Ground Zero Part 47
The question jolted Jack. Then he realized that any bearded, turbanned Islamic could look like a terrorist.
"Uh-huh. I've joined the CIA."
Russ laughed. "That'll be the day. No, seriously."
"Just a guy I need to find, except there's a good chance he doesn't have a beard anymore. Any way you can use some computer magic to remove those whiskers?"
"Remove?" He shook his head. "Not that I know of-at least not that I've heard of."
"I was counting on you having heard of everything."
"Well, there's facial-recognition software, but that's used for comparison-you know, does this face match that one? This is something different."
"Come on. They've got these police identi-kit programs that can put a beard on a face; there's got to be some program that'll take it off."
"It's not that simple. If you have the underlying facial structure, it's nothing to add some facial hair to see what he looks like with a beard. But beards, especially these long, raggedy Muslim types, they hide the underlying facial structure-lots of times they hide the lips lips, f'Christ sake."
Jack pointed to the screen. "Look, you've got multiple angles here, and you can see his lips. Do something something."
"I'll try, man. That's all I can say. I'll check around, see if someone's come up with an algorithm that'll work. Can't promise anything, though."
"Can't you write one yourself?"
He laughed as he shook his head. "Oh, man, that's way above me." He cleared his throat. "I'll need something for my time, even if I come up empty."
Jack was okay with that. Time was life.
He wondered how much of either anyone had left.
2.
Finally! Weezy thought as she turned the page and saw the words "Opus Omega."
The Final Task ... what she'd found so far gave the impression they thought they'd have it finished before too long. But thousands of years had pa.s.sed and it still wasn't completed. Sort of like the very early Christians who thought the Second Coming was just around the corner. Opus Omega's age was multiples of Christianity's.
The t.i.tle read "BEGINNING THE END" and described the dimensions of the pillars, the symbols that had to be engraved on the sides, the size of the opening in the end, and how a living person-the "Sacrifice"-had to be sealed within. She knew all of this from Jack.
Come on, come on, come on on, she thought. Tell me something I don't don't know. know.
Then it began to describe the age of the Sacrifice, how he or she couldn't be too young or too old, but should be in the prime of life. Weezy guessed that was to dodge the possibility of some sick old crone volunteering herself ... or a family ridding itself of a deformed or severely crippled child. The pillar demanded a healthy male or female.
In other words: with everything to lose.
The message was sick enough, but the dry, matter-of-fact delivery made it worse. Like reciting the rules of baseball.
The batter shall take his position in the batter's box promptly when it is his time at bat ...
It described the pattern of column placement-lines of force supposedly ran between all the nexus points, from each one to every other one. A pillar had to be placed wherever three of those lines crossed.
The pillar had to be inserted vertically but did not have to remain in the ground to have its effect. Mere insertion was sufficient to accomplish the purpose-like injecting a toxin.
What purpose? Do damage? To whom or what? The Lady?
But as with so many things within its pages, the Compendium Compendium a.s.sumed the reader already knew. Then it moved to the order in which the pillars had to be placed. a.s.sumed the reader already knew. Then it moved to the order in which the pillars had to be placed.
Weezy straightened in her chair. Here was something new. She'd gathered from Jack and Mr. Veilleur that the pillars were being buried in no particular order.
But as she read on she realized that only the first pillar's placement mattered. The Final Task had a set starting point. The first pillar had to be inserted at a very specific location called the Null Site. All others could follow in random order, but the first must occupy the Null Site.
Of course, nothing was said of what made the Null Site so special, or why Opus Omega had to start there.
She turned the page and found herself in the middle of a paragraph on some unrelated subject.
She clenched her teeth. Just when she was making progress. So frustrating.
She turned back. Both the pillar and its insertion point shared the same name, a Latin word she knew. It meant "beginning."
Orsa.
3.
Time on his hands.
Gia had taken Vicky to her weekly art lesson down in the West Village. Too early for Julio's. Didn't want to interrupt Weezy's study of the Compendium Compendium. Too soon to hear from Russ. He could go hang with Abe or ...
The photos of the senior Drexler had parked the Septimus Order in Jack's mind and it wouldn't budge. Maybe he could get it to move on if he wandered down to the Lodge and checked what the Kickers were doing. Their presence at a Septimus Lodge meant intimate involvement with the Order. But why? Why was the Order interested in them? Unless it was thinking of involving the Kickers in Opus Omega to speed its conclusion.
Might be a good idea to put in an appearance anyway. He tried to show his face once or twice a week. Hadn't been there since Monday, so maybe he was due.
So he donned his down-market Kicker clothes, put on the sungla.s.ses and the Mets cap, then hopped a C train downtown. After a couple of switches he emerged from underground and strolled the rest of the way to the Lodge, weaving through the Sat.u.r.day shoppers like a man with nothing better to do.
When he reached the Lodge he hung around outside, making his cigarettes available. Kewan sidled up and took one. Borrowed Jack's lighter too.
"So when do we kick some more Dormentalist b.u.t.t?" he asked as Kewan lit up.
His dark, pocked cheeks puffed as he blew smoke. "Johnny, ain't you heard? We supposed to leave 'em be."
"What?" This was news.
"Yeah. Word come down Monday after we got back. We all best friends now. How come you don't know that? Where you been?"
"Oh, I, um, got a little job doing landscaping in Queens."
He'd done that when he'd first come to the city so figured it was as good a cover as anything.
"He pay cash?"
Jack nodded. "Every day before we split."
"Can he use another body?"
Jack shook his head. "Don't know, but I'll ask."
"You do that. 'Cause I'm tired of being busted all the time. And I'm gettin tired of hangin out here."
"I hear you, man. I-whoa, check this." A black Bentley was pulling up to the curb. "What do we have here?"
"That Lodge guy again."
"Lodge guy?"
"One of the peeps that own the place."
"Oh, someone from the Septimus Order."
"Yeah, them. I seen him before. Used to stop in every few weeks or so, but he's been in every day this week."
"Really."
"Yeah, but you wouldn't know that, seein as how you been out makin money an all."
A guy from the Order making frequent visits. Had to be Hank Thompson-who else would he care to see? Jack could understand sporadic visits just to make sure the Lodge was being well treated. But every day?
Add that to the sudden cessation of hostilities against the Dormentalists and something was up.
Jack turned back to the Bentley in time to see a door open and a man in a white suit glide from the rear. He carried a black cane that Jack knew was wrapped in rhinoceros hide.
"Holy ..."
"What? Wha.s.sup?"
For a single, frozen heartbeat he was fourteen again. He knew this man ... Mr. Drexler.
No, make that Ernst Drexler II.
He hadn't changed much. He looked older-wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, maybe a touch of gray around the temples-but the rest of his hair was still black and slicked back, his blue eyes just as piercing as in 1983.
Afraid he'd be recognized, Jack felt an urge to turn away, but fought it. That would only draw attention. And besides-no way Drexler could recognize him. More than a quarter century had pa.s.sed. Jack wasn't a kid anymore, and had a beard. But Drexler ... still wearing that d.a.m.n white suit and carrying that same cane.
So Jack watched him stride across the sidewalk and ascend the stone steps without a nod or even a sideways glance to acknowledge that anyone else was about.
Same old Drexler. He remembered some of the elitist c.r.a.p he'd poured into his ear when he was a kid, little knowing it was running out the other side.
First Eddie, then Weezy, now Ernst Drexler. Jack's past was taking over his present.
Drexler was a honcho in the Order, and the Order was pulling strings in the Dormentalist Church, and the Dormentalists were heavy into Opus Omega. Could Drexler's presence have anything to do with-?
"s.h.i.t!"
Goren's words flashed back to him.
I can see someone standing in the background ... as far back as anyone could be and still be visible ... wasn't dressed like the others ... in a much lighter color ... seemed to be in white.
"Wussup, John Boy? You look like you just seen a ghost."
"What? Oh, just some stomach cramps. I gotta go inside."
Kewan grinned. "Oh, yeah. Don't wanna be messin your Depends."
Jack hurried up the steps and inside. As always, he was struck by the huge version of the Order's sigil embossed on the rear wall of the high-ceilinged foyer.
He arrived in time to see Drexler approach the sigil, then hang a right into the hallway. He followed a ways and saw him step into the third doorway down on the right. Jack entered the hall and pa.s.sed just as Drexler closed the door behind him. He kept going and was about to enter the bathroom when a Kicker stepped out.
His name was Ansari and he acted as security of sorts. Jack had seen him a few times. He'd started out a regular guy but lately he'd developed a strutting, aggressive mien.
"Where you going?" he said, voice thick with challenge as he blocked the doorway.
"Where you just came from."
"This ain't public."
"Well, I ain't public," Jack said with plenty of 'tude as he flashed his faux Kicker tattoo.
Ansari stepped aside.
Jack went into a stall and leaned against the door, wondering what to do. He'd had no plan other than showing his face to keep it familiar and finding out what the Kicker hoi polloi were up to. Sure as h.e.l.l hadn't expected to see Ernst Drexler here.
After a few minutes he flushed the toilet and was pushing on the door to the hallway when he heard voices. He eased the door open half an inch for a peek and saw Hank Thompson standing outside Drexler's door.
"He's moved," Thompson said. His voice sounded strange ... strained.
"How far?"
Jack a.s.sumed the accented voice was Drexler's. A long, long time since he'd heard it, and the accent was lighter, but it had to be him.