Yeats was a weaker man than he thought.
'The president and Packard told me about the globe,' he said. 'Did you know this was what that tombstone and book code nonsense was all about?'
Her silence said yes. He didn't know which annoyed him more: that the Alignment had kept him out of the loop or that she had. As a biological legacy of the Alignment, he always resented it when those adopted into the organization knew more than he did. Especially the true identity of one or more of the 30 who ruled the Alignment and knew all the names and faces. In two days so would he.
'They want me to find it.'
'You?' She looked at him with frightened eyes. 'Have you told Osiris?'
'Of course. Nothing's changed. I simply have to keep this globe from falling into the hands of either the Church or the State. And now the federal government has given me the men and muscle to do that. Meanwhile, you're going to have to be on the lookout for Yeats. He has few places to turn now. One of them is bound to be you.'
She said nothing.
It was an awkward pause, but Seavers didn't mind her discomfort. In fact, he took perverse pleasure in it and the knowledge of pleasure soon to come.
'Max, you're as cool and confident of yourself as ever,' she told him. 'But you only know Conrad Yeats the specimen. Not the man.'
'Unlike, say, you?' he replied with ice in his voice.
She was terrified. He could see it in her eyes. 'I'm just saying that there's always a body count when people go after him.'
Seavers let out a loud laugh and couldn't stop laughing. It was too funny, really.
'After tonight, Brooke, the only body you'll need to worry about is yours.'
21
THE NEXT MORNING Conrad stood in his change of clothes outside the Starbucks on Wisconsin looking at his watch. It was barely 5:30 a.m., and already the line to see his old friend Danny Z was out the door.
Daniel Motamed Zadeh-'Danny Z' to friends-worked as a barista behind the counter. Danny had let his hair grow long since his days at the Pentagon and had it in a ponytail, looking like Antonio Banderas in Zorro. But Conrad could tell it was him even from the back of the line. Ten minutes later Conrad stepped up to the counter and looked Danny Z in the eyeballs for the first time in a decade.
'Tall nonfat latte,' he told Danny as he slipped him three George Washingtons. 'The name's Bubba.'
Danny marked up the order specs on the outside of an empty white Starbucks cup and looked over Conrad's shoulder and said, 'Next customer, please.'
Just like that, they were done.
Conrad ambled over to the far counter where several patrons waited to pick up their orders-K street types, a couple of diplomats and a college intern fetching orders for her congressman's entire staff. He couldn't help but notice the headline below the fold of the front page of the Post that one of the K street guys was reading:
False Bioterror Scare
Clears U.S. Capitol Then the guy lowered his paper and looked straight at him. Conrad shifted his gaze quickly to scan the mugs on the shelves to the side. They were always coming up with new ones. He was tempted to buy a pair-one for him and one for Serena.
When a barista called the name 'Bob' nobody answered. Conrad figured 'Bob' was 'Bubba,' lost in translation.
One sip told him that was the case, and as he walked out to the street he looked at the side of his cup and noticed the peculiar markings for his latte: there were the three symbols for the constellations from his father's tombstone, along with a new, fourth symbol which Danny had inserted.
Strung together the translation on the side of his Starbucks cup read:
Bootes + Leo + Virgo = Bad Alignment.
Tell me something I don't know, Conrad wondered, but when he looked back inside the store Danny Z was no longer behind the counter. Another barista, a blonde, was taking orders.
Conrad went round back to the alley and stood by the trash bins behind the store. It was starting to drizzle. He sipped his coffee and waited. Danny Z made slamming good coffee, although this probably wasn't what his parents in Beverly Hills had planned for their little genius when he went off to MIT.
Danny came from an Iranian family that fled Tehran when the mullahs toppled the government of the Shah of Iran decades ago. They settled in the Trousdale Estates part of Beverly Hills with other Persian Jews and pretty much kept to themselves while sending their kids to Beverly Hills High School, which eventually had so many Persians that by the time Danny was going there the school was printing its programs in English and Farsi. It was only a matter of time before the CIA recruiters called, always looking for a few good Iranians with connections to the old country. Daniel Motamed Zadeh, tired of his cars and Persian princesses and prospects for more of the same, was ripe for a higher calling and became a spy for his beloved America, the Great Satan so far as the current regime in Tehran was concerned.
Danny Z had left National Intelligence at the Pentagon a few years back under a cloud of bitter recriminations on both sides. This after he was brought on board to become, in effect, the chief astrologer for the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Apparently Danny was under the impression that Conrad still worked for the Pentagon. The first thing he did coming out the door with a bag of trash was take a swing at Conrad with it.
Conrad ducked, spilling some coffee and scalding his hand. 'Hey, Danny, I'm one of the good guys.'
Danny stuffed the bag into the stinking trash bin. 'Bullshit. Your name is Yeats, isn't it? Just like your old man.'
'He's dead, remember?'
'Promise?'
'There was a funeral, Danny. You were the only one from the old days not there.'
'Meaning what?'
'Meaning you're the only one I can trust.'
Danny gave him a napkin from his pocket. 'Better drink it now, it loses its oxidation and flavor in a few minutes. Don't make me waste a cup of good coffee.'
Conrad wiped the cup and then his hand. He took a sip and nodded his approval.
Danny calmed down, pulled out a cigarette, and started blowing smoke, eyeing him nervously.
Conrad said, 'I thought you preferred hookah pipes to sticks.'
'I got religion and gave up all that shit.'
'Since when are cigarettes a sacrament?'
'Since Genesis says that when Rachel saw Isaac from afar 'she lit off her Camel.'' Danny blew smoke out of both nostrils. 'So you're trying to figure out your old man's tombstone like the rest of them?'
'The rest?'
'Packard's people came to me asking about the stars on the tombstone weeks ago. How else do you think I knew about the constellations? You think I'm a psychic now, too?'
Conrad looked at the once-happy Danny and wondered what must have happened to him after the DOD's intelligence branch stole him from the CIA. It was all bullshit, of course. But the Russians, al-Qaeda, the Chinese and others often timed their rocket launches, terrorist attacks, and nuclear tests to significant dates. The head of the Russian rocket program had gone so far as to state on record that he believed astrology was a 'hard science.' And as long as America's enemies, both real and imagined, believed in hocus-pocus, the Pentagon figured they had better, too. They plotted every day and date, both historically and astrologically, visible and invisible, in order to predict threats and prepare accordingly.
Danny was a natural, coming from a long line of mystics who allegedly traced themselves back to the Persian Empire, to the Jews exiled to Babylon and taught by King Nebuchadnezzar and his staff of astrologers six centuries
