The False Door Read online

  Brynstone hoisted a smooth round head onto the snowman’s shoulders. He was around thirty-four, but he looked years younger. Except for the girl’s blonde hair, daughter and father shared an uncanny resemblance, right down to their blue eyes. Shayna Brynstone had turned five last autumn. Wurm had never met the child, but he had researched her. Like him, she had a secret all her own.

  John Brynstone looked happy.

  Wurm was about to change that.

  More than two years ago, he had stolen a scrap of aged vellum from the Metropolitan Police Service at New Scotland Yard. When the time was right, he would tell Brynstone about his discovery. When he did, Wurm knew it would force Brynstone to confront the biggest decision of his life—and perhaps his greatest mistake.

  But first, he needed Brynstone’s help.

  Wurm clambered down the rock. As a young man, he had traveled to Switzerland and scaled the north face of the Eiger in the Bernese Oberland. Famous for its German nickname, Mordwand, or “death wall,” the Eiger’s north face made Umpire Rock seem like a pebble.

  He jumped to the ground, snow crunching beneath his boots.

  The Bombay cat snapped her head around, watching Wurm approach. He’d met Banshee once before, during her inaugural year as a kitten. This cat was a curious thing with her midnight-rich coat and solitary green eye, like something in an Edgar Allan Poe tale.

  Brynstone noticed the cat’s reaction and turned on instinct. His eyes widened when he saw Wurm’s face, but beyond that he concealed any hint of surprise. The man must be one hell of a poker player.

  “Dr. Brynstone.”

  “Dr. Wurm? That really you?”

  “So you are surprised. I couldn’t tell for a moment there. You can trust your eyes, John. It’s me.”

  The little girl curled around her father’s leg. “Daddy, who is that?”

  Brynstone looked down at her. “Just a man, sweetie.”

  Wurm hunched down, then knelt close to the child. “Don’t you believe your father,” he said. “I’m much more than just a man.”

  She scrunched up her nose. “You have frost on your beard.”

  “Do I?” Taking both hands, Wurm ruffled his gray beard, showering the black cat with tiny diamonds of snow. Shayna giggled as Banshee darted away.

  Rising to his full height, Wurm unraveled the patterned scarf from around his neck. He handed it to the child.

  “Give this to your wintry friend. He looks cold.”

  Shayna smiled, revealing two missing front teeth that gave her the look of an adorable little vampire. She grabbed the scarf, carrying it like some sacred offering as she presented it to the snowman. Winding it beneath his head, she then hurried back, pointing. “Doesn’t Frosty look awesome?”

  “Just missing one thing,” Brynstone said, smiling.

  “Arms,” she squealed. “You’re right, Daddy.”

  “What an obedient child,” Wurm said, watching her rush toward a fallen branch. “Government people have the most obedient children.”

  “Don’t work for them anymore.”

  “You quit the Special Collection Service? What a shame.”

  “Not really. A lot has changed.”

  “So I understand. Sorry to hear about your and Kaylyn’s divorce.”

  “Never thought I’d see you again,” Brynstone said. “Cori Cassidy told me you died in Europe.”

  “Forgive the morbid conceit, John, but did you attend my memorial service? I’ve often wondered who cared to pay their respects.”

  “Cori and I showed. Later that night, we saw each other again at your family mausoleum.”

  “Why in heaven’s name were the both of you traipsing around a cemetery on New Year’s Eve?”

  “Wasn’t planned. We didn’t arrive together, but we went inside the mausoleum and discovered that someone had removed the lid from your crypt. Your casket was empty. I had wondered if your body had been stolen. Or maybe—”

  “Yes, I have much to explain about that whole affair.”

  “I found footprints in the snow that night. Maybe size fourteen, if I remember.”

  “It wasn’t Bigfoot.” Wurm grinned. “I’m afraid that was me.”

  “I wondered.”

  Wurm glanced at Shayna. “The details of that night are best suited for another conversation at another time. You have my dedicated promise.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you’re alive, but why are you here, Edgar? Why now after all this time?”

  “We were part of a quest, once. A quest for something big.”

  “The Radix.”

  “Century after century, a legion of adventurers and scholars searched for it. They were a rare breed who dared look into the face of history, great men and women united throughout time. A brotherhood of blood and dust who used brutal force to answer the call if their quest demanded it. Like me and you, John.”

  Brynstone held his gaze on Wurm, but said nothing.

  “So many have failed,” Wurm continued. “Five hundred years had passed without anyone coming close to discovering it. Then we came along and five years ago, we teamed up to find the Radix.”

  “Seems like an eternity,” Brynstone answered. “Face it. The Radix is gone forever.”

  “The Radix changed your life, John.”

  “No. An assassin did that.”

  Wurm knew the story. Brynstone’s life had turned upside down when an elite killer named Erich Metzger had targeted Brynstone’s family. INTERPOL had described Metzger as “the most feared assassin on the planet.” His artistry at commissioned homicide had earned him the nickname the Poet. He was a phantomlike figure who frustrated law-enforcement agencies all over the world. Time after time, he managed to elude the best.

  Even Brynstone.

  “What’s inside your heart, John? I know the answer. You want to find Metzger. You want to kill him.”

  He remained silent.

  “Perhaps, I can help.” Wurm reached into a leather bag. He brought out a curved piece of metal about a foot in length, tapering down to a wide flaring strip. “See this relic? It belonged to a Roman cavalry soldier two thousand years ago.”

  Wurm slid it behind his neck like some kind of metal neck brace.

  “To protect against an assault to the neck,” Brynstone said.

  “Precisely.” Wurm pulled it away from his neck and studied the object with reverence. “It attached to a Roman helmet at the base of the skull.”

  “Since when do you have a thing for old cavalry helmets?”

  “Since I discovered this.”

  He turned the neck guard over, revealing leather padding that lined the inner shell. He peeled back the leather. A series of peculiar symbols were engraved on the inner surface.

  “A code,” Brynstone said. “I’m betting you deciphered it.”

  “I’m working on it,” Wurm said, smiling. “Long ago, someone called the Keeper engraved a message on this helmet. He knew answers to questions that you and I are only beginning to ask. Centuries back, someone separated the helmet and scattered the pieces, each to its own hiding place.”

  “And you want me to help track them down.” Brynstone glanced back at Shayna. “Sorry, Edgar. Not interested.”

  “Listen to me. I need someone with remarkable skills, someone who possesses cunning and strength, someone who is a quick thinker. Someone capable of finding the rest of this relic.”

  “Call Indiana Jones.”

  “I’m serious, John. I need your help to retrieve the helmet pieces.”

  “Why do you want it anyway? What’s in it for you?”

  A sly grin slid across Wurm’s face. “I believe, John, that the reunited helmet pieces will lead us to the missing Scintilla.”

  “The formula for the Black Chrism? That’s what you want?”

  “K
nowing what it can do, who wouldn’t want it? I believe the helmet can also shed insight into the power and mysteries of the White Chrism.”

  Brynstone looked down at the snowy ground. “I don’t know, Edgar.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not alone in my interest,” Wurm continued. “A competitor wants the helmet pieces as much as I do. He works for an international crime organization called the Shadow Chapter. Ever hear of them?”

  “What’s this have to do with me?”

  “My competitor? The man I’m talking about? He groomed Erich Metzger in his early days. He is close to the assassin. Very close.”

  “What are you getting at, Edgar? I help you find the pieces of that helmet and you help me track Metzger?”

  “Team up with me again, John.” Wurm smiled as he looked down at the neck guard. “We both need answers.”

  “I don’t need answers.”

  “From what I understand, you took a desperate chance when your daughter was a year old. You saved her life.”

  Brynstone made certain Shayna wasn’t listening. The chill air had cast her nose in scarlet. The child seemed uninterested in the temperature and their conversation.

  “Erich Metzger put me in a bad situation.”

  “That’s his job,” Wurm said. “Because of our teamwork, you created a special medicine using the Radix.”

  “She’s alive because of the White Chrism,” Brynstone answered.

  Wurm narrowed his eyes. “The chrism saved your daughter’s life in ways we don’t comprehend.” He held up the Roman neck guard. “Shayna is no longer a normal child. If we find the helmet pieces, we can gain insight into how the chrism changed her.”

  As Brynstone listened, Banshee rubbed against his leg.

  “What is the most precious thing in your life, John?”

  Shayna jabbed forked branches on opposite sides of the snowman’s round abdomen. She pushed her mitten-cloaked hand into the snowman’s face, shaping a round mouth.

  Wurm frowned. “A terrible man tried to destroy that little girl. You want him as much as I want this helmet. If we work together, then we both get what we want.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “The Shadow Chapter is searching for the helmet. They are a formidable opponent with substantial resources, both in finance and manpower. If they find the formula for the Black Chrism, there’ll be no stopping them.” Wurm placed his hand on Brynstone’s shoulder. “Help me find the pieces of this helmet. I’ll help you find Metzger. At the same time, we’ll figure out what the chrism did to your daughter.”

  PART I

  The Lazarus Cross

  Present Day

  The more perfect a thing is, the more susceptible to good and bad treatment it is.

  —Dante Alighieri

  Chapter 1

  Paris, France

  Early August, 9:05 p.m.

  “Dig,” the pale woman sneered, looking down from the edge of the grave. “And make it fast.”

  John Brynstone wiped sweat from his tanned face. Blood coated his forehead and the stench of mud filled his nostrils. Standing in the grave, he craned his neck and glared up at Nessa Griffin. Was it his imagination or did moonlight glint off the woman’s glass eye?

  “You’re in over your head, Griffin,” he growled.

  “No one can stop me. My brother found that out.”

  “You made a big mistake killing him.”

  “I do what is necessary, Dr. Brynstone.” She traced her hand along the arched headstone. “We have that in common.”

  “Difference is, I’m not a psychopath.”

  Four men flanked her, all armed. She had more men posted around the cemetery. Griffin had brought along a French woman named Véronique, a scared and helpless-looking hostage.

  An hour before, Brynstone had arrived at the largest graveyard in Paris. Located on the city’s far eastern edge, Père Lachaise Cemetery sprawled over more than a hundred acres of rolling hills and forested lanes. Deep in its earth, a host of scientists, artists, philosophers, and composers rotted into nothingness. Among its cold citizens, Père Lachaise boasted such celebrated figures as Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, Frédéric Chopin, Marcel Proust, and Édith Piaf. Even Jim Morrison of The Doors was interred there beneath graffiti-spattered marble.

  In daylight, Père Lachaise glowed with poetic mystery. In the dark of night, it was haunted with eerie shadows.

  “We’re running out of time, Dr. Brynstone.” Griffin flicked hair from her bony face. “Perhaps an assistant will inspire you to work faster.”

  She reached behind Véronique and shoved her. Arms cutting through the air, the French woman gasped a choked scream as she dropped into the grave. She landed on her knees at Brynstone’s feet and muttered a profanity.

  He dropped the shovel and reached to help her.

  “Who are you?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Chief historian for the cemetery.” Véronique’s lip quivered as she wiped blood from her chin. Mud stained her white blouse. “They abducted me from my home and killed two cemetery guards getting in here.”

  “Lucky it wasn’t more,” he answered.

  Griffin pitched a shovel into the grave, nearly striking the woman’s leg.

  “I don’t want her down here,” Brynstone called. “I’ll handle this myself.”

  Griffin shined the flashlight into his eyes. He blocked the glare with his gloved hand. She waved her fingers. In response, the men trained their weapons on the couple.

  “Dig. Both of you. Or this grave will become your grave.”

  The night air seemed stagnant with little breeze. Brynstone paused to brush dirt from his black hair. He had arrived here alone and had cleared three feet of dirt from the grave before Nessa Griffin and her men discovered him. Digging at gunpoint, he was several feet deeper now.

  “You okay?” he asked under his breath.

  “I suppose,” Véronique whispered in flawless English. “Griffin believes a Roman artifact lies down here. Do you think we will find it?”

  “Our lives depend on it.”

  Brynstone’s shovel slammed into a hard surface.

  He looked up. “Hand me a flashlight.”

  Griffin’s men tossed down two LED headlamps. Brynstone caught them and handed one to Véronique. They strapped them around their foreheads.

  He crouched and cleared away the surface, excitement flashing in his eyes as the dark lid appeared beneath clods of dirt.

  Crafted in hardwood and shaped like an oversized cigar, the casket was thinner than the modern style. Bronze flourishes decorated the lid. From the look of it, he guessed the casket had been manufactured in the early 1800s.

  Véronique crowded against the dirt wall, giving him room.

  Rusted hinges squealed as he raised the lid, releasing a musty vapor. The interior was inlaid with rich lavender velvet. It was clear that the deceased came from greater wealth than the thousands of paupers buried in the cemetery’s mass graves. Dressed in fashion from the late Georgian period, the crumbling skeleton wore a swallowtail coat with a high collar and wide lapel, adorned with fabric buttons. The skull rested in a knotted silk cravat tucked inside a wrinkled waistcoat of grimy white silk. Affixed to a braided chain, a silver-rimmed glass monocle balanced above the darkened eye socket. The coat was open, revealing twisted vertebrae.

  In addition to working as a covert operative for the United States Special Collection Service, Brynstone had earned a doctoral degree in the field of paleopathology. More than once, the study of ancient diseases had proven helpful in his former intelligence work.

  He couldn’t be certain without diagnostic parameters like age of death and lesion morphology, but he guessed that the man in this grave had died of tuberculosis. It was a challenge under the current conditions to assess paleoepidemiology base
d on skeletal remains. However, looking at the dry bone sample, he noted the sharp angulation in the spine, which was a telltale sign of tuberculous spondylitis. At the time of his death, the man had been afflicted with a humpbacked condition found in cases of advanced Pott’s disease. Even down in a grave with guns pointed at his head, Brynstone couldn’t suppress his fascination with bones.

  Véronique pointed to the decayed body. “He is a later relative of Jeanne d’Arc.”

  He nodded. Before becoming a folk hero of the Hundred Years’ War, Joan of Arc came from the peasant class in eastern France. The man buried in this casket was a descendant of Joan’s older brother.

  Brynstone crouched beside the body.

  “Get down there and search it,” Griffin called to her men, Léon and Kane, one French, one Irish.

  “Stay up there,” Brynstone demanded. “There’s no room.”

  “Do you see the Roman helmet fragment?” Griffin asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “You sure this is the grave we want?” Léon asked. He was a hulking presence with a pinched face.

  “We found Brynstone digging here, didn’t we?” she said. “Hate to admit it, but the man does his homework. It’s the proper grave.”

  Opening the deceased’s rumpled coat, Brynstone slid his fingers inside a pocket. Véronique hovered behind him, watching. He discovered a simple drawing of a young woman holding a rose. The daughter of the deceased. Brynstone had researched the man, knew all about him. He hadn’t gone through all this trouble to find a portrait.

  He rolled the skeleton onto its front, snapping a fragile bone in the process. Too bad, but delicate scientific care wasn’t an option right now. He searched the man’s breeches and ran his hand alongside the bony legs, as if frisking the corpse, but there was no sign of a helmet piece. He slid off a boot, then tunneled his hand into it, but he found only loose dirt. After inspecting the second one, he held it upside down and shook it before tossing aside the boot.