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He was probably supposed to hear that, he thought.

And he was moving. A door stood closed before him, brown
in color, with the number twenty-three on it as if it were an
apartment. He stopped in front of it, though he could see noth­
ing else-not even his own body-<>ther than the door. The
door opened.
Behind the door, in a small, stark room that smelled of
stale coffee, sweat, and blood, stood three men. All of them
wore grey·or black uniforms. Two had arm patches with
swastikas on them. One of them held a tool that looked some­
what like pliers. They all stood around a chair equipped with
brown leather arm and leg straps.
"Nazis?" McCain asked. "C'mon. Too easy."
They froze in place, except for one. The Nazi in the middle
was an older man with short, neat white hair and crystal-blue
eyes.
Erwiihlen.
His smile was enigmatic-his eyes shone with a secret. A
single eyebrow raised, creasing his already lightly wrinkled
face. He touched the brim of the black cap that completed his
Gestapo uniform. "Be seeing you,• he said with a thick accent.
After a single beat, then, all the Nazis vanished, leaving
only the stark room. Even the chair was gone. There was
another door opposite the one that he stood (actually, he still
felt like he was floating} in front of and looked through.
Damn.
The other door opened, and a woman came through. He
didn't recognize her at first, but that was because he was used
to seeing her dress more glamorously, at least in pictures. She
died before he was born.
It was Marilyn Monroe.
She was wearing a fairly ·simple early sixties-style house
dress. Her movements were graceful and fluid, her features
more delicate in person than they seemed in old movies.
McCain noticed that she resembled Jeane somew:hat in
the face if not the hair. He wondered if they did that to him
on purpose.

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"Jack, why did I have to die?" Marilyn pleaded.

Ouch. That hurt. Did that mean they knew about him,
McCain wondered, or was it just because of the physical
resemblance?
He started to answer her. "Look, I'm not . . ." and he
stopped. Something was wrong. McCain tried to focus. He dug
down deep within him to find the little buried voice".
"Please, Jack, won't you tell me just that? Don't I deserve
to know that? Everyone thinks it was a suicide, but you know
better, don't you? Tell me, Jack." She looked as if she would
break down in tears at any moment. Her knees began to
buckle.
McCain began to answer her, "You see, Marilyn-•
"No. You're trying to do something to me. This isn't what it
appears, damn it. I know it•
Marilyn steadied herself, drew a pistol from her handbag,
and shot Michael McCain dead.

188
 l t didn> feel like a church. Jeane expected the
church of St. Mary Magdalene to remind her of
Rosslyn Chapel. It didn't. The feel was very differ­
ent-it seemed almost a mockery of the religion it was
supposed to represent.
The church was small, but full of various ornate
i onography. A great deal of money and effort wentinto its
c
creation. Just inside the door, Ngan and Jeane were greeted
with the sight of a demon painted dark red. The lµdeous,
hunched creature was waist-high and held up the holy
water stoup. Jeane caught her breath, which only seived to
remind her of still-present pain from the welt on her chest
Fortunately, the cuts on her hands no longer hurt at all.
Like Rosslyn Chapel, everywhere Jeane looked
there was ornamentation. Unlike that other. chapel,
however, this place was covered in paint and gilding.
The interior was cramped and crowded. Statues and
paintings were everywhere, flamboyantly-even ·vul­
garly-decorating the tiny place.
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An old woman was in the church, and appeared to be pray·

ing at the altar. Jeane and Ngan, attempting to be respectful,
were quiet, and roamed independently around the small cham·
ber, admiring the many details. Ngan moved to examine
another statue of St. Magdalene, and Jeane went to peruse the
fourteen stations of the cross, prominently displayed around
the walls of the church. Jeane was no expert, but some of the
images portrayed seemed odd. It seemed difficult for her to put
her finger on it, but, for example, one plaque showed people
looking up at the crucifixion. One of the men standing there,
looking at Christ on the cross, was wearing a kilt. That seemed
strange to her.
Once she made her way to the front of the church, Jeane
looked at the altar where there were statues of Mary and
Joseph-both holding a baby Jesus. That too, seemed unlike
anything she'd seen before.
The old woman, her hair thin and white, stood with her
back to them near the altar rail. Her dress was grey, though it
might have once been white. Her skin was tightly drawn
against her face and neck, as weathered and grey as her dress.
At first Jeane thought the old woman was getting ready to
kneel at the altar. She did not. Instead, the woman was lost in
thought.
"Excuse me," Jeane said to her, hoping she spoke English.
"Could you tell me what that is?" She pointed at the red devil.
The woman's eyes sparkled with life, but her face showed
little expression. "Ab, yes," the woman said. "That is
Asmodeus. He is . . . the devil that guards secrets, yes?"
Jeane's mouth dropped open a little.
And this didn't seem strange to anyone? The devil that
guards secrets right there at the door to the church?
"Of course," she continued in a light accent, "some people
say it merely represents the power of God over that of evil.
King Solomon, be bested Asmodeus and forced him to guard
his treasure."
"You seem to know a great deal about it," Ngan said;
coming over to join them by the altar rail.

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"You should talk to my mother."

Jeane hoped the shock she felt wasn't evident in her face.
This woman's mother? She would have guessed that the
woman standing in front of her was at least seventy-five.
"Does she know much about this church?" Ngan asked her.
•As much as· anyone, eh," she said.
"Could we speak to her?" Ngan asked. "My name is Ngan
Song Kun'dren, and this s i Jeane Meara. We are researchers
looking for information about the church."
"It might be difficult. She has only her . . . moments. The
rest of the time she is not so good. And she does not speak
English," the woman said.
"We don't want to impose," Ngan said.
"But," Jeane added, "we would really like to speak with her.
We're eager to learn more."
She wished McCain were here. He could smooth talk his
way in. She wasn't goingto let Ngan's politeness lose this lead,
however.
"We don't want to be a burden, but if we could talk to her,
even for a moment . . ." Ngan said.
"Perhaps I take you there and translate what you say. You
seem like good people. My name is Lily Cochet."
Ngan smiled. "Thank you, Lily."

The house was simple, but comfortable. It smelled of flow­

ers, but there was a hint of medication in the air. Ngan knew
as he entered the place that Lily's mother was most likelyvery
ill. There was an aura here that reminded him of the hospital
in which he'd just spent a few days. The feeling made him feel
weak, and he attempted to suppress t i.
Lily, who had gone in first while they waited outside, let
them in. She led them through a sitting room with walls filled
with family photographs, religious paintings, and a large cru­
cifix. A small shrine to the Blessed Virgin sat on a table. She
brought them into a dimly lit room occupied mostly by a large

169
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bed. In the middle of the bed, wrapped in blankets, was a

woman so small it seemed as though the bed would swallow
her. Her eyes were partly open, but her vision was likely quite
poor. Ngan didn't feel as though the elderly woman actually
focused on any of the figures standing at her door.
"This is my mother, Cendrine Cochet."
"Bonjour," Cendrine said weakly, but with a genuine smile.
She raised a frail hand and beckoned for them all to come
into the room. Lily sat on the bed, and Ngan and Jeane settled
into a small, velvet-covered bench next to it, both of them
barely fitting together.
By the time they wer� situated, the old woman's smile
became a faraway expression, as if she was smiling at some­
thing long ago, or lost, and not really at Ngan.
"We've come to ask you a few questions about Rennes-le­
Chateau and the church here," Jeane said in a loud voice. Lily
translated this to Cendrine. She smiled, and spoke, and Lily
translated that as well.
"She says she knows a little." Lily smiled.
"Have you lived here long?" Ngan asked.
Lily translated Ngan's words, and the reply. Clearly, she
knew how long her mother had lived here, so she must be
translating everything literally as a courtesy. But Ngan didn't
know if it was a courtesy to him or to her mother.
"I was born in a village not far from here. I moved here a
few years after Father Sauniere's death."
"Father Sauniere?"
Now the old woman's smile broadened, as if it was dragged
into the present. Without a translation, she asked something in
French. Lily related it to Ngan and Jeane. "You do not know the
story of Cure Sauniere?"
"I am afraid not," he said, attempting to partake of her
good humor.
The old woman shook her head. Lily translated what she
"
said next. "It is a long story . . . it was a long time ago. When
she spoke this, Cendrine's eyes began to close, as if she was·
fading away while Ngan watched.

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 of I I ... I A .. I a

"We would like to hear about that, ma'am,• Jeane said, a

little too loudly.
"She used to go to the church every day," Lily said. "Now I
go for her."
"To pray?" Ngan asked her.
Lily translated this to Cendrine. She replied: "To remember.
To wonder at the truth, yes?"
Ngan said nothing, but instead stared into the old woman's
eyes. He felt that even in her tired, failing body, Cendrine was
still full of girlish wonder and curiosity. She began to speak.
Lily related her words as she did.
"Father Berenger Sauniere," Cendrine began slowly,
"became the new parish priest at Rennes-le-Chateau in 1885.
He was local and showed a great deal of promise. The commu­
nity liked him, I'm told, when he first arrived. Six years later,
while doing renovations to the church, the cure found four
parchments concealed in a pedestal in the sanctuary. 1\vo of
these were lineages, and two were religious texts. But
Sauniere was a very bright man. It didn't take him long to dis­
cover that the texts concealed encoded messages. Soon after­
ward, Father Sauniere came into a lot of money and began to
interact with not only dignitaries and high-ranking church offi­
cials but members of the French occult circles of the time. It
was quite a scandal.•
Cendrine smiled. "I met Father Sauniere. In a way. He was
dying. I told you, I' have always lived here. The people of
Rennes-le·Chateau saw what was happening. Everything that
I am telling you is the truth.•
"Please, go on," Ngan said, sitting next to her. "We do not
doubt you."
Lily said, "The story is a difficult one to believe. It's
strange. I think that is why she hesitates.•
After a moment, Cendrine began to speak again.
"The cure also purchased copies of three paintings. One of
these, by an artist named Nicolas Poussin, is known as Sb,ep·
herds of Arcadia. This painting shows an old tomb with Rennes­
le-Cbateau-well, at least the area-in the background.

171
 moote co a k

On the tomb in the painting, it says, Et in Arcadia Ego. The

print is still in the tower.•
Ngan whispered, almost to himself, "Et in Arcadia Ego? 'I
too have lived in Arcadia . . . '? Latin."
"But what does it mean, ma'am?" Jeane asked.
Ngan remembered the chair in Rosslyn with the inscription
"Into Arcadia."
" Arcadia, Ngan said, "refers to essentially any pastoral,
' '

peaceful, rural environment The name is Greek but has taken

on a less specific, more subjective meaning. It's more a concept
than a place and could be anywhere. What would Father
Sauniere consider 'Arcadia'r
"No one knows," was the answer.
"No one?" Jeane asked.
"Well, no one who will tell Cendrine."
Ngan heard her say her own name amid the French words.
She was trying to be humble and funny by referring to herself
in the third person. Jeane flushed. Ngan wished she wouldn't
interrogate the woman like a criminal. They were fortunate to
have her speaking with them at all
"I'm sorry," Jeane told her. "Please continue."
Cendrine smiled. "At this time, Father Sauniere was known
to be spending vast sums of money renovating the church, and
building himself a large home. He put in the statues, the
inscription over the door-everything in our odd little church.
He also had the town fortified as if for war, and built the Tour
Magdaia, a tower dedicated to Mary Magdalene."
"Strange," Ngan said. "It seemed as if he'd learned some
secret. And perhaps that secret made him afraid. Do you know
what he was afraid of?"
Cendrine shook her head at hearing the translation of
Ngan's words. Then she answered. "Not exactly. In his spare
time, Father Sauniere searched the countryside around
Rennes-le-Chateau and was said to be particularly interested
in rocks. He defaced a gravestone outside the church whose
inscription included the words, Et in Arcadia Ego. It was· the
grave of Marie de Negre, last of the Blanchefort line"

172
 of a g ad an ge I s

Her eyelids began to sink low, and Ngan could see that
she'd not actually finished that last sentence. Lily finished it
for her in the translation. She caressed her mothers arm, and
smiled at Ngan and Jeane. Suddenly, however, Cendrine's eyes
came open again, and she continued.
"Eventually, with all of this strange behavior, the cure was
dismissed by the bishop in Carcassonne.• Cendrine shook her
head, and lowered it-but then raised it back up. "But, then
something very strange happened. Father Sauniere was imme­
diately reinstated by an order straight from the Vatican.•
"Does she know why?" Jeane asked.
Cendrine shook her head.
Her reply was: "When he lay dying, the priest who heard
his final confession-my uncle-refused him absolution. I do
not know what he said in that confession. Of course my uncle
would not tell me, but it must have been something very, very
bad. It saddened him for months afterward. He never spoke
Father Sauniere's name again. They had been good friends.•
Ngan began to wonder if they had outstayed their welcome.
"I am a simple woman. I always have been. I spoke with
Marie Denarnaud, the cure's housekeeper, but when I did I was
but a simple girl. I don't have the answers to all of these mys­
teries. I have lived among them for eighty years. I do not know
what Father Sauniere found, but I know he found something.
Something that frightened him, but nevertheless he used it, or
the threat of it, to further himself.•
Cendrine said something more, sothat Lilyhadto translate fur­
ther. "Do not think him a bad man, for I don't believe that is true.
He was simply a man put in vezy, very strange circumstances."
"What did the housekeeper say when you spoke with her?"
Jeane asked.
Lily translated, but Cendrine didn't answer right away. She
closed her weary eyes and sank even deeper into the bed. Ngan
looked at Jeane, who stared at Cendrine, still waiting for an
answer. He looked to Lily, who silently shrugged. .
F'mally, Cendrine spoke in a weak, halting voice. The transla­
tion was this: "She was a closemouthed woman-very protective
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 m oote coo k

of her employer. Even after his death, she said nothing. After I
moved to Rennes-le-Ch.ateau, I attempted to talk with her on a
number of occasions. She promised to reveal his secrets only on
her deathbed. However, she fell victim to a stroke and was unable
to communicate until she, too, died."
Ngan stood, and smiled. Lily gently kissed her mother on
the forehead and also stood.
Jeane didn't stand. "Please, if you could ask her if she
knows anything about the Priozy of Zion? That's it."
Cendrine didn't wait for a translation. "Preure de Sion? Non.•
She widened her eyes and shook her head a bit, pursingher lips.
"Perhaps we should go," Ngan said.
Lily nodded. Jeane chewed her lip but didn't argue. They
stood and thanked Cendrine, who only smiled. Lily showed
them out. Ngan thanked her as well.
Once outside, Ngan said, "It was interesting that all of the
religious decor was outside, and none of it was in Cen�e's
room. I wonder if she-"
"Ngan, that woman clearly knew something about the Pri­
ozy of Zion. You could tell by her answer."
"Yes, I agree, but I suspect finding them, or information about
them, will become a moot point if we discover what Sauniere was
up to. I think if we did that, we would bring the Priozy to us."
"Maybe, but how do we do that?"
Ngan began to walk down the street, and Jeane followed,
obviously frustrated and a little angry. "We should look at the
painting she mentioned. The Shepherds of Arcadia. She said it
was in the tower-the Tower of the Magdalene."
The two of them walked down the village street, past the
beautiful garden in the village square. They came to the edge
of the village, where an old stone wall, now mostly collapsed,
once protected the town. The slope going down into the valley
was vezy steep, covered in patches of long pale green grass
amid jagged rocks.
The tower, known as the Tour Magdala, was square with a
wide, crenellated top and two small round turrets. Gothic Win­
dows were on all four sides, and a single door led inside. Like

114
 of a u ed a n ge 1 1

the church, it was small but impressive. The door was

unlocked. It was· apparently open to visitors, though there was
no one inside.
Inside, there was a small sign that indicated that the tower
once held the extensive horary of Father Sauniere, who had the
tower built. Now, it was mostly empty, except for a few paint­
n
i gs. Hung prominently was the painting that Cendrine
descn0ed. Three shepherds seemed to be showing a woman
the inscription on a tomb in a wooded countryside. The inscrip·
tion read •Et in Arcadia Ego," just as Ngan and Jeane were told.
It was clearly something very important to them. The shep­
herds looked at it with an obvious reverence.
"It's nice," Jeane said. "But I'm not sure what it means."
"Nor do I, Jeane, but I think it's important somehow. We
need to find out what Arcadia is."
"Well, we need to find Luther. Let's not get too side­
tracked." Jeane's face betrayed her emotions. She was worried
about finding Luther-and McCain as well.
Ngan agreed, but said only, "We should go."
They walked out of the tower and down the road.
"So now where do we go?" Jeane asked, desperation hiding
within her voice.
Ngan stopped. He tried to hide the surprise in his voice
when he said to her, "Perhaps we can just ask them."
Ngan pointed down the street, where a young woman with
long, black hair stood talking to Luther Blisset.

175
�t ilt.e smell of dust and mold stirred McCain slowly to
wakefulness. There was no pain that he would
normally associate with a gunshot wound, though
there was pain. Most of all, he clearly wasn't dead.
When he opened his eyes, the light was dim, and it took
him a few moments to adjust He blinked to try to make
the process go faster, but it didn't help. For a moment,
he expected to see Marilyn Monroe standing over him
with a smoking gun, but really, that seemed more like
a dream now.
He felt firm, coarse fabric under him-it was a cot,
and by the smell of it, it was very old.
"Hey, there," a voice said. It was a deep voice, and
yet it seemed soft with a touch of playfulness. It
sounded American.
McCain forced himself to look around. There was
another cot in the room, though it wasn't much of.a
room. The walls and floor were stone, and one wall
was taken up mostly by an archway. The arch was

171
 Bf a u Id a n ge I 8

blocked by a wall of iron bars. It wasn't a room. It was a cell.

Seated on the other cot was a large man. In the dim light
provided by a naked bulbjust outside the cell, the man seemed
somewhat familiar. His thick face had a scraggly beard, and his
hair was long.
" Great McCain said. "Who are you supposed to be?"
,"

"I dunno, man," he replied. "Maybe I'm supposed to be

dead."
What? McCain knew he'd been drugged. Maybe this guy
was drugged too. "Listen, are you all right?"
•Am I all right?" the guy replied. "Wow. You. should see you.
I guess you're pretty kind-hearted if you're worried about me
after what you've been through. Do you even know where you
are?"
McCain thought for a moment. He didn't know. His experi­
ence while he was drugged was still hazy, and before that he
only remembered . . . Clarisse. If she was involved, that meant
something.
"The Priory of Zion,• McCain said, trying to sit up.
"Whoa Take it easy, there, friend," the man said, leaning
forward. "Take it slow."
McCain managed to sit up, but the inside of his head felt
heavy, like his momentum sent it moving around inside his
skull. He just about fell over, but he caught himself on the edge
of the cot.
"The Priory of Zion," the man said. "That's right. Of course,
that doesn't tell you where you are. That's a group, not a
place."
" I know that," McCain replied, his hand over his face, try­
ing to steady his head as if it were only precariously balanced
on his shoulders. "It's just that-that's all I remember."
"Do you remember who you are?"
"Uh, sure. Of course. My name s i Michael McCain."
The man stood up with some effort. "Pleased to meet you,
Michael," he said with a grin. He took the few steps over. to
McCain's bed and held his firm hand out. "My name's James
Morrison."

m
 111 onte co e k

McCain looked up into the man's face. Through the wrin­

kled, bloodshot eyes, the beard, and the plump flesh on his face,
McCain could see it. He fell back onto the cot with a moan.
"Great,• McCain said, thick with sarcasm. "I get shot by
Marilyn Monroe and wind up in prison with Jim Morrison."
Morrison stood over him, and shook his head. "Hey, man. It
must still be the drugs talking. Uh, Marilyn's been dead for
decades."
"Ha . ha," McCain said slowly, sarcastically. He moaned
. .

again. "So have you. Can't you people leave me alone? I'm tired
of these head games. Of course, that's the whole point. right?
Wear me down? Get me to talk?"
"Take it easy, Michael," Morrison said. "I'm not trying to
wear you down." He backed up to his own cot, where he was
just a little more than a silhouette. "Your interrogation is over.
I'm not with them."
"RightWhat.ever." Mee.am rolled over, away from bis cellmate.
"Maybe they'll let you go soon," Morrison said.
McCain craned his neck around to look at him. "Is that an
enticement to get me to talk?"
"Nope." the large man shook his head. "It's a lie to make
you feel better."
"Great."
McCain remained on the cot for what could have been days.
The only sound was the heavy breathing of his cellmate. Each
movement equated with pain, even breathing-he was jealous of
each breath he heard Morrison take. The drugs must have
messed him up, and-the car crash. He remembered the crash
now, when the Priory drove him off the road. That was why he
hurt so badly. He reached around slowly and poked himself as
firmlyas he dared into his guts in various places. Nothingfelt too
tem'ble. He wasn't seriously injured-just banged up and sore.
The only exchange for at least an hour (McCain's time per­
ception was becoming clearer) was when Morrison said he was
dyingfor a cigarette. McCain replied softly that he didn't have �y.
"That's all right, the need for a smoke keeps my mind off
my need for a drink."

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 of a g ed a n ge I a

Eventually, McCain came to a realization. His head hurt,

but it seemed clear. In fact, it seemed clearer than he
wanted-a little numbness or a little less awareness would be
nice. The environment seemed real enough, and it didn't
change. This wasn't like before. He wasn't drugged. This was
·

real.
Finally, still on the cot, still facing the wall, he asked, "So
where are we?"
There was a moment of silence, then Morrison answered,
"Le Chateau de Blanchefort."
McCain had no idea what that meant "Sounds French," he said.
"Yep. That surprise you?"
"No, not really. I was grabbed out of my car in France."
•Anyone ever tell you you look like someone famous,
Michael?"
"Don't change the subject. That's not funny. . . . "
McCain started to laugh. He couldn't help it, even though it
hurt a little. Trapped in a cell in France with Jim Morrison and
he points out that McCain looks like someone famous. If that
wasn't the height of absurdity, he didn't know what was.
Morrison joined him, and their laughter echoed against the
stone.
When they stopped, Morrison said. "That's why they used
Marilyn, huh-you've got some connection with JFK. I mean,
it's pretty clear."
McCain sat up and faced him. It was easier this time. "I
don't want to talk about it."
"Okay. Well, what do you want to talk about?" Morrison
looked around. "I think we've got a little time."
"Um." McCain sighed more than said, "I'm not hallucinat-
ing anymore, which means you're a real person.•
"Thanks very much," Morrison said with a smile.
"So who are you . . . really?"
"Look, if it helps you, just call me James. Don't think about
the rest It doesn't matter. Not here." .
"It's not that easy. I mean, you look and sound just like
him-except that you're older. But Morrison died a long

179
 m onte coo k .

time ago. In . . . Paris." McCain's voice drifted off. That

thought struck an odd chord with him.
"Look, Mike. Since you're here, and since you apparently resis­
ted their interrogation, t
i strikes me that you're part of the cult."
"Cult? What cult? I'm not a part of a cult."
"The cult of intelligence," Morrison said with a gleam in his
eye. "You know-do you work for the Company, or are you a
spook for someone else?"
McCain kept silent.
"I'm with the ONI myself, I guess," Morrison said, leaning
back on his own cot.
McCain chewed his lip. "Jim Morrison works for the Office
of Naval Intelligence?"
"Just like dear old Dad," Morrison said.
"And I suppose you faked your own death to go under­
cover."
"No, I faked my own death to stop being a rock star. I was
just fed up with the image that had been created around me,
which I sometimes consciously, most of the time uncon­
sciously, cooperated with. It just got too much for me to really
stomach, so I put an end to it in one glorious evening. I wanted
to just fade away and become an accountant or something­
live somebody else's life for a while. I never had the chance to
not be Jim Morrison, you know? What a luxury, to be someone
else. The person you want to be, not what other people want
you to be."
"And so how did you end up with ONI?"
"Did you know that 'oni,' o-n-i, is a type of Japanese
demon?"
"No, I didn't know that."
"Yeah. I like that. All right, they came to me. I was
impressed that they found me. I was hiding out in a little town
here in France. They said they needed my help. A.mazing. See,
my father was an admiral. I used to tell people he was dead.
Whatever-who wants to deal with that whole Oedipal father­
son thing, right? But it turns out he was involved in some
really wild trip . . . I had no idea."

lBD
 of a g ed a n ge 1 1

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, but it's all a big secret, right? But I've never been into
secrets. Well, I have, I guess. Let's just say-hey, so why are
·

you here?"
"Well, I . . . " McCain was still reluctant to talk. He really
had no idea who it was he was talking to, and he didn't like
how "Morrison" twisted words.
"It's okay, Michael. Don't say anything. You don't have to.
See, there's this really amazing thing that happened in 1947."
"1947?" McCain was startled.
"There's an other side to the world, Michael. Did you know
that? There's an other side that no one sees-hidden from our
eyes by some barrier of consciousness. But sometimes doors
open between here and there. As near as the ONI can deter­
mine, a door like that opened in 1947, and somebody came
through. I once thought it was all about us going through to
the other side, but it's just the opposite. They came to us.
"They've been here for fifty-four years, but they were here
before, too. Long ago, down the bottomless throat of time, they
came to the world and they walked as gods through its forests.
The people of that time had no name for these ancient angels,
but they saw their effects. The caress of these gods put ripples
in the world like a child's light touch on the surface of a pool."
For a moment-just for a moment-McCain was caught up
in his poetry. For that moment, he believed that this really was
Jim Morrison.
"But then they left, for there was war in heaven," Morrison
said, looking at the ceiling. "Dark were the skies, heavy with
the conflict of birds as seen by a snake. When they fled back
through the doors, they left behind something cherished
among them-and among us since then.
"At least, those few who knew it truly existed."
"What was it?" McCain asked, his voice barely a whisper
amid the darkness and stone.
Without a pause, Morrison told him, "The Holy Grail.. "
McCain was speechless for a moment. "The . . . Holy Grail.
As in Monty Python and the Questfor the . . . that Holy Grail?"

111
 m onte co o k

Morrison smiled wistfully, almost playfully. "Yeah."

"You-you've got to be kidding," McCain stuttered.
"Nope."
How could this be? How did he find himseH sitting on a cot
in a cold cell, somewhere in France, listening to Jim Morrison
tell him about the Holy Grail? He'd seen some strange, inexpli­
cable things in his life-most of them in the last year or so-but
none of it prepared him for this. He could do nothing but laugh.
His laughter didn't seem to bother Morrison. He just
grinned and leaned back. "Did anyone ever tell you you're hard
not to talk to?"
McCain didn't answer. "So you're telling me that aliens left
behind the Holy Grail and . . . what, now they want it back?"
"No, I didn't say aliens. The aliens were the ones that
chased them off. These guys aren't aliens. Not the big head, big
eyes, grey skin kind of alien anyway."
"So somebody from beyond . . . outside of time and space, say.
They came here, walked around as gods, and got chased off by
aliens but left behind the Holy Grail. And now they want it back."
Morrison laughed a little. "No offense, man, but it sounds
better when I say it."
McCain laughed. "Yes, it does." He shook his head. "What
are these things from the, uh, other side like?"
"It's all about perception, Michael. Reality shifts around
them like blowing sand. How can you or I know what they're
like? What you see and what I see may be something very dif.
ferent, yet exactly the same."
McCain hated answers like that, but he didn't pursue it.
Instead, he took a different tack. "What if I told you I thought
they looked like pale-skinned men with black clothing and
insects for weapons?"
"I'd say you ran into one of their representatives here on
Earth . . . an avatar."
"The guy I saw didn't seem very godly."
"Not all gods are good. Maybe none of them are. I didn't
mean to imply otherwise. I don't think these good shepherds
care much for the flock."

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 ef a g ed aA ge I a

"But you've seen one of these Men in Black?"

·oh, yes. They're not really Them, merely their creations.
No different than the creature it used as a weapon, or the crea­
ture that looked like the car it drives.•
·1 don't understand."
-rhese beings from the other side, when they create tools
in this world, they inadvertently breathe the gift of life into
them. It's like a side effect of their existence. I don't think the
creators even realize it. I don't think they even understand
what life is, as we think of it. They're just trying to make some­
thing that can interact with us in a way both sides will under­
stand. We're as indecipherable to them as they are to us."
"But that makes for less than perfect gods, doesn't it?"
"Explains a lot, I say. I never said they were willing or even
knowing gods, Michael.•
"Well, thinking of the creature we saw, we fought, as some
sort of failed diplomat sort of makes sense, but now what? I
mean, how does that get us locked up in here?"
"What do you know about the Templars, Michael?"
McCain sighed. •A lot more in the last few days than I ever
did before."
"I kinda had a feeling. They wouldn't be so interested in
you ifyou didn't know anything and weren't working for some­
one.• Morrison smiled. ·1 bet you're a Hoffmann Institute guy,
aren't your
"If I was?"
"It'd be cool with me. Truth is, I'm not as interested in
sides as I am with the secrets. Working with the ONI, I've
learned more truths than I ever did as . . well, when I was
.

'alive.' It's been worth it. To see what I've seen, it was easy to
give up what I had before. Is that what it s i with you-are you
in this for the truth?"
Morrison had a way of turning things around very quickly.
The question made McCain more than a little uncomfortable,
because it was one for which he knew he didn't have an
answer. He liked his job because he felt like he was hefping
people and contributing to a worthwhile cause, but to say he

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was in it for the truth? Capital T 'Ihlth? He didn't know. Most

of the time, particularly when it came to his background, the
'Ihlth was something he preferred not to think about.
"You were saying . . . about the Templars?" McCain asked.
"When you were first waking up, you mentioned the Priory.
I think you know what I have to tell you. The Priory started the
Knights of the Temple . . . but now, after meeting me, you know
the reason why."
McCain thought for a moment. "The Holy Grail?"
"The crusaders found it in the Middle East somewhere,
buried in the sands of Arabia or lost in the catacombs beneath
Solomon's Palace. Maybe they stole it, amid the burning ruins
of a desecrated mosque. I don't know. But the Priory of Zion
recognized it forwhat itwas and founded an order of guardians
to protect it. Being Frenchmen mostly, theybrought it here and
hid it away.
"They didn't care what it was or what it could do, Michael.
They were only interested in keeping it safe."
"Safe from who?"
"Everyone other than themselves, it would seem."
"And so you're looking for the Holy Grail?"
"I'm on a quest."
McCain laughed again. "And what would Jim Morrison do
with the Holy Grail, if he found it?"
Morrison said nothing, but his smile could only be
described as enigmatic.
"So what's it like, do you know? The Grail? It's a golden
cup, right?"
"I don't think so. You see, it's much older than that. Any
mythology professor can tell you that the stories of the Grail
are older than a flagon that Christ might have used at the last
supper. The stories are endless and fascinating. A platter that
gives an endless supply of food, a cauldron that restores life
to the dead . . . My favorite is from Zoroastrianism, wherein
thejewel from the crown ofAhura Mazda fell to earth in a bat­
tle and grants the possessor vast power. Sounds familiar,
doesn't it?"
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 af I g ad 8 A 118 I 8

uDo you really think it grants great power? I mean, if we're

really talking about some sort of artifact of unearthly origin,"
McCain said, pausing to reflect that Morrison's mode of speak­
ing was contagious, uthen it could be something very danger­
ous. Something we don't want falling into the hands of-"
Psychotech.
It was all starting to make sense. The whole thing revolved
around the Grail, whatever it really was. The ultraterrestrials
wanted it back, Psychotech wanted it for themselves, and the
Priory wanted to hang onto it.
uAnd so now you're locked up by the keepers of the Grail.
The Templars still exist?"
uNot really. The Templars were outlawed, scattered.
Depending on who you ask, they became the Freemasons.
More likely, they ceased to exist and relinquished themselves
to dusty history. The Priory still exists, though. And that's
who's holding the both of us here, against our will. We're in the
Chateau de Blanchefort, the ruined ancestral castle of the
Blanchefort family. Bertrand de Blanchefort was both a Cathar
and a Templar. The Knights Templar were very sympathetic to
the heretical Cathars' plight and didn't aid in the Albigensian
Crusade against them."
"I don't know much about the Cathars."
"The Cathari were considered Christian heretics. They
lived in this area and were eventuallywiped out bythe Catholic
Church. The Cathari were-" and now Morrison smiled mis­
chievously- udualists. They believed in two powerful forces
beyond the ken of mere mortal minds, forever battling. Just
like the Zoroastrians."
Now McCain realized why Morrison was smiling that way.
"So you think the Templars, who knew the truth, taught these
people the same story you told me, about a war in heaven, and
a jewel falling down and getting left behind."
"Some myths contain the seeds of truth, Michael. Some
aged angels still have stories to tell."
"Where is it, James?" McCain asked back.
uThere's something you're not telling me, Michael. You

·1 85
 AI OR tl CO D k

were afraid when we talked about the Grail falling into various
hands. You've mentioned 'we' at least twice now. Who else is
involved in this? You're right that there's people I wouldn't
want to see get this thing. You're going to have to tell me who
else is involved. n

"Is the Holy Grail in Rennes-le-Chateau?"

Morrison stared at him, not dropping for one moment the
focused intensity and willpower that would have normally
made McCain blanche, if he himself weren't piercing Morri­
son's own defenses with his own ardor.
Finally, Morrison spoke. "You know more than I thought."

188
.• t '1e sky threatened violence with low rumbles that
echoed across the Pyrenees. Ngan, Jeane, Luther,
and Michelle stood on the street under an awning
in front of a motorbike rental and repair shop. No one
else was around.
"So tell me again," Michelle said with a conde­
scending tone, "who you are?"
She wore a lot of makeup on her eyes and lips but
little on the rest of her face. Both were an unnatural
orange color. Her hair was long, loose, and a black­
blue color that didn't occur in nature. Her voice was
deep and powerful. Both she and Luther drew desper­
ately on cigarettes.
"They're friends of mine, 'Chell, like I just said."
Luther wore a denim jacket, faded and ragged, with a
patch on the right shoulderthatJeane knewwas supposed
to be an alien Grey's head-even though it was gree�.
Michelle looked skeptically at Ngan and Jeane.
"And who are you?" Jeane asked her, knowing full

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well who she was. The young woman's superior attitude wasn't
winning her any points with Jeane.
"My name is Michelle. Ryan," she replied. "I've known
Luther for quite a while now."
"And what brings you to southern France?" Ngan asked.
"Let's cut the crap," Michelle said, stomping her cigarette
on the sidewalk. "What are you two? CIA? UN? Interpol?"
Jeane shook herhead. "Not even close. But it doesn't matter.
We're going." She grabbed Luther by the arm. "You've caused us
a lot of trouble, Luther. Did you forget your appointment?"
"Nah, but other things have come up," Luther said. "I'm not
trying to totally dis you guys, but you know-priorities."
"What are you talking about, Luther?" Ngan asked.
"He's talking about nothing," Michelle said, taking another
i
cgarette out of her purse.
"No, Michelle," Luther said. "I asked them to come here. I
wanna tell them about what we've found. They're into this sort
of thing, you know? They know their shit.•
Michelle stared at them. Her eyes smoldered.
Jeane let go of Luther. She wasn't sure what the next step
should be. They came here to get him, but there was clearly
something going on-something, it was safe to say, that the
Institute would almost certainly be interested in. Something
involving a secret society, the ancient Templars, a priest with
a secret hanging out with occultists and possessing influence
among political figures and over on the Vatican . . . the secret
of Rennes-le-Chateau couldn't be discounted. Not to mention
the strange figure in black and the insect thing in her suitcase.
Maybe it would be smart to find out what this Michelle was up
to before bringing Luther back to the States.
Michelle seemed to be thinking the same thing about them.
She asked them, "Well, do you know anything about Rennes­
le-Chateau?"
"We know about the church, and we know about Father
Sauniere," Ngan said. .
Jeane folded her arms in front of her. Rain began to patter
on the awning and in the street.

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"I see,• Michelle said. "Very good."

Again, condescension.
Michele continued after another puff on her cigarette. "So,
then, you know there's a big secret here."
•At least one,• Jeane said.
•And do you know what it is?"
"You don't need to patronize us." Jeane said. "Look, why
don't we ask the questions here? Luther seems about ready to
burst, anyway."
Luther stood behind Michelle with an idiot grin.
"I've been working on this for a long time," Michelle said.
"I'm not going to just tell you what I know.•
Jeane wished McCain was there. He was better at getting
answers out of people than she, as much as she didn't like to
admit it.
• 'Chell, I'm telling you, these people are the bomb. They
protected me from the MIBs. •
"I have an idea," Ngan said. "Why don't we buy the two of
you some lunch?"
"Sounds great, dude. I'm starving." Luther said.
Michelle didn't say anything or move. She appeared to be
contemplating something. "So you'll vouch for these two, huh,
Lutherr
"Oh, yeah. They're cool. 1hlst me."
Jeane felt oddly flattered.
Michelle tightened her lips. "Then let's do lunch," she said,
as cold as ever.

"The bloodline itself,• Michelle said quietly, "according to

them, is the secret. It s i the Holy Grail, or what was referred
to as the Holy Grail in lore. But really, it's not-as it was trans·
lated from the Old French-the san greal, which means holy
grail, but sang real . . . holy blood." _

Michelle, it seemed, had really done her research. The four

of them sat in the Pomme Bleue, enjoying a light lunch of filled

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baguettes. Rain ran down the windows and spattered in pud­

dles in the street. The place had only a fewpeople within, most
of whom seemed to dismiss them all as American tourists.
"So, the genealogies that Father Sauniere found . . ." Ngan
began.
"Were the first clue to his discovery that the family line of
Christ still exists today. protected by the Priory of Zion and the
Templars.
"And that's what you think the secret is?" Jeane asked.
"I didn't say that," Michelle corrected her with a sneer as
she pushed away her half-eaten lunch. She pulled out a ciga­
rette and lit it with a lighter in a quick, efficient motion.
"But anyway." Luther said with his mouth still full, "I knowwhy
the MIBs were after my ass-why they offed everyone in NOD."
"Why?" Jeane asked.
"Because they knew somebody in the Order was onto the
secret here-and they knew that people there knew about the
Babalon Working. See, we knew too much."
"That may be," Ngan said, "but I've been thinking about
that. We know a little more about the ultraterrestrials-the
MIBs-now, Luther. While I don't doubt that they were indeed
concerned that you knew about the Babalon Working, and they
may very well have something to do with the secrets of this
tiny French village, I do not consider them capable of so effi­
ciently killing all of your friends and making it look like a sui­
cide. They are grossly powerful, but they do not have the
comprehension of our society or the way we think, to do such
a thing. I think it was some human agency."
Jeane noted the interesting double use of the word "agency."
Ngan hadn't revealed this theory to her before, but it made sense.
In fact, she wondered if Ngan even had a theory of who did it.
"Ultraterrestrials?" Michelle asked.
"It's a long story," Jeane said bluntly.
"He means the Men in Black I told you about, Michelle,"
·

Luther said.
"But I figured they were just CIA or Aquarius or some­
thing," Michelle said.
.
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 of a g ed a n ge l s

"You know about Aquarius?" Ngan asked with genuine sur­

prise in his voice.
"I may have heard about it," Michelle said, "but that's not
important right now."
"No," Luther said, "who's Aquarius? I mean, astrology is so
last century-"
"A secret conspiracy within the US government, Luther,"
she answered, still looking at Ngan. "To be honest, I really fig­
ured the MIBs worked for the Priory of Zion.•
Jeane raised her eyebrows. So this secret society was out
to get Luther and Michelle to protect some secret? It made
sense, but even though she didn't know much about the Priory
of Zion, it didn't explain what she saw-it didn't begin to
address the insect thing in her suitcase. As hard to believe as
it was, at least Ngan's ultraterrestrials theory did.
"You know, I think I may have heard of Aquarius back in the
casino on the reservation where I used to work. Some dude might
have mentioned them. Do they have something to do with all this?"
"Not if the MIBs are really aliens," Michelle said with a bit
of a sneer.
"I didn't say aliens," Ngan said. "I said ultraterrestrials.
Creatures from another reality."
Michelle seemed to consider this.
"Have you seen them, Michelle? Are they after you, too?"
Jeane asked.
"It would seem so," she said, "but they haven't come right
to my door like they have with Luther. I figure I've been on the
move enough to keep ahead of them."
"Perhaps you're right," Ngan said, "but we have reason to
believe they are still looking for Luther, and probably you as
well. We experienced evidence of their presence last night."
Luther visibly shuddered. Still, he poked the last bit of his
baguette in his mouth.
"But, Michelle,• Jeane said, "you still haven't told us
what you actually believe-what discovery would make
anyone come after you and kill the rest of your order?"
"'lreasure, • Michelle said.

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 m ante co o k

Jeane waited for more, but it didn't seem to be forthcoming.

"What treasure?" she asked.
"Templar treasure," Luther said in a low voice. "Just like I
was telling you guys before. She's really into this stuff, and she
knows all about it."
Michelle remained quiet.
"Can you tell us about it?" Ngan asked. Ever patient, even­
tempered Ngan.
"The Knights Templar were hunted by the forces of the
church and by King Philip IV of France, after the Pope con­
demned them as heretics-Satanists, even. The king didn't
care about their religion. He wanted the wealth they'd accu­
mulated and maybe even some greater treasure-something
most people didn't know they had.
"The Templars, maybe through their connections with the
much more secretive and much more powerful Priory of Zion,
knew what was coming. Philip IV never got the treasure from
them that he wanted. Sure, he got their lands and holdings, but
the treasure the Templars had, whether you believe t
i to be
gold and silver taken during the crusades, the Ark of the
Covenant, or some secret about Jesus, fled with them when
they left in their ships."
Again with Templars and ships. It made Jeane think of
Rosslyn Chapel. And, as if she read Jeane's mind, Michelle
said, "And they took it from here and went to Scotland. They
found an ally in Robert the Bruce and made Scotland their new
homeland. The next generation of Templars were Scottish. The
Sinclairs had Rosslyn Chapel built to hide the secret Templar
treasure, but even then they knew it was merely temporary.•
The Sinclairs. Rosslyn. This did have something to do with
what they'd seen. The Man in Black's voice rang in her head:
It was here.
"Henry Sinclair took it with him to the New World-Nova
Scotia. New Scotland. The area was also called Acadia, or
actually Arcadia_•
"In Rosslyn Chapel there was an inscription that said 'To
Arcadia.' • Ngan said.

lU
 of a g ed an ge I s

"You've been there?" Michelle asked. "You've been doing

some research of your own. Impressive."
Less condescending, but still irritating.
•And here-at least in a painting of the area here-it says
'Et in Arcadia Ego.' " Jeane said. "Right?"
Michelle nodded. "Of course, the Holy Blood crowd believes
that's actually an anagram for 'I 'Jego Arcana Dei.' Poor Latin
for 'I conceal the secrets of God.' The word T doesn't exist in
Latin-'!' is the number one-but. . . .•
"The secrets of God," Ngan whispered.
"Yes, Ngan?" Jeane asked.
"Perhaps the anagram is correct,• he mused, "but it is a dif.
ferent secret of God that was concealed. Or a secret of a com­
pletely different god."
"What do you mean?"
"The ultraterrestrials, when they were here before, could
easily have been taken by people as angels, demons, or gods.
Perhaps the secret of Rennes-le·Chateau is some artifact left
by the ultraterrestrials from centuries, millennia ago.•
"Perhaps the man we know as Christ was one of them-an
ultraterrestrial," Michelle said.
"Or maybe that has nothing to do with anything." Jeane wasn't
a religious person, but hearing that said aloud disturbed her.
"So what is the treasure, exactly?" Ngan asked.
"I don't know that yet, but I might know how to find out.
The thing is, I'm pretty sure it's not here-or in Rosslyn
Chapel. Like I said, it's in Nova Scotia, but I don't know where
exactly."
"Maybe we can find out," Luther said. "Maybe we can get it."
"That's really not our problem-or our assignment," Jeane
told him.

•Assignment from who?" Michelle asked.

"Theywork for the Hoffmann Institute," Luther said.
Both Jeane and Ngan looked sternly at him He would have
.

told her eventually, most likely.

•Ah, of course," Michelle said.
"You've heard of them?" Luther asked.

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 m onte coo k

"A little."
She certainly knows a lot of things, Jeane thought.
Ngan pondered a moment, then said, "Our first duty is to
protect Luther, and I think, by extension, Michelle. But if the
ultraterrestrials have any chance of getting to . . whatever it
.

is, it might also behoove us to attempt to at least look into it

as well."
Jeane nodded. Maybe Ngan was right. They at least had to
stay in Rennes-le-Chateau until McCain arrived.
"Do you know of anyone else who might be interested in
this whole thing besides these . . . 'ultraterrestrials'?" Michelle
asked.
"Only the Priory," Jeane answered, "and they seem inter­
ested in protecting it."
"Right . . ." Michelle's voice trailed off.
"So now it's all up to me," Luther announced, standing up
from the table.
"It s
i ?" Ngan asked.
"Oh yeah, baby,• he replied. "Time to show you how Kaos
Magick can solve all our problems."
Michelle was quiet. Jeane was worried.

194
.. t
_ '7enty-three Skidoo.
"Watch a movie,• Carrie said. "Practically any
movie. They'll go up to an apartment door, or
there'll be some number on a jersey, or it'll be in an
address.• She drove up to a red light and stopped. The
city streets were fairly deserted, but it was three in the
morning, after all.
"What will?" Brad asked.
"TWenty-three.•
"What are you talking about?"
He shook his head. His long blond hair was pulled
back, but an hour ago a long strand of it had fallen out
of place and now just dangled beside his face. Carrie
was certain he dido't realize it.
"It'll be twenty-three more often than not-the
apartment number, or on a license plate, or in a
phone number, or someone's age. It's someone's .age
a lot.•
"You keep track of these things?" He laughed.
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 monte ce o k

"No, not really. I've just noticed it. But see, twenty-three si
an important number."
"Why?"
"Because it keeps coming up. It's like moviemakers are
sending us-those of us who've noticed-a signal. It's like
they're saying 'yeah, we're in on it, too.' "
"In on what, Carrie? I still have no idea what you're talking
about."
The light turned green. Carrie stepped on the gas of her
Honda Civic. A Doors songplayed on the car radio. Halifax slept.
"It's like this . . . I don't know. Like a conspiracy of coinci·
dence. Like this number keeps showing up, and it means some·
thing. What if it's a signal? What if we should be getting some
message from it that we're missing?"
"I don't get it," he said, shaking his head.
Carrie remained quiet. She pulled her sweater closer
around her shoulders. The night's chill had sneaked up on her.
"Break on through to the other side . . ." the radio played,
then it faded into static. Carrie reached down and fiddled with
the tuning knob, but she couldn't get anything to come in.
"Damn," she breathed.
"Maybe t i just keeps showing up," Brad said, "because you're
looking for it Like when you're driving and it seems like all the
lights you hit are red, but it's really only because you're thinking
about it so you don't notice the green lights . . . only the red."
"But it's more than that. It's not just me that's noticed this.
I've read about it. Maybe they've chosen twenty-three because
of some numerological reason. Maybe it's . . ." She grasped for
something-anything. "It's the number of chromosomes each
parent devotes to their offspring."
"That's weird. I mean, who's 'they'?"
"And oh, yeah-in the I Ching, it means 'Everything falls
apart.' I read that."
"What's the I Ching'?" He shook ·his head and looked at
'

her, exasperated.
"Never mind," she said, then shrugged and scowled.
"Look, I said, never mind,� Carrie said, getting angry.
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 of a 1 ed a n ue I a

"No, you didn't. Why are you so mad? Don't be a bitch."

Carrie slammed on the brakes. Unprepared, Brad lurched
forward in his seat, only his seatbelt keeping him from bump­
ing his head into the windshield. He gasped.
"Sorry. Sorry," she said twice.
She looked up at the street number. 1Wenty-three. Odd
enough, but what really scared her was that they just passed
this street. She looked around but saw only small urban
homes, almost all dark within, their tiny well-kept lawns lit by
street lamps and the occasional porch light.
"What's with you?" Brad was obviously angry, and she
couldn't blame him.
1Wenty-three skidoo. She didn't even know what that
meant, but it kept coming to her mind, unsummoned and
unasked for. Maybe it wasn't a conspiracy at all-maybe the
number just had some significance all its own and no one was
intentionally doing anything to parade it around. Maybe it just
happened.
When she gave no answer, Brad shouted, "Carrie, take me
home! This isn't fun anymore. I'm tired of driving around, and
now you're acting weird."
Carrie found her leg still thrust against the brake with all
her strength-knee locked in position. She. eased her foot off
and applied the accelerator.
"What's with you?" Brad asked loudly.
"I don't know. It just seemed for a minute back there that
everything happened twice.•
He gave a sigh that was more like a growl. "That'sjust deja
vu. Everyone gets that.•

"But . . •
.

She didn't finish. She turned the car around and headed in
the direction of the house Brad shared with his two room·
mates. Carrie and Brad had been dating on again and off again
for the entirety of their first two semesters at Dalhousie Uni­
versity. She figured they would probably be off again. after
tonight, but at the moment that seemed inconsequential.
The radio was still filled with static.
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 m on te co o k

"Look," Brad said finally, "ever since you drove out to

Chester and saw those UFOs over Mahone Bay, and started
reading all those books-"
"I never called them UFOs. They were just lights. There's
lots of things they could be besides UFOs," she said, shaking
her head defensively.
"They were flying, and you don't know what they were.
Unidentified F1ying Object That's all I meant by UFO. I didn't
automatically mean 'flying saucer.' "
"All right," she sighed, and promptly tuned him out.
The lights hadn't seemed like flying saucers to her, but she'd
read about them anyway. Kenneth Arnold in Washington State
was responsible for the term 'flying saucer,' based on his sighting
in 1947. After that year, the number of UFO sightings increased
dramatically. It was also the year the whole Roswell thing hap­
pened. Crashed alien spaceship? She didn't know. All she knew
was that the strange lights she saw didn't seem like what movies
and TV showed to be spaceships with aliens in them. The lights
she saw seemed more like a reflection, as though somethingmuch
larger was going on, but all she could see was the effect, not the
cause. And maybe not the effect, but rather a side-effect.
She remembered being in church once and hearing the min­
ister quote something out of the Bible about being able to see
the real world as if as a reflection in a cloudy mirror. That's
what it was like, she thought. But that meant that much more
was going on than she knew, and that really bothered her.
". . . so anyway, just forget about it. You'll be better off. So
will I." Brad finished.
She smiled, pretending to have heard what he said. "Sure,
okay."
He smiled back and nodded.
Carrie slammed on the brakes again. Brad lurched forward
again, unprepared.
"Whatthe hell?" he demanded with the last bit ofbreath in him.
Carrie ignored him. She stared straight ahead at a man
standing in the road. Tall, wearing a long coat and a brimmed
hat, she could only see his silhouette. A bright light came from

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behind him, but he stood where the road went over a hill, and
she couldn't see the source of the light. The trees on either
side of the road were illuminated as well and created a million
swaying shadows all around the car .

"Who's that?" Brad asked.

Carrie opened her car door. Brad rolled down his window
and shouted, "You're in the way, dude. Outta the road!"
"We have questions," the figure said, in a strange voice. He
wasn't American or British. Perhaps he was European?
"Who are you?" Carrie called.
She climbed out of the car to see if she could get a better
look at the man. The motor was still running, and she clutched
the open door like a battlement on a castle wall-her protec­
tion. She had a strange headache all of a sudden, like there
was a buzzing noise in her head.
"Do you know Michelle Ryan?" the man asked in a mono-
tone. "Do you know Luther Blissetr
"No, I've never heard of them," Brad replied.
"Then they are not here yet?"
"What?" Carrie asked loudly. "We don't understand,"
"You did not see any strange lights over Mahone Bay," the
man stated. This time it wasn't a question.
"What do you mean?" Carrie asked. "Is this connected to
that?"
"Nothing si connected to that. It s i not happen."
Carrie shook her head. "Why are you saying these things?
Are you from the government?"
He didn't seem to hear her. "It is here, but we cannot get it."
Only then did Carrie realize that he was speaking softly,
and even though he was thirty or forty feet away, she could
hear him clearly.
"What's here, dude? You're not making sense," Brad
shouted. Then he whispered to Carrie, "This guy's stoned.
Let's get out of here.n
Something within Carrie told her to run as well. "I'v� read
about this, Brad. Men in Black," Carrie said, sticking her head
back in the car .

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"Yeah, I saw that movie. I didn't like t

i ." He scowled dis­
missively.
"No, not the movie." She shook her head. "It's real. They
come after sightings of the paranormal and scare people."
"Well, it works. Let's get out of here." He motioned franti­
cally with his hand to Carrie and rolled up his window with the
other.
"They will get it. Then we will have it," the tenebrous
figure stated.
"Have what?" Carrie asked.
She stood up straight outside the car again. As she did, a
strange noise came from the car's engine, like a heavy thud.
The motor ground to a silent halt.
"What we came for," the strange man answered. "But you
have seen too much."
A noise came from the car that Carrie had never heard
before. It was a hollow, echoing sound, but pitched very high.
It cut deep inside her, like a knife sliding up both sides of her
torso, across her ribs, and into her throat.
It was Brad's scream.
Carrie looked into the car, and saw a thin, ropy tendril
extending out from under the dashboard. It seemed covered
with a flesh of sorts, green in color and bubbling, as if it was
covered in boiling liquid. Carrie smelled rotten eggs and burn·
ing. The tendril was thrust into Brad's midsection, and his
whole body was conv'Ulsing. He stopped screaming, his face
caught in silent agony. Blood spurted from his open mouth.
Carrie backed away, screaming. She looked back to the fig­
ure in the road, but he was gone. She looked back inside the
car. The thing was still burrowing its way into Brad. He looked
as if it was drawing the very life out of him. His eyes bulged,
and his cheeks and chest contracted. There was nothing she
could do for him.
She grabbed her handbag out of habit more than conscious
thought and ran away from the car, down the street. Hadn't any­
one in the neighborhood heard their cries? She was about to
scream for help when the shadowy man appeared in front of her.

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Now that she saw him closer she saw his cream-cheese skin, his
rumpled white shirt, and his unnaturally perfect black suit.
Canie stopped. The man just stood there.
She got ready to use her handbag as a weapon. Then she
reached inside and pulled from it her small canister of mace.
She held it forth, threateningly. The man didn't react.
Setting her legs in a defiant stance, she squeezed her
thumb down on the button with all her might. The man didn't
react.
He held out his hands in an almost comical gesture, made
all the more absurd as mace dripped down his face and off the
end of his nose. He stood as if he was in some Abbot and
Costello movie supposedly sleepwalking. But it wasn't funny.
His outstretched hands came for her slowly.
Canie's last thought, for reasons she still didn't under­
stand, was 1Wenty-Three Skidoo. The last thing she saw was
the street sign that couldn't possibly be right.

201
.,.. ....
.

£ scape. As interesting and informative as it was to

speak with Jim Morrison, McCain knew he would
have to figure out a way to get out of the cell. As
yet, however, he hadn't even seen his captors.
"So where are the guards?" he asked his cellmate.
"Where're the Priory's people?"
"From what I've seen, there's not many of them
here. The castle's almost completely ruined. This isn't
really their headquarters."
"So why are we here?"
"Out of the way," Morrison said. "Like an island of
history in the sea of the present. No one's going to look
for us here, Michael."
"Lots of people call me Fitz, " McCain told him.
Morrison studied him carefully. "Is that supposed to
be funny?"
"Yeah, I guess so. I haven't always been in on the
joke." McCain looked down at the floor.
"I'll just call you Michael," Morrison said.

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 of 1 1 ed a n ge l s

McCain felt as though there was something Morrison

wasn't telling him. He decided not to press the issue. At least
not now. Not here.
McCain looked around the cell as if for the first time. It
seemed secure.
"How do we get out of here, then?" McCain asked.
"I don't know. If I knew, I wouldn't be here."
McCain laughed. "That makes sense. Together, though, we
can come up with a plan."
"Before we go too far," Morrison said, "we should consider
that we don't knowthe Priory's intentions regarding us. And we
don't know what they'll do to us if we try to escape and fail."
"To be honest, I think their plan is probably to put us
together in this cell to get us to talk. The cell's probably
bugged."
"I'm not worried about giving away secrets," Morrison
said, shaking his head. "It's all a play, you know? I'm not
worried about giving away my lines or spoiling the ending.
That's it, it's a film. I like films. Except the film I would
make-the ending would be no more important than the
beginning or the middle. You wouldn't ruin it if you knew the
ending."
McCain found himself liking Morrison, despite what wis·
dom would otherwise dictate. It would be nice to tell him a
little more about himself and what he and his friends were
doing there. Maybe he would, but first they had to get out of
the clutches of the Priory of Zion.
"Here's a simple, straightforward plan. We just convince
a guard to open the door and we overpower him," McCain
said.
"You say that like you read it in a manual somewhere.
Like it's something you do as a matter of course, once a
week."
The last few months had been pretty intense. Ever since
McCain had first found out he was a clone. Since he dis­
covered he didn't have parents in the biological sense,
though he'd grown up in a nice home. Since he discovered

203
 111 0Rte co o k

that at least on some level, his life had been a lie. Worse,
he still didn't know how, exactly, he was created or why. All
his life, people had jokingly called him "Fitz,• and talked
about his extraordinary resemblance to President Kennedy.
But now he knew there were reasons for that. Of course
there were.
Morrison interrupted his silent reverie. •And how do we
convince them to open the doorr
What? Oh. We . . . just play it by ear. In my experience, you
can convince anyone of practically anything if you don't give
them time to think about it too much.•
•And we overpower him.•
"Right."
McCain got up and examined the grate. The bars were
new and sturdy, bolted efficiently to the wall. There was a
door n
i the middle of the grate, locked with a heavy padlock.
"That's not the trip I'm on," Morrison said carefully.
"I don't understand."
"I'm not a violent individual, Michael. I've done some
things I'm not proud of in the past, and I don't do that any­
more."
McCain nodded. He ran his hands along the cold bars.
Pushing against them, they felt vezy sturdy.
McCain realized he'd never asked Morrison much about
himself. He'd been too consumed with the question of whether
or not this really was the rock star.
"You never told me how you wound up here . . . James."
The name felt awkward. At some point-preferably once he
was free-McCain knew he'd have to devote a fair amount of
thought to deciding if he believed this was the Jim Morrison.
For now, it would just have to be awkward.
"I was on my way to finally poke around Rennes-le­
Ch.iteau on my own. I needed to fmd out what was going on
there. The Priozy, of course, doesn't like people poking
around. Interesting, since I don't think the Holy Grail is ·

there anymore."
"Really? Why?" McCain asked, turning back to his cellmate.

28'
 of 1 a e ll a n ge 1 1

"There's a lot of evidence to indicate that t

i was moved. The
Templars fled and either took the Grail with them or hid it very
well. I think they probably took it with them."
"Where?"
Morrison smiled. "This is like an interview, Michael.
You're full of questions. Don't you have some of the answers
yourself?"
McCain nodded and looked away. "Sorry. I didn't mean t<r-"
"Yes you did, but that's all right," Morrison said. "It's your
job, right? Isn't that what they get you to do in the Hoffmann
Institute? Ask a lot of questions? Find out the truth? That's
cool."
McCain neither confirmed nor denied what Morrison said.
Talk of the Institute distracted him. His thoughts wandered to
Ngan and Jeane. He wondered for a while if the Priory had
nabbed them as well.
"Have you ever heard of Luther Blisset?"
Morrison seemed to consider this carefully. "I don't think
so. Who is he?"
McCain looked around the cell. He regarded each stone like
it was a microphone. "Never mind. Have you seen any other
prisoners here?"
Morrison shook his head. "Just us, my friend. I've been
here about a week. They put you in here late last night."
"Last night? How can you tell it's night here if you:ve been
here a week?"
"Because I feel better when it's night. I always have." Mor­
rison's eyes were a deep blue-grey and stared past McCain
with a wistful intensity.
•And how often do they come down here?"
"Once a day, to slide in a meal. It's . . . not very good."
"And that's it? No more interrogations?"
"Not since I first got here. They used the same drugs on
me. Psychotropic stuff that uses your own memories and men­
tal images against you. Diabolical."
McCain smiled a little. •And what demons does the iinagi­
nation of Jim Morrison hold to be used against him?"

205
 monte co a k

Morrison shook his head and wiped his hand over his
brown beard and up into his hair. "You don't want to
know."
Actually, from what little McCain knew about Jim Morri­
son-assuming this really was Jim Morrison-he probably
didn't want to know.
"Is it always the same guard?"
"What?" Morrison asked as he sat down on his cot.
"Is it always the same guard who brings the food?"
"Um, no. It's not. I've seen at least three different people."
"Okay. So we wait, and we get whoever brings us our food
to open this door. After that, we improvise. You . . . don't have
to do anything you don't want to. But I've got to get out. of
here."

His face betrayed his youth. It hardly appeared that the

young man even shaved. His blond hair was cut very short and
spiky. He wore a denim shirt and a brown pants, with a hol­
stered pistol prominently displayed. The youngthug walked up
to the bars with a confident smile. He looked into the cell and
took a step back. He looked from Morrison to McCain and back
again.
"Oh mon dieur the guard said.
"He's new," Morrison said.
"I suspect he doesn't speak English. So we can't talk to
him."
Morrison nodded.
The young man said something, and disappeared down the
hall. A few moments later he reappeared, this time carrying a
·

pair of metal plates covered with food.

"That looks terrible," McCain said.
"It will be, trust me," Morrison replied.
"Soyez silencieux vous blitard, the guard said.
"

"So," McCain said to him, "can you just open this door for
a moment?"

HS
 of a g ed a n ge l s

The young Frenchman slid the plates under the gate.

"The door?" McCain motioned toward the gate. The guard
turned to leave.
"No, really,• McCain said. The young man stopped and
looked back toward him. "Just for a moment?" He waved his
hand into the cell. "Come in here?"
The guard walked away, muttering something to himself.
"He didn't take to you," Morrison said. "Those were unkind
words to say the least."
"You speak French?"
"I've lived here quite a while, man," Morrison replied.
"Next time you talk to him, then.•
"I thought you were the one who was going to do all the
talking."
"Do you want to get out of here or not?" McCain shouted.
Morrison's voice was soft but cutting. "I want to get to
Rennes-le-Chateau."
"Then help me."
"Reviens! S'il vous plaitr Morrison shouted. "C'est un cas
d'urgence!"
The young guard returned, his face a picture of hesitant
confusion.
Morrison fell off his cot and onto the floor. "Au secours!"
McCain looked at Morrison, on the ground, moaning. Then
back to the guard.
"You've got to help us," McCain said. "Look at him! Open
the door."
The guard patted his pocket. je ne l'ai pas. Ils l'ont prise!"
He shook his head and ran away.
"What? No, come back!" McCain ran to the barred grate.
"Can't you see he needs help?"
"They didn't allow him to come down here with a key."
Morrison said, still lying on the floor. "They probably figured
we would try to trick him."
McCain looked around. "They're listening to us. Dan:u;i it! I
knew it."
Morrison sighed and stood up.

f07
 • • ti co o •

•ue might be back with help," McCain said. "He looked

pretty upset•
•Maybe, but then what? They know what we're trying to
do. They won't open the door, and even if they do, they're
ready for us."
As McCain turned around in the cell, his eyes fell on the
two plates of food. A plan formed in his mind. He knelt down
by them and grabbed them both. It was a brownish grey stew
of some kind. Perfect.
"You're right, Jim. We'll never escape," he said loudly.
"Let's just forget about it for now."
He grinned and wagged his eyebrows at his companion.
Morrison looked at him quizzically but said nothing.

McCain waited and ate a little ofthe food. It wasfoul, but Mor­
rison at.e all of his in silence, scooping it up with his fingers. The
Prioiy didn't provide silverware. It tasted like they had intention­
allyused spoiled meat and vegetables. McCain left most of it on his
plate, letting t
i cool and diy, until there was a thick skin over it
He asked Morrison to tell him about his career and what he
was tiyingto accomplish with his music. Morrison looked con­
fused, but McCain nodded and smiled.
"Let's just say I was testing the bounds of reality," Morri­
son said. "I was curious to see what would happen. That's all
it was: curiosity."
Meanwhile, McCain motioned for his cellmate to come
close. When he did he whispered, "Keep talking."
McCain began to write with his index finger in the cold
stew.
"I was very good at manipulating publicity with a few little
phrases like 'erotic politicians,' " Morrison continued. "Having
grown up with 1V and mass magazines, I knew instinctively
what people would catch on to, so I dropped those little jewels
here and there, seemingly very innocently; of course, I was just
calling signals.•

HI
 or a g ed a n ge r s

McCain was careful to write only what was necessary. He

had to write large, basic words in the stew. So he pointed when
he could, to himself, to Morrison, to the door. Together, in this
crude and messy way, they formulated a plan.

ioe
J � uther's fingers played like a pianist's over the
keyboard of his laptop computer. They weren't
just quick and nimble. Luther seemed to. impart
the emotion and passion of any good musician into
each keystroke. But then, this was no ordinary pro­
gram. This was magick.
A printer clattered and droned as it spat out sheet
after sheet. Each was covered in a strange combination
of symbols.
"It's ASCII code," Luther said.
"All right, I give up," Jeane said. "What are we look­
ing at?"
She clutched a suitcase she'd retrieved from the
hotel. Jeane had been adamant about not leaving it
unattended for too long. The suitcase held the ultrater­
restrial insect-thing.
Ngan looked around. The three of them were
crammed into the back of the grey van that Michelle
and Luther had been living in for the past few days.
no
 of a g ed an ge l a

The back was filled with electronic equipment, most of which

Ngan could not identify. On top of the van, clustered around the
luggage rack, were strange antennae and similar devices. The
whole array made Ngan uncomfortable, though he wasn't quite
sure why. Michelle sat .in the driver's seat smoking, but the
engine was off. Ngan could see her through the grid of metal,
wires, and circuits that separated the back of the van from the
driver's area, but there was no access between the two areas.
"This, beautiful bit o' genius," Luther said proudly, "is a
temporal analysis working. With the tempest cage off, I've
hacked into nineteen different servers to use their computing
capability to process data.•
"Tempest cage?" Ngan asked.
"The van,• Michelle answered. •All the electronics you see
can be turned on to create low-frequency white noise. It's a
standing wave of signal we can hide within when we deem it
necessary. No transmissions in or out. It's like a force field.•
Ngan looked to Jeane. She'd been saying something days
earlier about standing waves and low-frequency signals. Jeane
was looking at Michelle and the equipment.
"Impressive,• Jeane said. "I've heard about this sort of
thing but never seen it. Very advanced. I thought Luther said
you were into medieval studies. This is cutting edge tech.•
"Luther only knew what others told him about me. My
interests are . . varied.•
.

"So, anyway,• Luther said, his voice a little harsh, "this

allows us to peer backward in time and like, analyze events.•
"Look backward in time?" Ngan said. "Really?"
"Well, backward down lines of probability. Once I feed in all
the variables we're interested in, the program churns through
the ritual a few thousand times every couple seconds. With other
computers, we're able to do it tens of thousands of times. See, a
conventional magician could perform this working, but it would
take a lifetime. I'm going to pull it off in a couple days.•
"And what is the desired result?" Ngan asked.
"Where they hid the secret, whatever it is,• Luther said.
Jeane leaned back against the inner wall of the van.

m
 m onte co o k

Ngan knew she was having trouble accepting that Luther was
talking about creating a magickal working the way some people
would talk about cleaning their kitchen. As for himself, he had
i . It was
no trouble believing t clear to him, having spent time
with Luther, that the boy's talentswere extensive and important.
"So, while that's printing out," Jeane said, "mind filling us
in on your little getaway?"
"Oh, you mean this?" Luther reached into his jacket pocket
and pulled out a jumbled mass of francs, pounds, and a few dol­
lars. At the center was a credit card. He slid that out of the rest
and handed it to her. "Where is McCain, anyway?"
"He'll be along," Jeane said. "He was doing some research
on some other potential leads to find you."
"Like what?" Luther asked.
"Never mind. You've caused us a lot of trouble, you know.
We've flown half way around the world for you."
"Yeah, sony 'bout that. I didn't want you to follow me, but
when I sent McCain that email, it was because I knew you guys
would want in on this." Luther motioned to his computer and the
accumulated pages that had come out of the still-working printer.
"What are these?" Ngan asked, indicating the printouts.
"These'll form, like, a map grid," Luther said, laying three
of them on the floor of the van, matching them up end to end.
"See, the ASCII is just a simple way of generatingthe graphic.
Once we lay these out, it'll show us the area and answer our
questions. Each sheet's only showing a 1:100 scale area, so
we're going to have to print out a lot of sheets. I hope we have
enough paper. What do you think, 'Chell?"
"Huh?" Michelle responded, obviously shaken out of a deep
thought. "Oh, I think there'll be enough." She flicked the accu­
mulated ashes away from her cigarette into an overflowing
ashtray in the dash of the van.
"We're going to have to find someplace to spread 'em all
out, though," Luther said.
"You may use my room at the hotel," Ngan said. .
Time passed slowly as the four of them sat amid the noise
of the printer and the fumes of Michelle's cigarettes.

tll
 0f I I lld 8 R 118 I 1

Michelle broke the silence. "What was that?"

She looked around out of the windshield of the van.
"I didn't hear nothing," Luther replied.
. "Wait here," Michelle said, opening the driver's side door.
Ngan looked to Jeane, who was staring at him. "Did you
hear anything?" she mouthed.
He hadn't and shook his head to indicate it. Ngan saw her
hand slide down to her jacket pocket, where she kept her
weapon. Unfortunately, the back of the van was completely
blind. Ngan felt a little trapped.
Michelle got out and disappeared from view.
Ngan waited and listened.
The driver's side door closed.
"Luther,• Jeane whispered, "are you sure you trust her?"
Luther looked up from the keyboard. His eyes showed that
he took the question seriously. He nodded. Jeane's subsequent
look to Ngan showed clearly that she didn�t agree.
Ngan inched his way to the rear of the vehicle to the door.
He pulled the handle and pushed it open but only managed to
get it open a few inches before a force pushed back. Surprised,
Ngan offered little resistance, and the door slammed shut
"What?" Jeane demanded.
"I am sure,• Ngan replied, tensing.
· Jeane pulled out her pistol.
Ngan pulled on the handle and threw his weight onto the
door. It opened, and Ngan's momentum carried him through it
Even though the step down onto the street was steep, he kept
to his feet He scanned the area. The van was parked on the
street in the village, just off the village square. Stone walls and
high hedges made it difficult to see far down the winding street
Ngan saw no one. Not even Michelle.
He moved around to the front of the van and heard Jeane's
feet land on the ground behind him.
Michelle wasn't at the front of the van, either. Everything
was quiet. .
Ngan concentrated, pushing aside all other thoughts, all
sensoxy input other than what he could hear. He reached out.

lU
 m onte co a -

listening. He heard birds chirping in a nearby hedge. He heard

a truck rumbling across the village. He heard music playing in
a home down the block.
He heard a foot land a kick against a leg behind a short
stone wall. Without another thought, he ran up and placed his
hands at the top of the wall and vaulted over it. He landed in a
cobblestone carport.
A man and a woman, both dressed in groundskeeper outfits
stood next to a pickup truck. The woman held a duffel bag, the
man held a struggling Michelle in his arms-one arm around
her waist and arms, the other around her head. Both of them
looked up in surprise at Ngan.
The dark-haired man said, "C'est Hoffmann agent. Tue-le!"
The woman pushed her hand into her bag, and Ngan imme­
diately dived to one side. The bag exploded with a burst of
automatic gunfire tearing through it and spraying outward.
Bullets splayed across the stone wall, scattering stone splin­
ters in all directions.
Nganleaped intothe back ofthe truck, andthe woman stopped
firing. Another jump, and he was on the ground, on the other side
ofthe vehicle. Next, he leaped forward, sliding across the hood and
slam.ming into the man holding Michelle. Thewoman saw him, but
she couldn't get a clear shot at him or react fast enough.
The man stumbled forward, letting go of Michelle. The
woman brought her weapon to bear now that her partner was out
of the way. She sprayed a storm of bullets in Ngan's direction,
shattering the windshield of the truck and perforating the hood.
Ngan, however, had let his momentum carry him forward, and he
rolled off the hood safely. This move brought him to the woman's
feel He kept rolling, cutting her feet out from under her. What he
was not expecting was that she kept firing as she went down,
smashing face-first into the truck's grill.
Bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones and scraped across
Ngan's arm, cutting open gashes. Ngan rolled a few more feet
and stopped, getting up to a crouch before looking around. .
The woman lay on the ground, facedown, unmoving. The
man and Michelle were also on the ground, struggling.

l14
 of a u ed a n ge I a

Michelle brought a fierce blow from her palm into the man's
nose, but he kept trying to grab her.
Ngan heard more weapons being fired back toward the van.
He got to his feet and moved towardthe sound, but by the time
he stood the man had Michelle in a hold again and rolled to one
side, putting her between himself and Ngan.
Ngan hesitated. The man struggled to his feet, still holding
the squirming woman.
"Get her gun," Michelle said. "Shoot him!"
More gunfire over the wall.
Ngan stepped forward and slid to the ground, his legs slic­
ing both the man's and Michelle's footing out from underneath
them. He applied his force so they fell forward on top of him.
They were a mass of flailing arms and kicking legs. Ngan
grabbed Michelle's arms and rolled, throwing the man off her.
Michelle scrambled away, and Ngan got to his feet The other
man did likewise.
The groundskeeper threw a wild punch toward Ngan, who
ducked backward. Ngan shot a fist at the man's abdomen. His foe
was quicker than Ngan had assumed, however, for he blocked
Ngan's blow with his arm and took a step back. Ngan punched at
his face but missed, barely clipping the man's ear as he moved
aside. The man kicked Ngan in the hip, spinning him a quarter of
the way around. Ngan almost lost his footing. The man followed
up with a punch to Ngan's jaw that sent him reeling backward.
Ngan caught himself and tensed for a flying kick he was
sure the man could neither dodge nor withstand. He was sur­
prised to see the man suddenly convulse, his body riddled with
tiny red explosions. The air was filled with the sound of gunfire.
Behind him, Michelle stood with a machine pistol, obvi­
ously pulled from the woman's bag. The man was clearly dead.
Ngan grabbed Michelle by the arm and pulled her away and out
of the carport, around toward the van. He had to get them both
back to the van and get away. Behind them, down the street, a
woman screamed.
The rear door of the van was open. The side of the vehicle
was pricked with dozens of little black holes and dents.

l15
 m onte coo k

"The van's got extra plating," Michelle said, in step behind

him. "They should be okay."
A man popped out from behind a comer of a building across
the street from the van and from them, firing another auto­
matic pistol in their direction. Ngan hunched down and scram­
bled for the van. Bullets ripped through the air around him. He
reached the van with Michelle and the high pitched whine of
the bullets going through the air turned into hollow thumps as
they struck the side of the van. Now they were on the side by
the carport wall, with the van between them and the shooter.
Michelle threw her back against the van. She still had the
pistol. Ngan crouched near the passenger side door. Three shots
came from behind them, at the back of the van. Ngan glanced
back but saw nothing. He crept forward and looked around the
front of the van, still keeping very low. Across the street, a body
lay slumped on the ground, where the gunman had been.
"Jeane?" Ngan called out tentatively.
From inside the van, Jeane shouted, "That was me, Ngan.
That was the only shooter I saw.•
Ngan opened the passenger door and climbed in. "There
were two others. They grabbed Michelle. I think they are . . .
neutralized."
Through the electronics, Ngan saw Jeane with her gun held
in both hands. Luther was on the floor.
"He's all right," Jeane said. "We both are. This is some vehi­
cle." She closed the van's rea,r door. "So are we going to stick
around and see what sort of police they have in this tiny townr
"I don't think they got shit for cops," Luther said. "I ain't
seen nothing. Too small."
"Either way," Jeane said, "we should get out of here.•
Ngan glanced back out and saw Michelle, still pressed up
against the van. "Come, Michelle. We should leave.•
"All right," she said hoarsely, "but I'm driving."
"Good," Ngan replied.

218
J� ook, I don't believe you're Jim Morrison. I think
you're a plant put in here by the Priory to see if
you can get me to talk. Well it won't work. I won't
be fooled. You can just go to hell.•
McCain looked around the cell and wondered where
the bugs were.
"Shut up,• Morrison shouted. "I've had enough of
you and your self-centered delusions. This isn't about
you. You're nobody, okay?"
Ouch. That one hit home.
"Look, maybe the Priory put us in here to kill each
other,• McCain said. "Well, maybe I ought to just do
them a favor.•
The two of them had started the staged argument
quite a while ago.. McCain was beginning to wonder if
it was going to work at all.
"Better men than you have med-including me,• Mor­
rison said.
That was when McCain caught a glimpse of the

n1
 m on tt ct o k

non-English speaking guard who'd brought them their food a

few hours earlier. McCain moved closer to Morrison. The
other man was already on his feet, and he put his face right
into Morrison's.
"You people are driving me insane!" McCain shouted. "I'm
goingto kill everymember ofyourlittle group-startingwithyou!"
The guard ran off.
Morrison and McCain pretended to push and shove each
other for a few minutes more, shouting ambiguous threats and
angry words-more concerned about the sounds they made
than what they looked like.
Flnally, the guard returned, this time with someone. The
man he brought was tall, wearing what appeared to be an
expensive suit. His face was ugly-McCain would have
described it as having been "smashed in." He was balding and
appeared to be in his forties.
This new man looked into the cell and smiled. He began to
slowly clap.
"Excellent," he said in only lightly accented English. "Quite
a performance. Mr. Morrison. You should have been an actor,
not a singer. And Mr. McCain-"
McCain whispered something.
"What's that, Mr. McCain? Or should I call you Fitz?"
Again, McCain said something very softly. The words were
babble, but he figured no one else could tell that.
"I cannot hear you, Fitz," the smashed-face man said.
"Speak up."
Instead, McCain took a few steps closer to the bars and
said something again-very softly. ·This time he actually said,
"Come a little closer."
"What?" The man stepped up to the bars.
McCain and Morrison knew that their little ploy wouldn't
fool anyone in charge. Certainly, whoever actually had the key
would be smart enough not to be tricked. Their fight might,
however, provoke a guard who couldn't even understand what
they were saying to fetch whomever had the key.
McCain leaped at the bars, thrusting his hand through. He

f18
 11f a g ed a n ge l a

grabbed the smashed-face man by his tie and pulled. The man's
head crashed into the bars and his body went limp.
"Que?" the guard shouted in surprise.
Still clutching the man's tie, McCain immediately began
patting the man's pockets, hoping he'd brought the key. If he
didn't, they were in a lot of trouble.
"Cessez!" the guard shouted.
"Little help, here?" he said.
Morrison stepped forward and began pulling at the man's
coat, looking in the inside pockets. Blood ran down the man's
forehead onto the silk shirt.
"f'utiliserai ceci, the guard said, holding up his 9mm
"

Baretta threateningly.
Morrison pulled the smashed-face man's body to one side,
interposing it between the guard and them.
The guard began yelling something in French. McCain paid
no attention. He had to find that key.
"On his belt!" cried Morrison.
McCain felt around and found a key ring attached to the
man's belt. He tried to pull it off, but it held fast. He fumbled
with it, trying to figure out how it came off. The guard was
shouting something at them in French.
"Just leave it on, use the key," Morrison said, trying to keep
behind the man's body as the guard moved to one side.
McCain knelt down and saw that there were three keys on
the ring. Which one? One was obviously a car key. The other two
looked identical to each other. He would just try one. Maybe
there would be time to try them both. He tried to keep calm.
There was a gunshot, and McCain felt the man's body
shudder and felt blood spatter down on him. The guard had
shot the smashed-face man. McCain could hear the young
man's gasp of terror and surprise. Now, however, there was
no time. The guard would know that it was safe to fire indis·
criminately into the cell now that he'd already come this far.
There would be no second chance. McCain chose a key and
thrust it toward the lock, hanging onto the man's tie with
one hand and the key with the other. He had to put his hand

!19
 m ente co o �

through the bars and angle it around so the key would slide
in straight and-
It was the wrong key. .
He heard a gunshot. Can you prepare yourself .for getting
shot? He didn't know, but he tried. McCain waited for the pain
and the impact, but it didn't come.
He looked back, expe<:ting the worst. If he wasn't hit, it
must be Morrison.
Morrison stood behind him, a pistol in his hands, pointed
outside the cell. McCain's mouth dropped open.
"Where'd you get a gun?"
Morrison pointed it at the smashed-face man and said, "He
wasn't using it."
McCain peered around the man's body and through the bars
of the cage. No one was in the hall.
"My shot scared him off," Morrison said. "How about that
key, now?"

McCain and Morrison made their way slowly down the

underground corridor below the Castle Blanchefort. McCain
had the gun now. They both crept to the bottom of a staircase
with light washing down toward them.
McCain heard shouting, but it seemed like a one-sided
conversation-he only heard .one male voice, then a pause, then
the voice. Itmust be someone on the telephone, orperhaps a radio.
"Is this the way out?" McCain whispered.
Morrison shook his head and shrugged.
McCain winced. Theywere out of the cell, butthings could still
go terribly wrong. Neither of them knew how to get out or how
many people they were dealing with. At least Morrison seemed to
know where the old castle was. McCain hoped that once they were
outside, Morrison could get them to Rennes-le-Cbateau.
McCain shrugged back at Morrison and slowly climbed the
stairs. At the top, through an open wooden trapdoor, he saw a
large room with a pair of folding chairs and a matching table

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covered in take-out food containers, playing cards, and a radio

receiver/recorder-probably connected to the listening device
in the cell, McCain thought. There were two exits out of the
room and a high pair of windows without glass that showed
daylight coming through.
Somehow, McCain had thought he was held in some sort of
secret military complex or a fortress with scores of trained
quasi-Templar knights. Much to his surprise, it appeared that
the Priory had only a couple of people there to watch over
them. He could only assume that the secret society didn't take
prisoners very often. He imagined there was a roomwhere they
gave him the psychotropic drugs somewhere up there and that
was probably it. That horrible meal was likely prepared else­
where, he figured.
A man stood in the room, dressed in blue jeans and a
sweatshirt. He held a cell phone in one hand and a pistol in the
other. He faced the trapdoor, and shouted into the phone, shak­
ing his head, until he saw McCain.
McCain had been taught that action was always faster than
reaction. His combat trainer at the Institute was ex-CIA, and
surprisingly good-natured and friendly. He told McCain on
numerous occasions: It doesn't seem like it should be true, but it
is-you can come into a room and charge a man fadng you with a
gun and reach him before hefires.
I hope that's true, McCain thought as he lunged into the
room through the trapdoor, firing wildly.
The man shouted and fired his own Beretta, but not until
both McCain and Morrison were in the room with him. No one
hit anyone with bullets, but McCain's gun smashed into the
man's face, sending man, phone, and pistol clattering to the
floor. Pausing long enough to pick up the weapon and the phone,
McCain ignored the man and kept running. It wasn't important
that he do any real damage to these guys-just get away.
Luckily, semi-ruined castles-McCain realized at that very
moment-were easy to get out of. They were, for the most
part, empty, and there was never really any doubt as to which
way was out.
ZZl
 m onte coo k

McCain pushed open a heavy wooden door and found him­

self staring down a short flight of stairs leading to a dirt path
surrounded by grass. The sky was overcast and hazy, but it
didn't threaten rain.
"Fantastic!" Morrison shouted behind him.
In front of the castle was a mid-sized car. It looked brand
new except for some dried mud splashes on the sides. Without
another word, the two of them ran down the steps and climbed
into the unlocked car.
"I'll drive," Morrison said.
"Great," McCain said. He held up the gun. "I'll shoot"
McCain looked back, but no one was coming out of the
castle. He hadn't hit the guy in the sweatshirt so hard that he
should be taken out Plus, there was the young guard who
didn't speak English to worry about. Morrison said that he
scared him off, but McCain was sure the guard was around
somewhere.
In the driver's seat, Morrison was hurriedly looking
under the dash, under the seat, and above the sun visor for
something.
The key. The car key. Smashed-Face Man. McCain had held
it in his hand. Damn.
Morrison took off his boot and used it to smash the driving
column to expose the g i nition wires.
He looked at McCain, who only then realized he was
staring at Morrison with his mouth open.
"You think I don't know how to do this? Me? Aren't I the
very definition of misspent youth?"
Morrison bent down to fiddle with the wires. When he
moved, it revealed both �weatshirt Guy and No English coming
out of the castle. Action is quicker than reaction, McCain
thought again. Now it was working against him.
"Stay down,• McCain said to Morrison.
Only No English was armed, and fortunately he was still
hesitant. McCain braced both of the Berettas on Morrison's
bent back and fired. The driver's side window shattered, and
Morrison cursed in surprise.
!U
 of a g ed an ge I s

Neither of the two Priory guards were hit, but both of them
leaped for cover.
The engine rumbled to life.
"Go!" McCain yelled.
Morrison straightened up but kept his head low. McCain
couldn't see him but heard the guard with the gun fire twice.
T\vo thuds echoed throughout the car as the bullets hit the
side. These car doors couldn't be counted on to stop 9mm
rounds every time, though.
"Go!" McCain yelled again.
Morrison threw the car into gear. There was a sudden
thump on the roof. McCain looked around as Morrison stepped
on the gas.
There was an explosion off to the side of the car opposite
the castle. McCain's window shattered, covering him with
glass. He could feel cuts on one side of his face. Considering
that they seemed to be minor cuts from glass and not bits of
shrapnel lodged in his head, he assumed it was a concussion
grenade and not a frag. Too far away to do them any real dam­
age, too.
The tires squealed, and they were gone before the guard
had a chance to toss another grenade.
:. N gan's cuts weren't too bad. He wrapped them with
a clean rag Michelle kept in the glove compart­
ment of the van. After the way he recovered from
the last fight, Jeane almost found it hard to be con­
cerned at all. Luther was rattled, but she knew he
would be okay. Michelle certainly seemed to take the
attack in stride.
From where she was in the back, Jeane had no idea
where they were going. Getting out of the general area
was a good idea, though, so she didn't concern herself
.
with that for the mome
n t.
MJesus," Luther said. "I hope that's over Who was
.
shooting at us?"
·1 don't know," Jeane said.
MPriory bastards,• Michelle yelled over her shoulder.
·How can you be so sure?" Jeane asked.
MWho else would attack us?"
Us? Jeane questioned her use of the word. It was true
that Clarisse bad been following them in the airport and.

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that she worked for the Priory of Zion, but Jeane was fairly certain
they'd not been followed recently. No one should have known to
look for them in this grey van-unless the Priory had greater con­
trol over the village than she'd ever dreamed, which was certainly
a possibility. Jeane couldn't help but wonder if they were, in fact,
after Michelle and Luther andweren't expecting herandNgan at all.
"I've been through a lot of weird shit," Luther said, "but no
one's ever shot at my ass."
"Technically, no one was shooting at you," Jeane told him.
"They seemed to be just shooting at the van in general. Maybe
the people outside the van. n

Luther looked crestfallen.

"Where are we going?" Jeane asked.
"Out of town," Michelle answered.
Good, Jeane thought. And we won't come back. There was
only one road out of town--0nly one way down that steep
slope. If they didn't leave Rennes-le-Chateau now, their ene­
mies could block the road-if they hadn't already.
"So how did they find us?" Michelle asked no one in particular.
"Did it ever occur to you they could be using magick
against us?" Luther replied.
· "No, Luther," Jeane said, "it didn't."
"Maybe it shouldhave. It's more widespread than you think.
I bet those secret societies people are using it all the time. I
mean, what was NOD but a sort of secret society, right?"
"You are not entirely mistaken, Luther," Ngan said. "There are
secret groups that use all manner of occult arts to attempt to further
themselves. We don't knowthat the Priory of Zion isn't one of them."
Luther smiled.
"So speaking of occult arts," Jeane said, trying to keep her
eyes from rolling. "I can't help but notice that your printer is
done printing. n

"Look, I can hear the doubt in your voice," Luther said,

"but it was practically the same damn process I used to put
you and your friends to sleep so I could slip out of the motel
room in Chicago. That sure as hell worked, you know that?"
"And so how do you know we didn't actuallyjust fall asleep?

225
 monte co o k

It may have seemed like you did something, but how do you
know? That was one helluva day, you know. We were tired.•
"You be all skeptical if you want, I know what works.
You're just afraid of what you can't understand, while I'm free
to embrace it.•
Jeane glared at him. The truth was, it was getting more and
more diliicult to deny the possibility of things she would have
never accepted a year previous. Yet, that didn't mean she was
going to accept every crackpot theory and bogus claim of
magic that came along.
"And what do your printouts tell us, Luther?" Ngan asked.
"I don't know. I need to, you know, spread them out. Com­
pare them to the map we have of the area. It's going to take
some time, and like I said, some room.•
Jeane could feel that they were headed down the hill. The
angle was steep, and Michelle accelerated now that they were
out of the village.
"Is the road clear?" Jeane asked through the mesh to the
two in the front.
"It looks clear,· Ngan said. "Why?"
"If I were them, I'd have blocked the road."
"I don't think they did," Michelle said.
Jeane could see that Michelle was craning her neck all
around to see down the hill. The road, always turning back on
itself amid the rocks and trees, made it difficult to see too far
ahead. Jeane could see nothing, herself.
She began to wonder. Clearly, this was an old conspiracy. Hid­
den in the shadows for centuries, keeping guard over a secret
How do you keep a group like that going? It seemed to her it
might very well be the case that the Priory of Zion might simply
be low on manpower, funds, experien�r all of the above.
Maybe things wouldn't be so bad. All she knew about them so far
was that they monitored email (and thus, probably phone calls)
out of the village. Considering its size, probably not a monumen­
tal task. They had a few agents who weren't afraid to use force­
not to mention automatic weapons. Again, she didn't see a small
army. Just a couple of agents. For all they knew, those people

UI
 of a g ed a n ge l s

were mercenaries hired to do the work. Somehow, in her head,

she'd designed this image of the secret group as being vast, mys·
terious, and powerful. Maybe that wasn't the case.
Thatbrought her back to Michelle's question-how did the
Priory find them?
Luther was sorting printouts on the floor of the van. She
eased herself down next to him.
"Luther, had you seen anyone suspicious in the village since
you got there-or even following you before you went there?"
He bit his lip and shook his head.
"Where did you and Michelle meet up?"
"Edinburgh, but we didn't stay long. We got in Michelle's van
here and took off for France on the feny. I didn't get to go to that
Rosslyn place. Michelle'd just come from there."
"It's just as well. One of those . . . MIB things was there
looking for you."
"Shit."

"Exactly. We fought it. I'm still unsure as to what it was,

but it wasn't human."
"Damn! I told you. Aliens. The Babalon Working. They
came through a freakin' doorway in the desert. Yes." He
grinned broadly. "Vmdication!"
"Ngan calls them ultraterrestrials. •
"Yeah, I know. Whatever. I mean, he would know, right? He
knows a lot about that sort of stuff."
Jeane liked that Luther had learned to respect Ngan. Even if she
didn't necessarily agree with his assesents,
sm she knew to respect
him aswell. It made Luther a little more tolerable inher eyes.
"But they ain't got anything to do with the guys who just
attacked us?"
"I don't think so."
"Or those Psychotech people?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so."
"Damn, it's bard to keep track."
"Tell me about it." She smiled a little.
She leaned forward toward the front seats and asked, "How
about you, Michelle? Did you ever see anyone suspicious in the

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village? Someone who seemed to be paying a lot of attention to

the two of you?"
"Who knows? How can you even tell? If that village is so
important to them, maybe some of the people there are mem­
bers. Maybe they're all members." She lit a cigarette. "We're
almost down the hill and into Couza. Looks clear."
"Jeane," Ngan said, "I'm getting worried about Michael. When
he gets to Rennes-le-Ch.ateau, it will not be safe for him."
God, where was McCain? He must have run into trouble ofsome
kind. It aggravated her that they were supposed to be keeping to
security protocols and not contacting anyone. Once Luther was
secured, she was going to contact the Paris office and get some help
in finding McCain. Enough was enough. If there was a leak in the
Hoffmann Institute, oriftheir communicationswere beingmonitored
fromthe outside-so be it She knew she would dowhatever she had
to in order to find him. That was what being a team was all about.
"Can't we stop someplace so I can lay some of these out?"
Luther asked, waving papers in the air. "Even the floor of a
men's room might work."
"Carcassonne is at least forty-five minutes away," Michelle
said. "Maybe Rennes-les-Bains would have a place. I'm anx·
ious to see what it says too, Luther-I believe in you."
Jeane wondered if there was anything Michelle could pos·
sibly say that wouldn't piss her off.

The best they could do was a parking lot. Once it appeared

that they weren't followed out of Rennes-le-Ch.ateau, Michelle
drove to the little sister village called Rennes-les-Bains. Not
nearly as secluded or hard to get to, this tiny community seemed
very different from the village they'd ju�t left. Theypulled offthe
road and into a garden near the town square. There, Ngan
helped Luther by gathering up stones to use as paperweights.
One by one, Luther carefully placed each sheet down in its
proper place, and Ngan set a rock on it to keep it there. Ngan
had no idea what Luther was really trying to do, but he was

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happy to help. Clearly, there was some method to what the

young man was doing, and as he progressed, a pattern did
indeed begin to make itself known in the spread-out sheets.
Ngan still had no idea what the pattern meant or what it
was supposed to represent.
Michelle sat on a bench near them, smoking. She had an
odd way of seeming both eager and detached at the same ti.me.
Ngan wasn't sure what he thought of her. Clearly, she hadn't
told them everything there was to tell. He sensed some sort of
hesitation or even outright duplicity within her. That was
hardly a cause for alarm in the circles in which Ngan was
forced to operate, however. Everyone had a secret.
Jeane had completely disappeared. He assumed she'd gone
off to use the restroom or something, but he wasn't sure.
Maybe she was just avoiding Michelle. While she didn't seem
to care for Luther, she obviously hated Michelle.
While he helped Luther-a ti.me-consuming and relatively
mindless exercise for him-he concentrated on the situation at
hand and the events of the recent past, as juxtaposed from what
he'd learned from his meditative visions. He smiled to himself,
as he knew he was becoming more adept at mastering the tech­
niques involved with bringing together facts and assimilating
data, as well as seeing into potential outcomes of current
events. His strange game visions had apparently predicted that
Luther was going to leave them, using his computer-though
he hadn't realized that early enough to do anything about it.
More positively, his vision encouraged him to visit the church in
Rennes-le-Chateau and to speak with the woman he found there
(though, he reminded himself, it was actually Jeane who'd initi­
ated that conversation). That encounter had led them to speak
with Cendrine, who was very knowledgeable, but how had that
really helped them? Now they were fleeing Rennes-le-Chateau.
Ngan's self consciousness about the bloodstains on his
shirt distracted him. He was about to go find someplace to
wash up when he heard Luther exclaim, "Look!"
To Michelle, Luther said, "Bring that map book over liere."
Michelle did, walking over the papers. Luther didn't
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 m onte co o k

seem to mind. He was staring at one in particular now.

"Okay," Luther said, "help me find where this matches."
Ngan stepped lightly over the splayed sheets and walked up
behind them. The book was a very detailed set of maps of south­
ern France. Standing atop the pieces of paper, each covered in
ASCII code, Ngan saw that they indeed did form a map. He saw
mountains of dark, heavy letters and symbols, streams of flowing
Ss and Zs, tree lines of asterisks, and more. Michelle and Luther
were trying to find a place in the map bOok that matched one area
on the printout map. The printout showed a small circle of @s. It
appeared to be nestled in some hills, near a river.
"Here it is," Michelle said. "Arques."
She handedthe book to Luther and pulled a smaller one out
of her shoulder bag. It was a travel guidebook of the area. She
flipped pages and read.
Ngan looked around at the huge map of printouts. The light
breeze was beginning to move a few of them around, spinning
them in the wrong orientation. "Do we need these anymore?"
Luther's eyes never left the map book. "Nah," he said.
"Let's just pick them up."
Ngan began gatheringthe sheets then, since he could be no
more help otherwise.
"This guidebook says an old tomb used to be there, but it's
gone now." Michelle said.
"And old tomb?" Ngan replied. "Like in the painting? Et in
Arcadia Ego?"
"That's right!" Michelle said, her eyes lighting up, and sud­
denly falling. "But I read someplace that that tomb was
destroyed over ten years ago."
"We should still check it out," Luther said.
"I agree," Ngan said.
Michelle nodded and looked into the sky. "It'll be dark
before we get there. n

Their plans were interrupted by a harsh, throaty cry. Ngan

knew instantly it was Jeane. He heard her again, louder this
time, closer. He made out one word:
Run.

230
:�Cain assumed that the car they'd stolen belonged
to the smashed-face man. It was small, boxlike,
and probably about eight or ten years old at least,
but he wasn't sure of the make. It was well cared for,
however, which didn't surprise him. Smashed-Face had
seemed like the sort of man who took good care of his
things, and put on airs to impress people. McCain's
own short interaction with him was nothing less than
annoying. He wondered if Smashed-Face Man had been
a part of his interrogation.
Not that it mattered, now, of course. Obviously, McCain
had played no small role in his death, but-as always-he
preferred not to dwell on that fact too much. What seemed
true was that he wasn't exactly a major player in the Pri­
ory of Zion, and the castle was no big secret base. It was,
however, according to Morrison, extremely close to
Rennes-le-Ch.lteau. Clearly, that's why they were there.
Both he and Morrison were on their way to the village
when they were nabbed and brought to Blanchefort.
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 m onte coo k

"What's the deal with the Priory of Zion, anyway?" McCain

asked Morrison. .
Morrison gave him a puzzled look and turned his attention
back to the road.
McCain had found an old T-shirt in the back of the car.
He'd been using it to press against the cuts on bis cheek and
forehead. He pulled it away and asked, "Why keep us in an old
castle with onlytwo guards?"
Morrison considered that for a moment, and said, "Maybe
we're just not that important, Michael."
"Then why not just turn us over to the French police or just
kill us?"
McCain wondered if maybe that was their plan, after they
tried to get a little more information out of them.
"I've been thinking about that too, and I think it's all com­
ing clear," Morrison said. "Think about this: These beings from
beyond our world come back in 1947. They want the Grail back.
The Priory of Zion exists for one purpose, as far as we know,
which is keeping the Grail bidden. For all we know, the Priory
has been fighting a war against an enemy from beyond a magi­
cal doorway for over fifty years. That explains a lot of what I've
seen since I've been working here for the last thirty. France,
and all of Western Europe, really, has been the focus of some of
the most singularly weird events you can imagine. People dis­
appearing, strange things falling from the sky; UFOs, visions,
weird-weather-you name it. Maybe what I've been investigat­
ing all this time has actually been the after-effects, the observ­
able fallout, of this bizarre war. What does your French field
office have to say about any of this? Do you know?"
McCain had given up on anypretense that he wasn't a Hoff·
mann Institute agent. "Actually, no. I haven't been in contact
with them. My partners and I have been traveling under tight
security protocols."
"Your partners. Is one of them that Blisset guy you men­
tioned earlier?"
"No. He's someone else."
McCain putthe bloody shirt back against bis head, wincing at

232
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the sting. He could feel that the cuts were still bleeding a little.
"Security protocols, huh?" Morrison said. "So you think
you're being monitored?"
McCain didn't answer.
"By who?" Morrison pressed.
"Maybe by the ultraterrestrials," McCain said.
" Nah Morrison replied. "They don't work that way. They
,"

go about things in a very strange manner, my friend. It's

because they don't think like us."
McCain decided to go out on a limb. "Maybe Psychotech. •
"Ah," Morrison paused. "Those are some very bad people. The
sanctity of mind is an undeniable right under any regime. Invaders
into our minds and souls commit the worst form of rape."
Morrison was getting darkly poetic again. McCain wasn't
exactly sure what the words meant, but they probably meant
something. He chose to interrupt ·
"So you know about Psychotech,• McCain said. "Are they
involved with the Priory?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
"But clearly US Naval Intelligence is."
"Well, they like to keep their eye on anything and every­
thing, especially if it has to do with the occult."
"Really?" McCain was genuinely surprised. "I didn't know
that."
"The fact that my father was into it all-that's what blew me
away, man. Wow. I guess it might explain a lotaboutme, though.
How I ended up being the Lizard King instead of a poet."
Something that Luther had said about the Babalon Working
came backto McCain. He'd said that Hubbard was working for mil·
tiary intelligence-Naval Intelligence, to be precise-when he was
assigned to look into the OTO. Maybe it was true that the Office of
Naval Intelligence really was interested in the occult. But why?
"What was all that Lizard King stuff about, anyway?"
McCain asked.
"That was my magical name. I also used Mr. Mojo Rising,
but that was a little too cute-it's an anagram of my name."
"What's a magical name?"

233
 m onte coo k

"It's like a code name, or an alias. Most everyone uses them.

The occult's not that different from intelligence work, really. You
use fake names and lies to learn the truth and to influence things
and events that you have no business in messing around with.•
"That's why you referred to the intelligence community as
a cult earlier.•
"Exactly. The spooks and the magicians are not so differ­
ent, and in fact are the same people a lot of the time. I used to
spend time with a woman named Ingrid Thomson. She was a
Voodoun priestess. I met spies through her back then-though
even then they were probably watching over me because of my
dad. Or grooming me for this.•
"So what have you been doing for them all these years?"
"I've been here, and in Belgium and Holland. I slip inside
people's groups and into their lives. I get into people's heads,
you know. I become their friend, get them to tell me what they
know. It's what I'm good at-always have been. I've just always
found it easy to get people to like me and to do things for me.•
"And so, who? Not just anybody, right?"
"You mean, who do I 'spy' on? Terrorists, criminals,
cultists. It's through them I've pieced together what I know
about the Grail. They've told me what I needed to know or
they've pointed me in the right direction for something to read
or someone to talk to. I'll be honest with you. If I talked with
someone and I learned something, but that something didn't
involve them doing anything to hurt someone, I've usually kept
it to myself. ONI keeps me going, here, but I don't owe them
much. I'm not going to betray someone for money."
An interesting take on inte.lligence gathering, to say the
least. McCain wondered if it would ever come to that with him­
self an.d the Hoffmann Institute. Would he ever reach the point
where he learned what he learned but only passed on to the
Institute what he decided they needed to know? It was an
interesting concept, because the conclusion eventually
reached, should eveiyone work this way, is that it wouldn't be
organizations who would know a lot, it would be individuals:
They would be the dangerous ones.

23(
 of a a ed an ge I a

"Want to know something else, Michael?"

"Sure."
•As good as I seem to be, naturally, at getting people to
talk and to like and trust me, well-it appears to me that
you're even better at it."
Huh? What was that supposed to mean? McCain gave him
a questioning look, but Morrison wasn't looking at him. He
was looking at the road.
"Oh, shit," Morrison whispered.
McCain looked down the road and saw what Morrison saw.
1\vo cars blocked the road. He saw at least four if not five indi­
viduals standing around the cars. Late afternoon sunlight
glinted off the metal of the weapons they held.
Morrison slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel.
"Hang on," he yelled.
Morrison spun the little car around. A third car-a pickup
truck, actually�ame out of the brush behind them to box them
in. Morrison already had the car a hundred and eighty degrees
from the direction it was originally facing, and he accelerated.
McCain gripped the only thing he could-the door handle
nearest him-and tensed. Morrison swerved around the truck
as it tried to position itself across the length of the road to
block it. He made it around, going half off the road, and
brought the car back onto the gravelly path beyond the truck.
McCain turned around to see the people scrambling to get
into the vehicles. They had intended to trap them, but Morri­
son had acted fast enough to save them.
"Jesus," McCain shouted. "Good work."
"We're not done yet."
McCain droppedthe shirt from his face and lookedbehind them.
Tne truck andthe cars were all onthe move. He turnedback around
and picked up the two Berettas on the floor at his feet He checked
both their clips. One had thirteen rounds left, the other twelve.
"This road turns off beyond the castle toward a little town
called Rennes-les-Bains," Morrison said. "Maybe we can lose
·
·

them there."
"Sounds good," McCain said.

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 I ·

1
.·
eane could see the driver of the first car-a large,
hairy fellow. There was someone in the passenger
seat as well, but she didn't get a good look at him.
They were going fast, but they didn't seem to pay any
attention to her.
The second vehicle was a pickup truck. It had only
one occupant, and it was also moving veiy quickly; flying
by her as she sat on a bench on the street in Rennes-les­
Bains. She sipped espresso just around the comer from
where Ngan and the others studied the results of Luther's
so-called "working." She just could not see a single rea­
son to believe it was going to help them at all, and felt it
better to give herself a few moments of distance.
The fading afternoon sun was pleasant and warm,
having finally burned away the haze that had filled the
sky for most of the day. The espresso was strong, and
she sipped it veiy slowly.
The third car spoiled the mood entirely. It was a long, ·

blue sedan and had two occupants. The passenger, her

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trained eye observed, was Clarisse, the Priory of Zion woman from
the London airport. Jeane hadn't been expecting to see her again.
Clearly, these speeding cars were looking for them. Fortu­
nately, they'd turned down a narrow side street rather than
heading into the square where the others were. Jeane tossed
down the cup and bolted across and down the street. As she
rounded the corner, she saw the van but not her companions.
She yelled "Run!" as loudly as she could, hoping to prepare
them for action and get them alert. A few steps later, she yelled
it again. She knew Ngan would assess the situation quickly and
get the other two into the van, if that route of escape seemed
possible and if he didn't see an immediate threat. Otherwise
he'd have them scatter into the village on foot if need be.
Jeane vaulted over a hedge and landed running. She was
very happy to see exhaust coming out of the back of the van.
The rear door was open as she approached, and Luther looked
out, clutching a crumpled sheet of paper. ·

"What's going on?" he asked.

"The Priory's here," she said as she pushed him back and
climbed into the vehicle. She looked in front and sawNgan clos­
ing his door. Michelle was in the driver's seat. "Go!" she shouted.
Michelle put the van in reverse and backed out of their
parking spot as Jeane closed the door. Jeane hated being in the
back. She couldn't see anything.
"I guess there aren't exactly any seat belts back here, are
there?" Jeane asked.
"Guess not," Luther said, grabbing onto his computer with
one hand and a sturdy bit of electronic equipment with the other.
"How'd they find us?" Michelle yelled.
"I don't know," Jeane yelled back.
"We must have a tracer on us," Michelle said. "I'm turning
on the tempest cage. If it's on one of you, this'll block it." She
turned to Ngan. "I wish you were back there too, damn it."
"And how do you know you don't have a tracer on you?"
Ngan asked.
If Michelle answered, Jeane didn't hear what she said. There
was a low whine and a constant, resonant humming sound all

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around her. It threatened to occupy all her senses if she let it. As
much as it seemed to bother her, however, she saw that it both·
ered Ngan more. Though most of him was blocked from view, he
was clearly doubled over in his seat. Even overthe vibration and
electronic hum, she could hear him groan in pain.
"Shut this thing off!" Jeane yelled.
Luther looked at her, and Ngan. "What's up with him?"
"Ngan is pretty . . . sensitive,• Jeane said. "The low-frequency
transmission must be affecting him somehow.•
When Jeane was a little girl, her parents always made her
sit in the back of their large, American car. Even when it wa.S
just her mom or just her dad, she sat in the back. She hated it
then, and she hated it now. It was bad enough not to be the
driver in a situation like this, but to not even be able to see
what was going on was terrible. And now, it seemed, Ngan and
Michelle either couldn't hear her over the tempest cage, or
they were ignoring her.
Michelle screamed a curse. There was an impact along the
left side of the car and a scraping sound. Jeane could see just
enough of the windshield to make out a car passing them. As
she watched, she saw Ngan bolt upright.
He looked straight ahead and shouted, "Michael!"
McCain? In the car? "Where?" Jeane shouted, to no avail.
She got no response from either of them-Ngan crumpled
again in what looked like pain.
Jeane would be damned if she was going to sit in the back
of this van and do nothing. She pulled out her pistol and slid in
her last remaining clip.
"What the hell are you going to do?" Luther asked.
She ignored him, took '!- deep breath, and got a firm grip on
a metal bar that was a part of the electronic array over her
head. With the muzzle of the gun, she pushed on the latch of
the door, and the door flew open with its own weight.
"Holy crap!" Luther cried as he pulled himself farther from
the door.
The pickup truck was directly behind them and accelerat·
ing-probably in an attempt to get around them. Jeane lowered

f38
 of a g ed a n ge l a

the .380 automatic and fired three rounds at the driver. The
windshield shattered, and the car decelerated.
"The cage doesn't work with the door open!" Michelle
yelled back.
Jeane took another deep breath and tucked the pistol into her
pants. Ignoring the truck and its fate, she turned around so her
backwas to them and she hung slightly out through the door.
"I don't think she gives a damn!" Luther shouted.
Using all her strength, Jeane pulled herself up so that her
upper torso was on top of the van, where she saw a metal lug·
gage rack and some things she couldn't identify-though they
probably had something to do with the electronics inside the
van. Steadying her left foot on something-she hoped it was
sturdy-she reached out with her right hand and grabbed the
luggage rack. With a good grip there, she pulled herself for·
ward, reaching up to grab it with the other hand as well. Even­
tually, she got to where she was lying on top of the van, on top
of the luggage rack, to be precise. She hoped Luther would
have the brains to close the door-assuming he could.
Jeane looked ahead and saw the small, tan car in front ofthem.
That was the car Ngan had looked at when he shouted McCain's
name. She pulled herself a little fartherup alongthe roof ofthevan
and waved at the car ahead. Maybe McCain bruin't realized that t i
was them-maybe he had. In any event, she wanted to make sure
McCain saw her and knew for sure that they were in the van.
Unfortunately, as she tried to raise her body up and wave,
she accomplished two things she'd not intended. First, she got a
good look at the road they were on-narrow, winding, and on
the side of a steep hillwith a frightening drop-off to the left. Sec­
ond, she lost her balance and slipped, just barely catching on
again. She was unsteady and heard a noise behind her. She
wanted to take the time to get a better grip on the luggage rack,
but instead instinct dragged her body around to see what was
going on behind her. The blue sedan, the one she'd seen Clarisse
in, was still behind them. The truck was moving up and around
on their right with great speed. The windshield was gone, and it
appeared that her gunfire had taken out the passenger, but the

239
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driver was all right. The inside of the cab was covered with blood.
Jeane estimated that the van was traveling at about sixty
miles per hour-and up this hill, that might be as fast as
Michelle could get it to go. The truck, however, had some good
acceleration. Was it just trying to get around them, or was it
going to tzy to push them off the cliff? Jeane had no idea.
Michelle allowed it to get to one side. Damn, Jeane thought,
if only I were driving. That wouldn't have happened.
The van moved to the right. No, not now! It's too late to cut
him off.
The van collided with the truck as the two rubbed sides.
Jeane, already off-balance, lost her grip with one hand. The
other was slipping. She looked around her for something to
grab onto quickly and looked behind to see Clarisse leaning out
of the sedan with a pistol pointed in her direction.
Jeane yelled and rolled to the right, flinging her body into
the bed of the pickup truck.

"Is that Jeane?" McCain yelled.

Morrison had been driving for about five minutes, keeping
ahead of their pursuers. One of the two sedans hadn't followed
them, but headed back in the direction of Rennes-le-Chateau.
The truck and the car followed them all the way to Rennes-les­
Bains, and Morrison's attempt to lose them in the town was
pitiful at best. When they overtook and passed the weird grey
van, McCain had a funny feeling, given the way it was driving
so fast and swerved to hit them when they passed.
Still, funny feeling or no, he wasn't expecting Jeane Meara
to crawl up onto the roof of the van and wave at him.
"The people in the van,• he told Morrison. •Tiiey're my
friends."
Morrison looked in the reazview mirror. "You know that
insane woman, Michael?"
"Insanity is a prerequisite to admittance into the Hoffm.alin
Institute."

HI
 of a g ed an ge I a

"That van's not going to be able to keep ahead of them.

What should we do?"
McCain looked back to see Jeane fall off the van.
"Shit!"
"What?"
"She's gone," McCain whispered.
He faced forward. There was no way she could survive a
fall off a vehicle going sixty-five miles per hour.
"They're going to pay for that," McCain said, checking the
clip on one of the Berettas.
He turned around again, just in time to see the truck pull
ahead of the van. He didn't know who was driving the vati, but
he hoped theywould be able to deal with the truck going wildly
out of control once he killed the driver. He noticed that the
truck's windshield was shattered and that the interior was
filled with spattered blood. Jeane's handiwork? Probably.
"Don't get me killed," he told Morrison as he maneuvered
his body through the window of the car, facing back toward the
truck with his pistol ready.
As he tried to steady himself, he saw the truck sweive. It
came very close to veering off the road entirely, but then the
driver managed to get back into control. McCain could see that
the rear window of the truck's cab, once covered in blood, was
now smashed in. Through it, he saw that someone was in the
back of the truck, holding a gun on the driver.
Jeane!
She was in the truck's bed. Somehow, she'd made it all the
way across.
"Yes!" he shouted.
"What's going on?"
"Jeane's all right! She's got the truck under control."
· Morrison was silent for a moment, then said, "Get her to
move over to the right, okay?"
,
"Okay " McCain replied.
Still half out the window, McCain waved his gun to the
right side of the road. He saw Jeane standing n
i the truck's
bed behind the driver, waving her own gun a bit. Eventu·

241
 mente co o �

ally, the pickup slid over to the right side of the road.
"Good," Morrison said. "Now getthem to pass us."
He slowed the car down a bit and McCain waved them
ahead. Jeane got the message. The truck went past them.
. McCain gave Jeane a huge grin as the truck drove by.
"Okay, now-• Morrison started, but then interrupted
himself when he checked in the rearview mirror. "Uh oh."
The sedan was pulled up to the side of the van now, and a
woman was reaching out of the passenger side with a pistol,
taking wild shots. At the same time, though, the driver of the
blue sedan was effectively maneuvering the van off the road.
McCain fired his Beretta twice in the direction ofthe sedan.
Was that Clarisse? It was hard to tell. Whoever it was, his
shots missed.
"Your friends in the van are in trouble. Get back in the car .

Get in here!" Morrison shouted, slapping him on the back.

McCain complied. He put on his seatbelt.
Morrison took his foot off the accelerator. Their car
dropped back in the chase, right in front of the blue sedan.
McCain hoped this wild move would panic the Priory of Zion
driver and force them back behind the van where they were
less of a threat to it. The driver held fast, however. To make
matters worse, the passenger-and it was clearly Clarisse­
took some wild shots at their car .

The rear windshield shattered.

Though he made no sound, Morrison slumped forward.
"No!" McCain shouted, as he reached forward to pull
Morrison upright.
His back was already slick with blood, his body limp. The car
was headed for the edge of the road that would send them tum­
bling down the side of the drop-off. McCain let go of Morrison
and grabbed the steering wheel. With no pressure on the gas
pedal, the car was quickly slowing, which meant that th� van
and the sedan were right on their rear bumper.
McCain pushed on the wheel with all the strength he could
muster. The decelerating car slid into the side of the hill on tlie
right side of the road. The impact was jolting and dirt and dust

!4�
 of a g ed an ge I 1

sprayed across the windshield, making it impossible to see. To

the left, however, McCain saw the van slip around them.
The sedan attempted to do the same but failed, clipping the
rear comer of McCain's car. He felt the car spin a hundred and
eighty degrees and finally come to a st.op. The out-of-control
sedan spun off the road to the left, out of McCain's field of vision.
Now that they were stopped, McCain unbuckled himself.
Only then did he realize he had a lot less room in the front seat
than he had just a minute earlier. The car had accordioned upon
impact, and while he wasn't actually trapped, he was quite
cramped. He had no idea where the pistols were, but they
weren't his first concern.
Morrison was .

"Jim," he said, pulling the large man away from the steer­
ing wheel.
Monison's metallic eyes were open, though one appeared full
of blood. The bullet had struck him in the lower neck. McCain
was no medical expert, but he couldn't imagine Monison could
last long with a wound ofthat nature. Blood was everywhere.
"Michael," Morrison whispered hoarsely. He acted as
though all his remaining strength was being converted directly
into words.
"I lied," Morrison said. "I wasn't here looking forthe Holy Grail
. . . and I'm not really fun Morrison . I'm a clone. Just like . . . you."
McCain stared at him dumbfounded-and skeptical.
Monison continued •And I was looking for you. You're my
Holy Grail, Michael. With you . . . Just like me. Just like you.
We're the same, created for the same thing. Like I said­
you're better at it than I ever was."
"You're delirious," McCain said halfheartedly. "Don't worry.
I'll get you help."
"So this is the other side of the door," Morrison said, staring
off above him. "The end . . . it's not what I expected it to be."
"Everything's gonna be okay," McCain said, not even hearing
himself.
"Tomorrowwe enter the city of mybirth. I want to be ready: . . ."
Jim Monison was dead.

!43
 i
.

eane held her .380 automatic to the pickup driver's

head through the smashed rear window. The pas·
senger next to him was already dead, a .32 ACP
machine pistol lay in his lap. The driver brought the
truck to a stop along the side of the narrow road. The left
arm-the one she'd landed on-was badly bruised, if not
broken. Jeane tried not to show her pain.
"It's clear you speak English," Jeane said, "so
answer my questions, and do it quickly. How did you
find us?"
The man kept silent. He had short blond hair and
stubble on his rough, pocked face. He wore thick black­
rimmed glasses, a mock-neck green shirt, and jeans.
Beads of sweat ran down his face, and he looked as if
at any moment he would either scream or weep.
Sometimes Jeane hated her job.
"Please," she said, "don't make me use this gun
again today." She was sincere..
"We were following the escaped prisoners," he said

!44
 of a g ed a n ge I s

in halting English, "and you were just there in the van. It was
. . ." He shook his head.
She had to get back and talk to McCain. And who was that
with him in the car? Her mind reeled with other questions for
the driver, but she doubted he would have much in-depth info
on the secret society he worked for.
"Okay," she said, "so you work for the Priory of Zion, and-"
He shook his head. "Who?"
She was puzzled. "Who do you work for?"
"I was hired by Georges Joannie to be the . . . to help him
with rough problems. He had two men in the chateau. And a few
more in the village. There were others, but I did not know them."
This guy was just a hired goon.
"Do you have a gun?" Jeane asked him.
He pointed at the machine pistol on the other man's lap.
Jeane grabbed the weapon and tossed it in the grass by the
road. Painfully, she put her pistol in her other hand so she
could use her good arm to climb over the side of the truck.
Once on the ground, the man cranked the car into gear and
stepped on the accelerator.
Jeane put her pistol in her right hand. She had a clear shot
at the driver as he drove away.
"Good," she whispered. "Go."
Once the truck was out of sight, she walked back to find
the others.

Michelle finally turned off the homole electronic noise she

called the tempest cage. Ngan hadn't even been in it-just near
it-but it generated such mental static in his brain he was vir­
tually paralyzed. Ngan gathered himself and tried to figure out
what happened. The whole incident was a pain-filled blur to
him.
"Was Michael here?" he asked. "Where is Jeane?"
His questions went unanswered, as by the time his mind had
cleared enough to ask them, he was alone in the van. He opened

zu
 m onte co o k

the door and stepped gingerly out. About thirty yards down the
road behind the van, he saw McCain looking over the edge of the
road down the incline. Ngan followed his gaze and saw the blue
sedan that. had been following them upside down, smashed and
wrecked. Michelle and Luther stood staring at the small car that
McCain had been in, embedded into the side of the hill, its rear
end crunched and twisted. The passenger side door hung open.
McCain looked up and saw Ngan. He walked quickly
toward him, though Ngan could see he was a little banged up.
"Michael," Ngan shouted. "I am so glad to see you!"
McCain smiled. "You don't look so good," he said once he
finally reached Ngan and clasped his shoulder-the one that
wasn't still a little bloody. McCain looked equally unwell. His
face was cut and bruised. His clothes were torn and dirty.
"Glad to see you found the kid and t.he girl." McCain
motioned toward Luther and Michelle.
"Why are they staring at that car, Michael?"
McCain looked at his feet. "I told them the name of the
dead man in the driver's seat.n

They had no desire to get tangled with the French authori­

ties, as it would waste time and potentially alert the Priory of
Zion to their location. Besides, Luther and Michelle were very
eager to see if Luther's working had produced a viable result
in guiding them to the site of the old tomb at Arques. It didn't
feel right to just leave Morrison in the car, but there was little
McCain could do about that.
McCain didn't yet know what to make of Michelle. Jeane
seemed to tense a little whenever she spoke, and even Ngan
pursed his lips a bit when interacting with her. It was strangely
nice to be back with Luther, though. McCain wasn't at all sur­
prised to learn that they were on their way to discover the
secret of Rennes-le-Chateau based on some computer-based
spell Luther had cast. That sort of thing was beginning to feel
like Standard Operating Procedure.

248
 of a g ed an ge l a

The sun was setting as they reached the spot, over ten
miles from Rennes-le-Chateau. By that time, Ngan had used
Michelle's first aid kit to deal with Jeane's arm, McCain's cuts,
and some rather nasty cuts on his own arm. The trip in the
now-crowded van was just long enough for McCain to explain
that he'd been captured by Clarisse and some thugs, dragged
to some castle, interrogated and plied with drugs, and thrown
into a cell with Jim Monison, an intelligence agent with his
own agenda. He chose not to say anything about the Holy Grail
or the information Monison had given him-not yet. Anyway,
they seemed to be fairly well informed about the whole
Rennes-le-Cha.teau thing already. In fact they knew a lot more
than he did, talking about some priest named Sauniere who
first revealed that there was a secret hidden there.
With the aid of some flashlights, they left their vehicle and
traveled on foot, following a stream.
"This will be hard to find in the dark," Ngan said.
"Let's, like, at least give it a shot," Luther said, staring at
a sheet of paper. "It should be pretty close to this river and just
up ahead somewhere."
"The old tomb was around here, according to the guide­
book, until it disappeared mysteriously," Michelle said.
"Apparently, the owner of the land had something to do with it,
but he wouldn't talk."
"If I worked for the Priory of Zion," Jeane said, "and I was
trying to safeguard a secret that had something to do with that
old tomb, I'd get rid of it too."
McCain wasn't sure what they expected to find. Could this
be the resting spot of the Grail?
"Look over here," Luther's voice carried across the dark
evening.
The moon had yet to rise, but the stars were coming out,
only a few hiding behind wispy clouds. They followed his voice
and saw an open area only a few dozen feet from the edge of
the stream. The grass was clearly newer and the soil slightly
different. An old stone was visible jutting up out of the dirt.
"Even in the dark," Ngan said, "you can imagine that the

247
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dirt covers a rectangular area about the size of the tomb."

Luther knelt overthe area and said, "Tomb, huh? So, do you
think it was the tomb of Christ? I mean, ikel they said-that he
didn't die and that he came here and that's what old Sauniere
discovered? And there's a bloodline of Jesus still around?"
Michelle flashed her light at Luther. "To be honest, I thinkthe
whole bloodline thing was a ruse to throw off researchers. I think
the secret that Sauniere discovered was the existence of a hidden
object of great value, importance, or maybe even . . . power.
"But it clearly was no power the Catholic Church recog­
nized. That, I think, is what freaked out the priest hearing his
f4ial confession. The fact that somebody-maybe the Priory of
Zion-was paying Sauniere a lot of money' to keep his mouth
shut must have made it seem pretty real."
Ngan nodded, though McCain could barely see him in the
darkness. "I agree," he said.
"So do I," McCain added.
Jeane looked at him in surprise. He shrugged.
Michelle continued, "Meanwhile, it seems like Sauniere
himself went a little crazy. I mean, the guy discovers this
secret, gets a lot of money, and what does he do? He builds a
fancy church with hidden clues."
"Yeah, that is pretty whacked," Luther chimed in.
"He must have convinced himself that the Church was all
wrong because of what he discovered," Michelle said. "He
wasn't able to see any sort of middle ground."
"Yet still he felt strongly enough to have a priest come to
his deathbed," Ngan added.
"Like I said, whacked," Luther said.
"Then what are we going to do?" asked Jeane.
Luther shrugged and said, "The results of the working led
us here."
"But we know the treasure's gone, right?" Michelle said.
"Taken to Rosslyn Chapel and maybe even to North America."
Jeane sighed. "Well, this area's structure, geologically
speaking, suggests a lot of caves and underground cavities.� It
sounded as if it pained her a little to say what she was saying.
Z48
 of a g ed a n ge l s

"We could try to investigate if there was something under the

tomb. Particularly since it sounds like most of you suspect t
i
might not have been a real tomb at all."
They worked all night. Michelle had a single shovel in her
van, and they took turns. It had been a terrible, trying day, and
digging through the night made it far worse. McCain managed
to grab some sleep now and again, but for the most part he
either helped dig or watched as the dying flashlights illumi­
nated someone else digging.
Around four in the morning they were rea�y to give up,
when they came upon something that seemed very much like a
stone plug, three feet long and about two feet wide. Another
hour and half's digging completely uncovered it, and as the sun
threatened to rise, all of them tried to work together using the
shovel and a tire iron for leverage, to pull up the plug. McCain
could see that Jeane was having a very difficult time with her
injured arm, but still she held her own.
Finally, the stone gave in, and they pulled it up. It was old,
damp, and cold underneath, covered with a dark slime. Below
was darkness and a dripping sound. The flashlights had long
since perished.
"We wait for daylight, now," Ngan said.
They all collapsed around the hole, exhausted.
Ngan and Jeane used some of the time waiting for the sun
to construct a torch using the remaining bandages wrapped
around the end of a tree branch. It wouldn't bum for long.
An hour later, the sun was over the tops of the hills and
they could all see. McCain peered down into the hole and saw
that it dropped about six feet into water. The water moved
slowly in the direction of the river.
"Whatever they hid down here, I hope it wasn't subject to
water damage," McCain said.
He could see that Michelle was almost giddy with excite·
ment. He imagined that if Morrison were here, he would be as
well. Both of them shared one thing-they'd been researching
and investigating this mystery for a long time. Ngan, Jeane,
and he had only come in at the last moment. McCain couldn't

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speak for Luther, but he suspected strongly that this was all
pretty new to him, too. Nevertheless, i� was invigorating. He'd
never had the chance to look for buried treasure before.
Jeane pulled McCain a few steps away from the others and
said, "Fitz, you're goingto have to be the one who goes down."
He looked at her with upraised brows. "What?"
"Ngan's injury is worse than he'll let on. My arm's not going
to let me maneuver well, and-" her voice became a whisper­
"! don't want either of them going down there alone.� She
pointed her chin to where Luther stood talking with Michelle.
"Okay." 'lhlth was, he didn't mind all that much.
"I'm going down," McCain said, walking over to Ngan with
his hand out for the torch.
"We'll hand it to you when you're down," Ngan said. "The
water does not appear to be more than sixteen inches deep or
so, Michael, but be careful."
"I'll go down too," Luther said, joining them.
"There probably isn't room for two people down there,"
McCain said. "If I can't find anything, you can go down after I
come back up."
Jeane scowled at that, but McCain shrugged it off. Luther
seemed to accept it.
Ngan and Luther helped lower McCain, but he still had to
drop down about two feet onto unsure footing. He slipped and
fell immediately upon touching the ground, dunking all of him
but his head into near freezing water.
"Shit!" he yelled.
He yelled some more and used the wall to brace himself so
he could stand.
McCain stood in a natural cave, long and thin, extending down
toward the river. In the other direction, the tunnel narrowed
quickly-4here was only one wayto go. Thewallswere about three
feetapart and about five feet high. The water up to his mid·tbigh. He
could feel that his feet rested on solid rock-the light current prob­
ably kept any buildup from forming. Still, the rock was very slick.
He sighed and held up his hand through the hole. "All right,
gimme."

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Luther lit the torch with his lighter and handed it down to
McCain.
"You've only got a few minutes with that, most likely,"
Ngan said.
Still hanging onto the wall, McCain carefully brought the
torch down and thrust it ahead of him. The cave widened
slightly toward the river. Ducking down-knowing full well he
would be lucky to get out of there without hitting his head on
the low ceiling less than three or four times-he moved care­
fully forward.
After about a dozen slow, careful steps, he saw something
ahead.
A few more steps.
It was a rock thrust up from the floor, the water going
around it. The cave widened to about eight feet across, and
narrowed again, making sort of a circular chamber. The walls
were covered with symbols engraved into the rock--<:rosses,
ankhs, a Star of David, and many more that McCain didn't rec­
ognize. Holy symbols. Religious symbols. The rock in the cen­
ter had a small hollowed spot where something once rested,
but now it was empty. The ceiling rose a little so he didn't have
to hunch over.
He moved all around the strange chamber, searching for
anything informative. The rock pedestal in the center was obvi­
ously the key feature, but whatever it held was gone. Since he
was wet anyway, he felt around on the floor as best he could
with his free hand to see if anything had fallen off the rock, but
he found nothing.
Only after he went back to the symbols did he find some-
thing interesting.
"Michael, are you all right?" It was Ngan's voice.
"Hang on, I'll come back in a minute," he shouted back.
On the wall, away from the other symbols, McCain saw a
cruder scrawl carved into the dark, wet rock. It clearly showed
a boat of some kind and a line that ended at a figure. In the
middle of the figure, which didn't mean anything to him at first,
was a cross with scalloped edges. He harl seen that sort of cross

251
 monte co 11 k

only once before-in Rosslyn Chapel. The figure it was in, McCain
decided, could pass for a crude representation of S�d. The
carver didn't exactly have a delicate medium in which to work.
McCain's legs were already beginning to numb from the
cold, but there was more. Another line went from the "Scot­
land" figure farther along (west?) to another figure, perhaps a
land mass. This one seemed more carefully drawn, but McCain
didn't recognize it. In the middle of ·that figure was another
symbol McCain didn't recognize. It wasn't a scalloped cross or
anything like it. He studied it and tried to make sense of it.
Then his torch went out.
"Damn," McCain snorted.
In his fascination with the symbol, he hadn't even noticed
that the light was dying.
"What is it?" Jeane's voice came from down the tunnel.
"Get something for me to write on when I get up and out
I've got to get it down quickly.n

He threw the torch into the water and put one hand on the
wall. The other he held out in front of him to feel and to help
him balance. McCain slowly made his way along the wall, one
step at a time.
It was much more difficult towalk against the current, even
though it wasn't that strong. He slipped and banged his right
knee on the rock. Wmcing quietly, he tried to stand, fighting
against his body's urge to curl up into a ball to fight offthe cold.
Once on his feet again, he took a few more steps-
-and fell another time. When he tried to pull himself up,
he could see the daylight and the hole ahead of him. It gave
him the strength to stand, whereupon he immediately bashed
his head against the stone above him.
"Michael, are you all right?" Ngan shouted down.
"I'm coming," he said. Even to his own ears, his voice was
shaky and coarse.
He tried to keep his head down and struggled a few more
steps before bumping his head again. He felt the urge to close
his eyes. Between bumping his head and the cold, he would ·
soon be unconscious. He wished he hadn't thrown away the
 of a g ed a n ge I s

torch, which would help him beat away unconsciousness-but

what did unconsciousness look like?
Oh, God. McCain rubbed his wet, dirty face with his wet,
dirty hand. He was becoming delirious. He stumbled forward,
almost slipped, but caught himself. He managed a few more
steps and realized he could see a little now. Another couple of
slow unsteady steps and he heard Ngan right above him.
"Michael!"
Warm hands grabbed him and pulled. He reached up and
touched warm flesh and the sides of the hole. All at once he
was in a world of light and warmth. Jeane put her jacket
around him, using the sleeves to dzy him off.
"A piece of paper," he managed to say with chattering
teeth.
Luther handed him a notebook and a black marker. Ignor·
ing all else, he took the marker and drew the symbols he'd
seen-the ship, the scalloped cross-and paid special atten·
tion to get the last form correct, with the mysterious symbol in
its center. His hands were shaky, and he dripped water on the
paper, but he managed to get it down.
Ngan patted his head with something soft and chided him·
self for using the last of the bandages on the torch. McCain got
himself to a sitting position and held up the notebook.
"This is what I saw," he said. "I think this is a map to where
they took the Gr-� he stopped himself. "The treasure."
"I'll be taking that," Michelle said as she snatched the
notebook out of his hand from behind.
She grasped a small, hand-held device with a single flash·
lightlike switch and a number of bare wires housed in a ·crude
casing. It looked like a jury-rigged, homemade TV remote
control.
"This. should be all Psychotech needs to recover the Tem·
plar treasure," Michelle added with a smile.
"Oh, to be honest, I don't think that surprises anyone,"
Jeane told her.
Everything went white.

. 253
:. N gan stood next to a table and three chairs, all
knocked over and in disarray. A board game, with
lots of playing pieces, dice, and fake money lay
scattered about the floor. He recognized the place.
He was in his own mind.
This wasn't his secret spring, but a new place. A
place created by his interaction and empathic connec­
tion with Luther, he assumed. He wouldn't have cre·
ated such a place on his own. It was outside his
experience. But now it was practically destroyed and
the people were gone.
There was a buzzing sound in the background,
which reminded him of something he couldn't quite put
his finger on. He wandered around, looking at the walls
that once surrounded the table, now smashed and
destroyed, pieces of drywall and paneling lying all
around. Beyond that, evecything was white.
That droning noise caught his attention again,
though it seemed like it shouldn't. Was s'Omething

!54
 of a g ed u ge I s

purposefully trying to keep him from noticing the noise?

The scene changed abruptly, and he saw a familiar figure
standing alone in front of him amid the whiteness. The table
and the wreckage were gone. The figure was one of the yeti of
his childhood-tall, massive, and bestial, yet gentle and wise
at the same time. A perfect mesh of all things, and all natures.
"You are here because it is safe here," the creature whose
name was Xing Mengrui said. "But you must go out there." The
creature pointed with a long, hairy arm. "Do you think you
have the strength?"
Ngan now realized that the yeti referred to an area beyond this
safe zone, filled with the mind-scrambling static much like what
the tempest cage had generated. This was a safe place within his
mind, but ti was also completely shut off from the real world.
Michelle worked for Psychotech�r they controlled her
somehow. It was as he suspected. Psychotech eithertook over or
replaced Michelle, and once she hadthe information she needed,
they murdered the members of NOD, to cover their tracks. That
explained where she got devices like the cage and the psychic
scrambling device she'd used. He remembered her taking the
notebook from McCain's hand and activating the device.
There was a wave of pain, and he was there. Apparently,
his own mind had made this meditative state into a safe place.
Not having such a place of their own, the others were probably
just knocked unconscious. But if he was here, was his normal
secret spring, a place he'd created within himself as just such
a refuge, gone? Consumed by this strange room where people
had played games? He didn't know.
If the device worked along the same principles as the
static-generating tempest cage, which would mean that the
cage not only kept out all electronic signals but all psychic
energy as well-something Michelle had never mentioned, of
course-then fighting his way through the horrible scrambling
effect would be the worst thing he'd ever have to endure.
"Do I have to?" Ngan asked the yeti.
"No," the creature replied.
Ngan nodded. "I understand."

Z55
 mont8 co a k

He left the yeti behind and walked forward into what

appeared to be a sea of rolling, cascading static. Ngan stared
ahead and saw what pain looked like.
Every step was his last Every jolt of agony was the most he
could withstand. He gave up every second-and every second he
resolved to keep going. Sometimes he flailed with his arms against
the brain-scrambling waves of pain, but it didn't help. Sometimes
he tried to run faster through it That didn't help either.
He pushed forward, knowing it was not real pain. It was
the thought of pain. His body was fine-it was simply all the
connections in his brain, all his thoughts, memories, and feel­
ings that were being utterly scrambled and distorted. He imag­
ined what he felt would be the mental equivalent of having all
the cells in his body each individually given a jolt of electricity,
scattered, and brought back together in a jumbled pattern.
Every second.
Clarity of purpose would get him through, he knew. He
tried to imagine a tunnel through the sea of static and pain. He
squeezed through the tunnel and moved forward, finding the
ground to be slippery. Only then did he realize that he was
somehow channeling McCain.
�Michael's thoughts: he said to himself. "These are his
memories."
He realized what he had to do to get through this. Ngan
opened himself up empathically. He opened his mind wider
than he'd ever done-wider than he ever thought possible. He
drew in the thoughts, emotions, and memories of those around
him. He used them as anchors to pull himself through the pain.
Ngan saw McCain's confusion and surprise at learning that
his friend Morrison was a clone, created quite probably in the
same process and by the same people-and for the same pur­
pose?-who created him.
Ngan sawJeane's fear that she was losing her grip on what
she'd always taken as reality as she encountered more and
more proof that the absurd-aliens, magick, and all aspects of
·

the paranormal-were real.

Ngan saw Luther's desperate need to be a part of some-

l51
 of a g ed a n ge l s

thing bigger than himself and bis feeling of utter betrayal at

the hands of Michelle as she robbed him of what he saw to be
bis best chance at taking part in something truly significant.
And Ngan saw Michelle-standing over the unconscious
forms of bis friends gathered near the hole on the gentle slope
of a hill in the south of France. Clearly, only a few moments
had passed, even though it seemed as though he'd been press­
ing through the waves of psychic static for literally days.
Michelle pulled Jeane's pistol from the jacket she'd placed over
McCain's shoulders. She expertly checked the clip and pointed
it at McCain's head.
"That won't happen," Ngan managed to say.
Michelle turned her head toward him, her eyes wide. She
moved the weapon away from McCain.
"How?" she said softly.
Ngan rose to bis feet and batted the gun out of her hand. Her
hand was limp, and it was easy to accomplish. With another
movement, he thrust bis hand up to her hair and yanked off
what he suspected now must be a wig. He was right. Under­
neath, Michelle was bald, dozens of electrodes and electronic
connectors showing through her scalp amid a number of inele­
gant incisions sewn closed with the hand of a technician, not a
surgeon. Under the wig was a wire mesh, designed, he was
sure, to protect her from the psychic scrambler.
Michelle let out a soft cry and dropped to the ground,
unconscious. Without the mesh, the scrambler took her out as
easily as it had the others.
Ngan turned about and found the scrambling device. He
switched it off, and-despite bis better judgment-smashed it
against the stone plug.

"Michelle said something about Nova Scotia." Ngan said.

"Her research indicated that the Templars went there after
·

leaving Rosslyn Chapel."

Luther, the least injured of all of them, drove Michelle's

·257
 m onte co o k

van. She was still unconscious in the back, but Jeane bound
her tightly anyway, using the bandages that Ngan had fash­
ioned into a sling for her. It was more important to her to make
sure that bitch was out of commission than her arm was kept
steady. She rode in the passenger side with McCain and Ngan
in the back.
"Right," Luther said. "She mentioned that more than once
to me."
"Which ties in with our own research at the chapel, regard­
ing Hemy Sinclair and his naval voyage to the New World,"
Jeane said.
"My drawing's not the best," McCain said, "but the shape I
saw wasn't Nova Scotia."
"What if it's an island?" Ngan said.
"Geography's not my strong suit," Jeane said, "but I think
there's thousands of islands along the east coast of Canada
there."
"The lnstitute's database has a geographic location search
engine," McCain said. "If we scanned that image, we could use
it to find a match."
"Wow," Luther said, nodding, "that's pretty cool."
"We can't access the Institute database," Ngan said. "If there
is even a chance of a leak or a double agent watching for us, the
Priory of Zion or Psychotech could be upon us in short order."
"Ngan, how long is this going to go on?" Jeane asked. "We
can't remain incommunicado forever.•
"Just until we get Luther back safely."
"And I'm not going anywhere until we find the treasure,"
Luther said. "We're close. C'mon.•
"But we can't use the lnstitute's resources . . ." Jeane
shook her head. It seemed foolish to even consider.
"Haven't I proven anything to you by now?" Luther
smacked a hand on the dashboard. "I know a few things
about computers. With help from you guys, I could get in
and out of the Hoffmann Institute system without anyone
·

ever knowing."
·�h, that is so many kinds of wrong," Jeane said.

l58
 of a g ed a n ge I s

MHack our own system?" McCain said, mouth open.

MHow quickly can we get started?" asked Ngan.

Luther had been right. Together, they were able to hack

into the Institute's computers without too much of a problem.
Though McCain would avoid using the pun out loud, it was
clear that the kid could work magic with a computer.
The Institute's files revealed that the drawing matched­
roughly-a tiny islet off the coast of Nova Scotia called Oak
Island. What was even more interesting, however, was that
Oak Island was the site of something called the Money Pit.
Apparently, over a hundred years ago, some young boys had
discovered a large depression in the ground just below an old
oak tree. It looked as if someone had dug a hole and filled it in
again. Hoping for pirate treasure, they began to dig. They dug
down four feet and found a layer of flagstones. Down ten feet
they found an oak platform. At a depth of twenty feet they
encountered another oak platform, and yet another at thirty
feet. By this time the pit was so deep the boys couldn't easily
remove the logs. Discouraged by weeks of digging, the young
treasure hunters abandoned the project.
Years later, a company-aided by information from those
who originally found the pit, dug past thirty feet and found more
oak platforms, one at every ten feet. Some of the platforms were
sealed with puttyand coconut fiber. 'D:aces of charcoal were also
present. At ninety feet they found a large, flat stone with strange
runes engraved upon it No one knew exactly what it meant,
though some believed it to be a cipher indicating that treasure
lay still farther down. They managed to dig down ninety-eight
feet before triggering an ingenious trap built into the pit. A side
channel, open to the sea, filled the entire pit with water.
They then tried to create parallel shafts, but these, too,
filled with water. Over the years, various companies and indi­
viduals had tried to defeat the pit, but they always failed.
Augers and drills looking for samples revealed that something

f59
 m ante co o k

lay at the bottom of the pit, but it could never be reached with­
out flooding whatever pit was dug. To date, no one had ever
reached the bottom of the Money Pit. Truly, Nova Scotia was
the Arcadia that the Templars sought.
McCain told them about what Morrison said. He told them
that the treasure was nothing less than the object known in
myth as the Holy Grail.
"You've got to be joking," Jeane said.
"Nope. I mean, at least he wasn't joking. I don't know if he
was right. He made a convincing argument, though."
"The Holy freakin' Grail," Luther said, shaking his head.
"Too cool."
Luther also found a reference to a secret society in Canada
that the Institute had almost no information on. In fact, they
were written off as fable at best and crackpots at worst. They
called themselves, apparently, the Guardians of the Grail.
Though the Hoffmann Institute files made no reference to Oak
Island, McCain could o�y come to the conclusion that the Pri·
ory of Zion had influence in Canada as well. Of course they did.
If the Grail was there, so were they-watching over it.
On Jeane's insistence, he even put work orders n
i for a con­
tainment team to be sent to the airport in the French city of
Carcassonne to find a grey van and a woman within it. They
had left her there, after inflicting a fair amount of damage on
the electronic devices in the van-just in case.
After purchasing some new clothes and taking an opportu­
nity to get cleaned up and have a meal in Carcassonne, they
managed to get a flight to London, and from there they flew to
Halifax, Nova Scotia. Even Ngan slept on the plane, after all
they'd been through.

280
� ;d you thought you were finished (or did you see
this coming?).
You stand next to the overturned table and the scat­
tered bits ofthe game. The walls ofthe room are destroyed,
and there is only a calm, white area beyond. Ngan stands
next to you.
"Who are you?" he asks.
"That's a good question," you reply with a half­
hearted smile. "See, I was reading this book . ." Your
.

voice trails off. It's too weird to explain, even to Ngan.

"I guess," you say tentatively, "I'm here to help you.
We sort of put things together for you and even saw the
future, sort of. With this."
You point at the game board. .
•Ah, yes,• Ngan says. "Could you help me clean this
mess up?"
He kneels down and begins picking up play money ·

and cards.
"Oh, ah, sure,• you reply.
Ul
 m onte coo k

Seems like an odd request, but you suppose Ngan is a

really tidy person and . . . well, this does seem to be his mind,
after all. You get down on your knees and pick up the game
board. You fold it up neatly and begin stacking things on it­
game pieces, hotels, dice . . .
"You know," you say, "those other two who were here were
really into numerology and stuff like that." You smile.
"I think that's because of Luther and his predilections,"
Ngan replies without looking up.
"Yeah," you say, not really understanding him. "Every time
somebody rolled the dice, they seemed to be able to come up
with some mystical significance to it. I understood some of
them, but what's the whole twenty-three thing about, anyway?"
Ngan looks at you a moment, and says, "I don't want to be
rude, for it seems you have helped me a great deal recently.
However, I don't think you're here to ask me questions."
"Oh. Yeah, um," you stutter. "Right."
You begin picking up pieces again. As you do, you come
upon an orange card with some words on itthat catch your eye.
"Hey, look at this." You read the card aloud: • 'Psychotech
is to blame. Their incursions have weakened the Guardians of
the Grail.' "
Ngan considers this.
"Seems the game still works, huh?" you say.
"It's not really a game, you understand," Ngan says to you.
"Actually, no. I don't really understand it all."
"It's just a way of conceptualizing the inconceivable. It's a
tool, a technique."
You nod, still a little unsure of how you got involved with it
all. But like he said, this isn't about you asking questions.
You pick up another card and read it aloud. " 'Michelle's
activities have allowed the ultraterrestrials to learn where the
Grail is, even before she knew for certain.' "
You look at Ngan and say, "That sounds bad."
He nods.
"I'm sorry," you say. "Sorry that I sound like an idiot and
everything, but I really have no idea how I got here exactly."

282
 of a g ed an ge I s

Ngan ponders a moment, then speaks. "Like the game, you

are a conceptualizing device. You are a figment of my imagina­
tion-influenced by my connection with Luther.•
"But wait. No,• you say. "You've got that backward. You're
just a . . "
.

You can't bring yourself to say it. How would he react? It's
better not to say anything. Maybe you'll be able to go back to
reading your book soon.
"Never mind," you say instead. "I get it."
You notice, as you pick up the last of the cards, that the
table is gone, as are the walls. Only one chair remains.
"Where is everything going?"
"This device has worked pretty well," Ngan says, "but it's
time to try something else. It's not really, as they say, me. This
was once a beautiful, secluded spring in a forest with a gentle
breeze." Ngan looks off, somewhat wistfully.
"But my experience with the Psychotech device and fight­
ing against it . . changed me, somehow,• Ngan continues. "I
.

have moved on to a whole new . . . well, there are not words to

properly describe it." He sighs, but then smiles. "And you're
getting more answers to your questions than I am to mine,
now."
The game is gone, and the last chair has disappeared. You
stand with Ngan in a universe of. whiteness, still holding a
single orange card in your hand.
"Ask your question, then," you say. "Looks like you've got
one more coming.•
He hesitates only for a second, and speaks. "The yeti, in my
childhood, told me that the ultraterrestrials must be prevented
from gaining what they had lost Should I be worried about
that now, or is it something that can wait? We have been
through so much, and we need to get Luther-•
You read the card and hold it in front of him, interrupting
what he's saying. • 'You may already be too late.' •
And you fade away.

l83
 i .

·I) nee they landed in Canada, McCain wondered

Ngan really was sleeping on the plane, or if that
if

was one of his meditative states. He was surprised

that even after all these years of knowing "UncleA­
gain," he still couldn't always tell.
They must have looked a sorry sight. McCain's
bandaged face, Jeane's arm in a sling, Ngan's bandaged
arm and the general weakness in his step-Ngan prob­
ably thought they didn't notice, but it was clear he still
hadn't completely recovered from the injuries he sus­
tained in Scotland.
Halifax was quiet. Yet another rental car-a Jeep
Cherokee-carried them out of the city to a boat rental
place in a small community about forty-five minutes
away called Mahone Bay, named afterthe body of water
surrounding Oak Island. On the way the radio news dis­
cussed a grisly double murder the night before. Unfor­
tunately, no boat would be available until later that
afternoon. They waited in a coffee shop called Bill's

284
 of a g ed a n ge I a

that was right on the waterfront. The clientele was small, and
·

they appeared to be mostly hobbyist fishermen.

The smell of salt and fish was strong in the· little place.
They all crowded into a booth and ordered coffee. It took only
moments for the conversation to turn to the matter at hand.
".So why," Jeane asked, "would the people who took the
Grail and hid it away leave clues to where it could be found?"
McCain thought he had the answer for that. "It must have
seemed, as the Templars were betrayed by King Philip IV and
the Pope he had in his back pocket, that the Priory's great task
was about to be ruined. If the Templars were wiped out, per­
haps their 'parent,' the Priory of Zion, would also fall. They
didn't know if there would be anyone to carry on their legacy.
So they left clues to those who might come after them. You
know, in case they all died, someone somewhere down the line
would figure out where the Grail was."
"That would imply," Jeane said, "that they meant to one day
uncover the Grail-use it, or at least do something with it
other than hiding it."
"Good point. Who knows-maybe we'll never know."
Jeane frowned, nodded.
"The thing I wonder is," McCain said, "if it's the right thing
to try to recover the Grail from the Priory in the first place. I
mean, if they're guarding it, why not just let them?"
"The whole notion of noble knights finding a blessed newworld
in which to hide a holy treasure from the forces of evil is a roman­
tic one, I'll admit," Jeane said. "I don't know ifit's reallythe truth."
"My motivation is this," Ngan said. "I sense that the power
of the ultraterrestrials is growing. I'm sure that's due in part
to the levels of Dark Matter being on the increase. I'm also
sure that it means they're close to obtaining the Grail. You said
it yourself, Michael, the Priory of Zion is faltering. They've
fought a good fight and it may very well be unfortunate that
they consider us their enemies-that I do �ot know. What I am
sure of is that they can no longer keep the Grail safe. I also
know it's important to keep the Grail from the hands of the
ultraterrestrials."

f65
 m on te ca o k

"Why?" Jeane asked.

"We can't know that until we understand what the Grail
can do," Ngan said, "but I have it on very good authority that
the ultraterrestrials are not our friends and that they must be
stopped."
McCain knew from years of experience that Ngan had a
way of saying "I just know this to be true," and whenever he
spoke in that way, it turned out that it was indeed true. He
spoke in that manner now.

When Jeane was a teenager, her family vacationed for an

entire summer at a cabin on the shores of Lake Michigan. She
spent that summer, or least every moment she could, on a boat.
She hadn't had the chance to spend much time on the water
since then, but she was happy to get the chance now-even
under these circumstances. She took charge of the boat rental
process and took the wheel when they finally set off for Oak
Island.
The island itself was very small. A causeway connected it
to the mainland, but that was closed off-apparently tourists
or visitors were not welcome. The people who owned the land
surely didn't want to be responsible for some fortune hunter
poking around, particularly if there were deep-not to mention
trapped-pits involved. The Hoffmann Institute files had indi­
cated that some people had already died in trying to get to the
bottom of the Money Pit.
Wmd·whipped across the water and made even a warm day
cool. The place didn't welcome them-it was forlorn and all
but forsaken. Green, but not pleasant. A lonelier place Jeane
could not imagine.
They had decided not to call in for backup, even though
it seemed the smart thing to do-at least to Jeane. Ngan
seemed more confident than ever that there was some­
thing not entirely trustworthy about what was going !n the
Institute.

iee
 of a g ed a n ge I 1

"I think Naka.mi suspected more about Luther than he'd

originally told me," Ngan said. "I think he may be involved with
something not necessarily in our best interests."
Once they were off the boat, which they beached in a small
cove, they wandered around a bit, trying to assess the place. A
sign read Triton Alliance Excavation. The ground appeared
churned and tossed about, with new grass covering it all.
There were signs of not one pit, but many. Jeane remembered
from the files that they'd dug side shafts and tunnels to pre­
vent flooding or to avoid the flooding system altogether. It
never worked.
A fence cordoned off a shaft, though it was labeled with a
sign as being a parallel shaft, not the Money Pit itself. A few
lonely, abandoned buildings hid among the trees, off to one
side.
They all looked around. McCain climbed over the fence to
peer down the remains of the only existing shaft. Ngan poked
at the ground with his foot in various places as if he expected
the earth to open up at his touch. It didn't.
Jeane studied the trees, a little worried about an ambush.
Nothing moved. They were alone.
"No one's ever going to be able to dig up what's at the bot­
tom of this pit," Luther proclaimed, standing within a depres­
sion to one side of the cordoned-off shaft.
Jeane turned to face him. "Why do you say that?"
"Because it's protected by a spell. I can feel it here-it's
weird that you guys, and I guess other people too, can't."
Ngan said; "I feel something strange here as.well.· I don't
have your expertise in this field, Luther, so I don't know what
it is, but it is here."
"Fortunately for us, I have the proper key to this particular
lock already worked out," Luther said, beaming. "I think he ."

said, much more softly.

. 287
Wbile we were on the plane you guys were all sleep­
ing, but I wasn't," Luther said. "I was like, 'Hey
stewardess, keep the caffeine train running up to
my seat,' and I worked. I took that symbol McCain saw
in the middle of what turned out to be Oak Island, and
I coded a quick program that would draw that symbol.
Kaos magick often, like, relies on glyphs and symbols
to enable focus. A particular symbol goes with a par·
ticular end. That symbol, I think, is the key to the spell
that keeps the Grail secure."
"But Luther, Kaos magick wasn't even a concept
backwhenthat symbol was created, right?" Jeane asked.
McCain was surprised to hear this. Jeane, with a
relevant question about magickal techniques? Maybe
this was the end of the world after all.
"Kaos magick is about whatever works. I think this
might work."
"So what do you do with the program?" McCain
asked.

!BB
 of a g ed an ge I s

"I set it to go into an infinite loop, drawing this symbol­

the glyph or rune or whatever it is-over and over again a few
hundred thousand times and see what happens."
McCain watched as Jeane started to shake her head, but
then she stopped. He saw Ngan carefully considering the situ·
ation. McCain decided to take the lead.
"So Luther," he said, "it looks like you're the focus here.
We're your cover. You get your computer-spell-thing going, and
we'll make sure nothing stops you."
He'd left the weapons back in France, since he had no bags
to check and would never have gotten them on the plane oth·
erwise, so he just stood at the ready.
"Okay, if that's our plan, I'll go with it," Jeane said, setting
her suitcase down at her feet.
Luther sat down in the grass, took out his laptop, turned it
on, and said, "We've got until something happens or until the
batteries crap out in a couple hours-whichever comes first."
"Even if nothing happens," Jeane said, "at least we'll be
here if someone else comes looking for the pit."
Ngan sat down beside Luther and said, "The sky grows
dark. A storm approaches."
McCain looked across the horizon and saw the fierce
clouds that approached. The storm came quickly, and with it
came a strong, salty air mixed with an ozone smell. The wind
from the sea increased.
Soon it was dark with storm clouds. McCain looked back at
Luther and Ngan, but they both seemed out of touch-Luther
staring at his computer, and Ngan in his meditative state.
Something struck McCain in the head. He looked around,
and on the ground. A fish lay flopping at his feet. It was about
four inches long. A few yards away, McCain thought he saw
another fish flopping. Then he heard a noise like rain, or hail,
but subtly different. He saw another fish and another. Another
one struck him on the shoulder.
Fish were falling from the sky.
Thunder rumbled.
Jeane looked around with astonishment and gave a wide·

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eyed shrug in McCain's direction when their eyes met McCain

still looked around, more amazed with each fallen fish. The
effect was nothing less than surreal.
McCain braced himself for anything. Suddenly, he saw a
bright light in the sky. The light became brighter, andwas clearly
a sphere, or almost a sphere. As it grew closer, he sawthat it was
a spherical metal shell, not a light but a sphere covered in lights.
Some of the lights could have been windows or portholes. As it
came closer still, it seemed less spherical and more oblong.
Saucer-shaped.
Cigar-shaped.
McCain rubbed his eyes. Was he delusional?

Jeane watched the fish flopping around her feet. She

watched lightning in the storm off in the distance, and watched
as a ball of lightning streaked past her, following a circuitous
route through the trees.
Jeane scanned the darkening sky for something tangible.
As she watched, a black, unmarked helicopter-she identified
it to be a modified AH-64 Apache-descended and flew low to
the ground. It was almost completely silent and ran with few
lights. It was the ultimate in stealth technology, and she knew
it would be manned with elite operatives . . . but who did they
work for? What were they doing here?

Ngan watched as the ultraterrestrials' affect on reality

altered everything. It played with perception, it disrupted the
weather, and t
i threw off local cause-and-effect laws. Suddenly,
they were simply there, when they hadn't been there before. He
felt them rather than saw them, for he knew that in this ease
seeingwas believing, and it did no good to believe in something
utterly incomprehensible. He closed his eyes, for his senses no·
longer served him.
t1D
 of a g ed a n ge l s

"Don't look, Luther," he shouted over the sound of wind,

UFOs, and helicopters.
"Why, will I tum into a pillar of salt?"
"Perhaps," Ngan said, but so softly he doubted Luther
heard him.
Ngan didn't allow the fact that the story of Lot's wife sud­
denly made more sense to him now to distract him from what he
was doing. He had to protect Luther from the ultraterrestrials.
A fish flopped on the ground next to him.

Jeane knew that these men were her enemies. Fortunately

for her, while they might possess cutting-edge technology, she
had something beyond that. She opened up the suitcase at her
feet and pulled out the can of crisps, wincing as the action
forced her to use her injured arm. She pulled offthe lid and slid
her good hand in. Jeane felt the sticky secretion of the crea­
ture, but forced herself not to blanche. She grasped it and
pulled it out.
Before she realized what was happening, the thing inched
its way up her hand to secure her (its?) grip and whipped its
tail-like appendage around her arm. She could feel something
warm and sharp slipping into her flesh. The pain was dull
rather than sharp, unpleasant and unnerving. She forced her­
self not to look at the wound but knew it was caused by the
end of the tendril bit. She felt as though it was "plugging in" to
her. Was that good or bad? She didn't know.
She also didn't know how to operate the thing, or if "oper­
ate" was even the right word. She pointed its scaly brown body
at the approaching helicopter.
"And in Arcadia I . . . blast the crap out of you," she whis­
pered and squeezed her fist, concentrating on firing. .
At first, nothing happened, then Jeane felt a tingle run up
her arm, down her spine, and back again. He hand grew cold
and a small orifice opened at the front of the creature. Itspat
a small projectile too quickly for Jeane to see it. There was no

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recoil and little sound. She couldn't tell if it hit her target or
not. This was followed with a blast of energy, arcing out
toward the helicopter, striking it. The helicopter lit up with
energy and for a moment almost looked like it lost its shape
and became a blur.
Then it flew over her.

· McCain tried to rationalize what he was seeing. Even after

all he'd been·through, his mind told him this was a hallucina·
tion or a strange optical effect.
With windows.
Suddenly, an arc of blue energy rose up from the ground
and struck the craft. He followed the arc back down to the
ground and saw that Jeane bad put on the insect thing. He gri·
maced. What a teml>le thought. Still, as the lightninglike
energy that the thing produced hit the saucer, it wavered and
for a moment disappeared-or rather, it lost its form and
became insubstantial, then flew overhead.
His first instinct was to run to the covering trees. Given the
UFO in the air and the fish on the ground, however, he was certain
that if he ran into the woods, he would run smack into bigfoot
He held his ground, hoping against hope that he could avoid
seeing Nessie rise up out of the roiling waters in the distance.
.. ·.::��== s::c:· ..
TT-T!#n;-�- -·
. . __
-:- . .. ..
_
-.· � .

Jeane found that itwas simple to keep the stream of energy

blasting into the helicopter. Apparently, the projectile it
launched latched onto the target and maintained the circuit (if
that word was appropriate) in· order to blast it with energy
without the need for further targeting. .
The helicopter seemed to disappear just over the tree line,
but then it appeared again, still swooping low, but coming back
in her direction. Energy poured into it from her insect weapon:.
It wavered, faded, ·and kept coming.
f7f
 of a g ed a n ge I s

She realized that no normal helicopter could take this bar­

rage of energy. The force should be burning through its fuse­
lage, igniting its fuel or at least disrupting its electronics.
But it kept on coming.
She shouted back at Ngan, "It's not real is it?"
"It most certainly is real," he shouted back.
She looked back at the black Apache. Its engines made a
soft chopping sound in the air.
"Just because it's not what it looks like makes it no less real.
n

Luther was completely focused on the screen, enraptured by

the program. Ngan watched him carefully. He felt the energies
around him and the seething energies directly below them,
underground. Luther's magick wasn't going to merely unlock
the spell that had kept the Grail safe and unattainable, it was
going to bring it right up to them. Right up to the surface.
Right up to the ultraterrestrial forces that flitted above
them, taking no true form but those they stole from the minds
of others.
Ngan knew they would recover the Grail and the ultrater­
restrials would simply take it. In fact, perhaps that was what
they were counting on all along. Perhaps they were even influ­
encing his working, powering the process. It was just too far
out of Ngan's normal area of expertise to know.
Maybe he shouldn't protect Luther-or rather, maybe there
was nothing to protect Luther from. Maybe, instead, he should
stop him before it was too late.
You may already be too late.
"Oh, Luther, what have you done?"
Now Ngan finally, truly understood what the visions were
saying. He understood what the warning about Luther using
his computer really meant.
Too late.
The ground split open. Rock sundered and soil erupted. A
ray of light sliced through earth and up into the air. The light

273
 11 on te coo k

carried a mass within it, each photon slowly gathering

together to form an oval object that shimmered with an emer­
ald brilliance. Its shape wasn't singular but fluid and plural.
The Grail.
The Holy Grail.
It spoke with ancient power, and sang with a tempest of
time. Ngan seemed able to communicate with it on some
level-not in the way a person communicates, but in the way
a song or a poem communicates.
in an instant, Ngan realized the Grail's power. Life and
death-making and unmaking. No wonder the ultraterrestrials
wanted it back, and no wonder the humans who had guarded it
for so long did so with such conviction. No wonder the people
of old associated its powers with religious figures and events.
This was truly the power of gods.
Or maybe just one god, if it were the right god.
He had an idea. It was a foolish, insane idea, with little
forethought and no real consideration. Not like Ngan at all.
Ngan reached out, tentatively, and touched the emerald
made ofboth matter and energy. When it didn't destroy him, or
harm him in any way, he grasped it. It felt like a smooth stone.
In his heart, he knew that, too, was just a trick of perception.
Maybe, just maybe, there would be a moment-perhaps
Jeane's attack on them with their own weapon would buy them
that moment.
Just maybe.
A moment was all he needed.
Ngan grasped the Grail.
For a moment, he imagined that it dripped with power as
he clutched it, like a sponge drips with water when you clutch
it. He thought to extend his mind into it and explore all its
secrets and learn all its wonders. He thought to draw its
power into himself and infuse himself with immortality and
divine might.
Ngan thrust the Grail into Luther hands.
"Go,• he whispered, knowing full well that Luther heard
him. "You know what needs to be done. You can do it. Seek

274
 of a g ed a n ge I a

freedom, like you told me about. Let no one be your master,

and be the master of no one.•
Luther took the stone into his hands and looked at it, then
looked at Ngan and smiled. "You understand this crap even
more than I ever thought. Like, more than anyone I've ever
known.•
"Go, Luther. Do what the Templars and the Priory of Zion
never dared to do. Use the power of the Grail itself to keep it
away from those who must never possess it.•
. Luther kept smiling. His face beamed with pride and
excitement.
"I will."
He looked at the object of incalculable power in his hands.
"Cool."
And he was gone.

f75
 1-:� be the one who tells Dr. Nakami that we lost
Luther."
"You bet you will," Jeane said, smiling.
"It's not going to look good in our personal files,"
McCain said. "Another failure."
"And insubordination," Ngan said. "We avoided
messages and instructions from up the chain of
command."
The Chicago office had already been repaired.
Crews had searched the air ducts and every other part
of the building and found no creature like the one Jeane
had described, but they had found some strange acidic
residue that was immediately shipped off to the
Chicago Specimen Collection for testing.
McCain and Ngan sat in the office all three shared.
Jeane set a large specimen case on the floor next to her
desk and sat down as well. She made out a label for it,
and wrote: "Insectoid energy projecting weapon: ultra­
terrestrial origin," dated it, and placed it on the side.

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 of a g ed a n ge 1 1

She almost forgot to give it the case number. She wrote "23"
on the label.
"I wrote up my own field test report for this thing," she
said, patting the case. "I'm calling it a success.•
"Maybe they'll be standard field issue one day," McCain said.
"Well, I'm glad we had it,• Jeane said.
"So am I," Ngan said.
Jeane lowered her voice and asked, "What about the secu­
rity breach? Are you still worried that we can't completely .
trustthe Institute?"
"More than ever, in fact,• Ngan answered in his normal voice.
"No matter what happens, we should always be on our guard.•
"It's nice knowing there's always a couple people I can
trust," McCain said with his biggest put-on grin. "And of
course there's you two."
"What about Nakami?" Jeane asked, still serious.
"I've been thinking about that. I do believe Dr. Nakami
knew more about Luther, the ultraterrestrials, and even the
Grail. He is extremely insightful and privy to knowledge I can
not begin to guess the origin of. But if Nakami did know about
Luther's special nature and his lifelong connection with some­
thing I believe was the Grail, then perhaps we ended up doing
exactly what he wanted.•
"So then maybe we won't be in such hot water,• McCain
said hopefully.
"No, I think we'll be all right."
Jeane asked, "Why wouldn't he just tell us all that in the
first place?"
"I suspect he also knows about the information leaks,"
Ngan said.
He got up and poured himself another cup of coffee.
"So you file your report?" Jeane asked McCain.
"You mean about the . . .•
"The flying saucer, yeah."
"I just called it an unidentifiable anomaly.•
"Good one,• she said. "Maybe I'll use that too.•
"For the helicopter?"

rn
 m onte co o k

"Right."
"What do you think happened to all of . . .whatever they
were?" Jeane asked Ngan. •After Luther disappeared, and they
disappeared, and . . . then what?"
"I believe," Ngan said, "that once their goal was unattain­
able, they left."
"Back to . . . wherever?" McCain said.
"Whoknows? Almost by definition, we can not know. It will
do us no good to speculate further."
"And Luther?" McCain asked.
"The Grail has a new guardian," Ngan said.
"An anarchist, smart-mouthed, disrespectful punk
guardian with delusions of grandeur," Jeane said, grimacing to
hide her own smile.
McCain laughed. "Yeah, and that's pretty cool."
Ngan nodded. "Pretty cool."

278
 •
{fivt)
BY IUIT CDllUMED
Don Bassingthwaite

After a few turns, the drops of blood became more frequent.

The jogger had slowed down, perhaps thinking she'd shaken
off her pursuer. She hadn't. One of the drops was smeared
across the pavement in a footprint. More footprints followed it,
stamped out in blood.
MI heard something!" Monty gasped.
wNo, you didn't," Ngan told him firmly.
The end of the trail lay around one more turn, ironically just
a few trailers over from where they'd entered the maze. This
final space was larger than the other metal-sided canyons and
two or three other deeply shadowed passages fed into it There
were some garbage cans, and a few old wooden skids leaned
against one of the trailers. In a patch of sunlight, blood made a
concentrated little pattern. The jogger must have stopped,
maybe to gather her strength. More drops had fallen in rapid
succession to make a short trail away from that pattern. Some
of them had again been smeared by a footprint, but this time the
footprint pointed backward. The jogger had been surprised as
she rested. She'd taken a few steps back away from her pursuer.
There had been time to scream once more, but not to run again.
The short trail of blood ended in a drift of pale grey dust.

January 2002
Coming as an electronic download on www.wizards.com

02001 Wizuds ofthe Coast. All Rights Reserved.

 About the Author

Monte Cook, a senior game designer with Wizards

of the Coast, wrote the DUNGEONS & DRAGONS®
Dungeon Master's Guide for the game's newest
edition and co-wrote the DARK•MATTERrM campaign
setting. In his spare time, he plays all sorts of
games, holds a yearly game convention at his house,
builds vast dioramas out of LEGO building bricks,
and reads a lot about conspiracies and general
weirdness. Monte's short stories have appeared in
FORGOTTEN REALMS® anthologies and Amazing
Stories, and his first novel The Glass Prison was
published in 1999. He lives with his wife, Sue, and
his rabbit, Wilbur, in the Pacific Northwest.

FORGOTTEN REALMS, DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, and the Wizards of the Coast logo are
registered trademarks owned by \V"tzards of the Coast, Inc. DARK•MATTER is a
trademark owned by Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
02001 \V"tzards of the Coast. lnc.