The Radix Read online

  The Radix

  Brett King

  LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY

  CRASH LANDING

  With the copter’s blades spinning on the way down, Brynstone braced for a hard landing. His eyes widened. The copter was hurtling toward a restaurant. Perched on Aspen Mountain’s summit, the Sundeck Restaurant boasted a dazzling view of the Roaring Fork Valley. He could see people inside. If he hit the building, everyone could die.

  Without hesitating, he dropped the Agusta Bell, missing the restaurant. Sundeck staff pressed against the windows, staring in disbelief as the helicopter blasted into the mountainside beneath them. The impact rocked him in his seat. The skids hit the snow and snapped off as blinding powder sprayed the helicopter.

  He braced as the helicopter rolled down the steep mountain face. The upright mast split off, sending rotor blades flying into the air. He glanced through the shattered window above the pilot’s seat and couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Still attached to the stabilizer bar and swash plate, the rotor blades whirled skyward, heading toward the suspended gondola…

  For Cheri, Brady, Devin, and Tylyn, the four people who know me better than I know myself, and who teach and inspire me, with their love, to be a better man.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Excerpt

  Dedication

  Prologue: The Dying Hour

  Part One The Close and Holy Darkness

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two Synchronicity

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Three The Secret Church

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Part Four Land of the Dead

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Part Five The Eye of God

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Part Six Archetype

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Aftermath

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Author’s Note

  INTERACT WITH DORCHESTER ONLINE!

  Acknowledgments

  RAVE REVIEWS FOR BRETT KING’S THE RADIX

  Copyright

  Prologue: The Dying Hour

  Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris

  Christmas Eve, 1502

  I know that there are numberless people who would, to satisfy a whim, destroy God and all the universe.

  —Leonardo da Vinci

  Nothing could save him now.

  Father Raphael della Rovere crept toward a gargoyle and took refuge behind its wings. He whispered a sacred verse before peering around the stone brute. Thunderheads rolled above Paris, corrupting the night with anvil gray clouds. Beyond the bell tower, rain danced a dark ballet on the River Seine.

  Riding three days without sleep, he had arrived at Notre-Dame before twilight. It offered sanctuary now, but for how long? Stomach tight with dread, the hooded priest leaned over the ledge. Beneath him, a limestone dragon belched rainwater down the cathedral’s southern face. Not a soul down there. Della Rovere darted behind another grotesque, bracing for a look from the western facade. Fright caught in his throat as he gazed down.

  His greatest fear awaited him.

  The Holy Guard had tracked him to Notre-Dame. Amid flickering torches, the eighty mounted warriors resembled an assembly of phantoms. Dressed in chain mail, they were armed with swords and lances and iron maces. They would not rest until della Rovere revealed his secret. Could he endure their torture? The priest feared he was unsuited for martyrdom. He wiped his eyes, clinging to some mad hope of escape.

  Down on the plaza, papal warhorses blasted mist into the drizzling night. A spirited black charger strutted before the cavalry, its golden cuirass and headdress shimmering in torchlight. The tail, woven in a net studded with pearls and rubies, slapped against its hide. Hooves shod in gold stamped the cobblestone. He had recognized this horse from countless military pageants. But where was the rider? The bloodthirsty Duke of Valentinois was not among his cavalry.

  Footfalls pounded on the wet balcony behind della Rovere.

  Clumsy with panic, he twisted back, raising a bull’s-horn lantern.

  Cesare Borgia emerged from the bell tower. The tall duke was draped in a velvet cloak with gold brocade over black armor. Across his breastplate, a medallion of diamonds blazed in the lantern light. Tangled auburn hair framed his bloodred mask.

  “How did you find me?” della Rovere asked, frozen in terror.

  “Providence,” he answered from behind his mask. “God directed me to find you.”

  “That is a lie.”

  A peal of laughter. “You made a grave mistake stealing the Radix from the Vatican.”

  “I had no choice but to seize it from your father, the Pope.”

  “You have no choice now but to surrender it to me.”

  “First,” the priest stammered, “I ask to look you in the face.”

  Borgia cocked his head, considering it. “Very well, behold me.”

  Reaching behind his neck, he unbuckled two leather straps, then slid off the mask. Della Rovere couldn’t unlock his gaze. Cesare Borgia had once been considered the most handsome man of his age. Countless artists had used his face as a model when painting portraits of Jesus Christ. But now, Borgia resembled a demon more than a savior. Disease had stripped his beauty, scoring his face with angry pustules and blemishes. The French pox had chewed his nose down to an obsidian cavity. He was more hideous than the priest had imagined. More grotesque than three years ago when their cousins, Francesco della Rovere and Angela Borgia, had been joined in marriage.

  “Does the disease bring you misery?”

  “Can you not see the answer carved into my face? At times, the pain is extraordinary.”

  Della Rovere whispered, “Good.”

  “Obey the Holy Father. Hand over the Radix.”

  The priest dropped his gaze to the balcony’s stone floor, pitted like Borgia’s face. “Your father locked me in the Vatican Library to study the Radix. When I discovered its power, I swore your family would never possess it.”

  “You have forgotten,” Borg
ia sneered. “The Radix is our possession.”

  “Only because you plundered it from the Knights of Rhodes,” the priest answered, his voice rising. “You cannot comprehend its power. The Radix is the unfathomable mystery of God. The Secret of Secrets.”

  He did not trust Pope Alexander VI, and for good reason. Born Rodrigo Borgia, he was rumored to have committed his first murder at age twelve. As a cardinal, Borgia had bribed his way into the papacy with silver and villas. He had fathered ten illegitimate children in a time already known as the Golden Age of Bastards. Hushed stories told about the Pope sleeping with his own daughter, Lucrezia. Della Rovere would never surrender the Radix to a man who poisoned enemies and corrupted the Church. It would give unfettered power to Pope Alexander VI and his son. And then nothing could curb their wickedness.

  “You’ve hidden it at Notre-Dame, haven’t you?” Borgia asked. “I’ll tear apart this old church stone by stone.”

  “On my word as a Franciscan, I promise the Radix is not here.”

  “I believe you, Father. You are a thief, not a liar. But know that I shall find it.”

  In the distance, lightning glinted over the Abbaye de Saint-Germain. Watching the sky, the priest said, “No one shall ever find it. The Radix is lost to history.”

  Borgia ran his tongue across his small white teeth. “You judge me and the Holy Father, but you have your own demons.”

  “Of what are you speaking?”

  “Your wife,” Borgia answered, his eyes cold and complicated. “I’m speaking about how you killed her.”

  “I did not mean for that to happen.”

  “That’s what you say in confession. Still, you killed Isabella.”

  “After Isabella’s death, I took the vows of priesthood. God has forgiven me.”

  Borgia offered a grim smile. “Has your dead wife forgiven you?”

  Angry at reliving the memory, della Rovere squeezed the crucifix around his neck. “Evil has poisoned your soul.”

  “And foolishness has clouded your mind. Perhaps you need the counsel of an old friend.” Borgia waved at the tower. “Niccolò, come.”

  A lean thirty-three-year-old man stepped out of the shadows. Della Rovere recognized his owlish face. Wide, curious eyes and sharp cheekbones melded around his pointed nose. And the lips, thin and perpetually amused. His childhood friend, Machiavelli.

  “Niccolò,” he cried. “Why are you here?”

  Machiavelli bowed, looking small beside Borgia. “I serve as his Florentine secretary.”

  “You dare work for Cesare Borgia? I know you wish to write a book about him. I thought hatred motivated you, not admiration.”

  “Raphael, you do not understand.”

  “I understand Borgia. You are seduced by him.” Gritting his teeth, della Rovere asked, “Did you tell him about Isabella’s death?”

  “Like you, I had no choice. If it is his pleasure, he can make and unmake a man.”

  “You see?” Borgia grinned before sliding on the red mask. “He does understand me.”

  “Obey him, Raphael. You know his power over men.”

  “I do,” della Rovere said, turning to the duke. “Your oppressive will has broken Maestro Leonardo of Florence. As your engineer in chief, da Vinci has laid down his paintbrush to design bottles of poison gas and revolving scythes that can shred men like grain.”

  Borgia cut him off. “Does Leonardo know where to find the Radix?”

  “He knows a great many secrets, but nothing about where I’ve hidden it.”

  “Better for him,” the duke said. “Before me, cities tremble. Kings and artists prostrate themselves in the dust. Why do you not fear me?”

  Thunder rattled the stained-glass windows. Winter rain teemed down, pelting the cathedral with a volley of silvery droplets.

  “I do fear you. But I fear God’s wrath more than the Devil’s strength.”

  Borgia barked a humorless laugh. “Have you witnessed my strength?”

  “I have seen you twist a horseshoe with your bare hands. I have seen you slay six wild bulls, the last beheaded with a single stroke of your broadsword.”

  “Indeed. With this very sword.” Borgia pulled the gleaming weapon from its scabbard. Lightning cleaved the sky, glowing brilliant on the broadsword. Borgia grabbed Machiavelli’s hair, then pressed the blade to the man’s throat. “Tell me where to find the Radix or I’ll behead Niccolò as easily as that bull.”

  Machiavelli’s eyes sparkled with fear.

  “Save your friend,” Borgia shouted over the downpour. “Tell me where you’ve hidden the Radix.”

  Della Rovere removed his hood. He faced the heavens, then closed his eyes. Thunder roared like cannon fire. Rain trickled down his face in icy rivulets, plastering blond hair against his cheek. Turning sideways, he clutched a gargoyle. He raised his boot, stepping onto the slick ledge. His legs trembled.

  “Taking your life is a mortal sin,” Borgia warned. “Have you forgotten the bitter lessons from Dante’s Inferno?”

  “Suicide would prove a better fate than betraying the Holy Secret.”

  “Raphael,” Machiavelli pleaded, with the blade creasing his throat. “Listen to reason.”

  “I have,” della Rovere rasped. He hung his lantern on the gargoyle’s wing. “Farewell, my friend.” He blessed the two men, then made the sign of the cross over himself. Feeling his body teeter, he stepped backward off the ledge.

  Shoving aside Machiavelli, Borgia charged at the priest. With leonine grace, Borgia slashed his broadsword through della Rovere’s ankle. The pain felt raw and bright, but he didn’t cry out. Notre-Dame’s rose window blurred past as he plummeted, the wind howling in his ears.

  Cesare Borgia locked his gaze on Father della Rovere. A mask of calm slipped over the priest’s face before he crashed onto the plaza. Blood seeped onto the wet stone, forming a crimson halo around his head. Papal soldiers dismounted their steeds. They gathered in a circle around della Rovere’s broken body.

  “I must ask,” Machiavelli said, looking up at him. “Why did you sever his foot?”

  “I had in my mind a saying from Emperor Caligula: ‘Strike so that he may feel he is dying.’” Borgia ran his gloved hand across the blood-splattered gargoyle. “Niccolò, you must tell no one that della Rovere came to Notre-Dame. Not a soul.” Borgia caressed the man’s chin, then lowered his finger. He made a slashing gesture across Machiavelli’s throat, leaving a line of della Rovere’s wet blood.

  “You can trust my silence,” Machiavelli assured him. He peered over the ledge, wiping blood from his neck. “I never conceived he’d take his life.”

  “He was a desperate man. A disgrace to the House of Borgia. A Judas willing to rob the Vatican of its greatest treasure.”

  “And now,” Machiavelli sighed, “that treasure has died with him.”

  Part One

  The Close and Holy Darkness

  None knows the secret of God.

  —Sikh scripture

  Chapter One

  Aspen, Colorado

  Christmas Eve, 5:00 P.M.

  It all came down to tonight. Months of planning had led John Brynstone to this moment. He had to find the Radix, no matter what the cost.

  He never imagined a two-year quest would bring him here, breaking into a residence in Aspen’s exclusive Starwood Estate subdivision. At fifty-six thousand square feet, the mansion was larger than the White House. The thirty-year-old agent had prepped day and night for this assignment, studying blueprints and surveillance parameters. He belonged to an elite force charged with blackbag ops for the most secretive intelligence agency on the planet. He wasn’t a thief.

  Tonight, he had no choice.

  “Jordan,” he said, touching the throat microphone. “I’m inside. Copy?”

  “Roger that, Dr. Brynstone.” A quiet edge crept into her voice. “Be careful. Over.”

  “Copy that.”

  “You dig this, don’t you?” Jordan Rayne marveled. “The thrill of it all.�
��

  “Think you have me figured, huh?” He smiled. “Heading to the library. Brynstone out.”

  He darted in the shadows above the ballroom. A Rocky Mountain blizzard raged outside the mansion’s wraparound windows. Holding his breath, he peered over the railing. Dressed in checkered kaffiyehs, two men lingered near a marble pillar. They worked security for Prince Zaki bin Abdelaziz, the ambassador to the United States on behalf of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Additional guards prowled Zaki’s ninety-five-acre estate. It had been a challenge breaking into Hala Ranch. Maybe the biggest of Brynstone’s storied career.

  Darkness could not conceal the ballroom’s grandeur. Cast in reddish gold glass, Arabic chandeliers decorated the gold-leaf ceiling. A stone entryway and mountainview windows framed the parquet floor. Prince Zaki had romanced power and privilege in this room, hosting gilded parties for presidents and kings and celebrities. Tonight was different. Guards carrying assault rifles patrolled the grand hall. Buzzing in Arabic, the shorter guard kissed the barrel of his MP5 submachine gun, joking about his girlfriend. His buddy roared with laughter. The aroma from their clove cigarettes drifted to the balcony, tickling Brynstone’s nose.

  As the guards joked about American excess and stupidity, he adjusted his backpack and night-vision goggles. Keeping it quiet, he crept toward the end of the balcony. He turned a corner, then paused before the double doors of Zaki’s library. He unzipped his black coat, wet with snow, revealing a black shirt over his Kevlar vest.

  The pit of his stomach swirled with butterflies. He liked that sensation. Sometimes his covert missions didn’t inspire a nervous edge. That was a dangerous sign. It meant overconfidence or complacency. Not tonight. If Brynstone’s research proved accurate, Prince Zaki had collected a relic that had vanished from the earth five hundred years ago.

  For centuries, the Radix existed in rumor and secrecy. Saints whispered its legend. Alchemists craved its power. Papal leaders feared its threat to biblical doctrine.