year of his term, the powers-that-be were looking for his successor, since they had no tolerance for backing a man who would seek to end their livelihoods. If Jack wanted to remain in office, he would have to play the game.
Jack loved his job. He loved carrying out justice, amassing convictions. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had enjoyed the limelight, the prestige of the office.
What he had first thought of with disdain eventually lured him in. He had gone out glad-handing, soliciting money, wearing false smiles, and making promises that he knew couldn’t be fulfilled. But it was all in sacrifice to his career, to the job, to getting reelected; the end justifyied the means.
And with his compromised values, Jack realized that he had become his father.
CHAPTER 11
Cristos awoke with the sun, its warm summer rays spilling across the white sheets, urging him out of bed. For forty-five minutes, he put his body through the fluid motions of an ancient routine taught to him in his youth; it at once worked out the body, the mind, and the soul. The routine was not a martial arts kata or yoga, although its ancient rites found a foothold in both. The sweeping motions of his legs and arms, the delicate balance achieved on a single hand or foot, the inverted crunches and situps, the spiritual emptying of his mind, all combining to awaken his muscles, heart, and spirit, preparing them for the arduous day ahead.
Through years of discipline, pushing himself to the physical limit, Nowaji Cristos had built his body into an instrument of perfection-one of power, capable of not only immense strength but also subtle dexterity and coordination that afforded him the tools to perform his expertise.
Completing his routine, he arose from the floor and looked around the elegantly appointed room, his home for the last five days. The room was masculine, with heavy, dark wood furnishings: an armoire, a nightstand, and a matching dresser filled with recently purchased clothes. He stared at the luxury king-sized bed, his thoughts filling with memories. He had slept on all manner of surfaces, from the beds at the George V hotel in Paris to the jungle floors of Borneo. No matter where he closed his eyes, he could find a restful sleep, free of worry and anxiety, his body thriving on six hours of rest, the circadian rhythm of his mind like a precise clock. For forty-one years, through turmoil, death, and agony, he had never been troubled at night, but this week proved different. His dreams, usually few and far between, had become frequent nightmares, as if all of the dead had returned to exact their vengeance upon him.
With the look of a man fifteen years his junior, no one would have guessed his age. In spite of his large size and long black hair, he could lose himself in any environment, in any crowd, no matter where he was on earth. While he prided himself on his refined appearance and despite the notoriety he had gained the world over, his face was not known except to a handful of people. No photo or video existed of him-he was spoken of as myth, with descriptions ranging widely, from having been born on five different continents to possessing the appearance of varying ethnicities. Like a chameleon, he could adapt to any environment. The mix of clothing within the armoire would shape his appearance as everything from a day laborer to a homeless man of the street to an investment banker.
In the blue-tiled bathroom, he meticulously laid out his shaving kit-an old-fashioned single-blade razor, a soft camel-hair shaving brush, a heavy bar of Rhist soap-placing them on the washcloth on the counter. He filled the sink with scalding water, dipped the brush and the bar of soap in, and rubbed them together, building up a frothing lather. With the attention of an artist, he shaved his skin smooth, his dark eyes staring in the mirror as he examined his skin, ensuring that he hadn’t missed a spot. His face was strong, hard-lined, its tone just above a mild tan. Some may have called it the color of weak tea, a color found in many races of men: dark-skinned Caucasian, Mediterranean, Asian, South American.
He turned on the shower, allowing the steam to build, to fill the air with mist, fogging the mirror so he could avoid seeing his reflection as he removed his T-shirt.
While his face was pure, his body was marred. Jagged flesh, raised and ghostly white, had restrung itself along his left side, and his back was littered with crisscross striations, worn like a badge of honor for surviving torture during capture. Scars along the right side of his torso leaked down his body like melted wax, pouring down from the base of his neck, repulsing him at every glance while terrifying anyone who cast their eyes on it. The burns robbed his tan flesh of color, the grafted skin, grotesquely taut over his large muscles, stretching in odd folding shapes when his body flexed or grew taut. The pain of the countless surgeries had lasted for months, an agony forever etched in his mind.
Yet somehow, despite all of the brutality he had endured, his face had remained without blemish. It never exposed what lay beneath the designer suits he had grown fond of wearing, his damaged body concealed like the violence in his heart.
Dressed in A black Armani suit, starched white shirt, and pale blue silk tie, Cristos inspected himself in the mirror. He picked up two EpiPens off the counter and slipped them into his breast pocket. He exited the bedroom and entered the small office-like sitting room. His jet-black hair was pulled tight in a ponytail, his fingers were perfectly manicured, and a gold watch wrapped his left wrist. With the appearance of a refined Wall Street executive, he took a seat at a large partners’ desk. He glanced at the long black box that sat on the table in the corner, at the number 7138 along the side, but quickly directed his attention to the array of monitors before him. He read the first; the bank accounts in Sri Lanka, Switzerland, and Prague reflected balances in excess of fifty million dollars each. Each account was under the ownership of an elaborate string of shell companies, each legitimate in its own right, with a diversity of holdings in real estate, textiles, and manufacturing.
The second and third monitors reflected his latest intel, dossiers, and photos pertaining to his various employees and contracts.
Cristos’s computer system was secure, with an encryption system that would be the envy of any government. But there were certain secrets for which he reserved other methods.
Unlike much of society, governments, and institutions, he did not trust his most important information to a silicon chip. He was taught at an early age that if one was to keep secrets, there was no greater location, no place more impenetrable, than his own mind. Computers could be hacked, vaults could be cracked open, associates could be coerced with everything from bribery to chemicals. But as sharp as his mind was, as good as his memory was, there were some things that needed to be recorded. In his simple homeland, a forgotten world that shunned technology in favor of a more spiritual existence, methods existed whose simplicity had been forgotten by modern society.
Cristos rose from his desk and stepped to the table where the rectangular box lay. He removed a small billfold from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, opened it, and withdrew two thin strips of metal, one L-shaped, the other with a multiwaved tip. He kneeled before the box and slipped the two sticklike objects into the lock on the near end, and with a surgeon’s careful hand, he picked the lock. After placing his tools back in their pouch and slipping it back into his pocket, he stood up, lifted the lid, and peered inside.
He stared for a moment and finally reached into the case, withdrawing a single envelope. He tore it open and removed a handwritten note. He read it through twice, before putting it back in the envelope and into his pocket.
He picked up his cell phone-satellite technology, multiple relays, and encryption software made it virtually untraceable for up to three minutes, which was twice as long as any conversation he ever needed to have-and quickly dialed.
“Hello,” a voice answered.
“Good morning,” Cristos said in a deep Eurasian accent.
“Well?” the person on the other end of the phone asked. “Do you have the case?”
“I do.” Cristos turned his head and stared at the long black box. “But it seems your intelligence-a word so inappropriate-was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“The case was empty.”
“Empty?”
“I never had much faith in you, anyway.”
“You listen to me, I could end your life with-”
