Chris Kuzneski
The Prophecy
Acknowledgements
As always, I’d like to start off by thanking my family. Without their love and support, I wouldn’t be the writer (or the person) that I am today. Thanks for putting up with me!
Professionally, I want to thank my agent, Scott Miller. Before we teamed up, I was a lowly, self-published author. Now my books are available in more than twenty languages around the world. How he pulled off that miracle, I’ll never know — but I’m guessing incriminating photos and blackmail were involved. While I’m at it, I want to thank Claire Roberts, my foreign agent at Trident Media, who landed my British deal. To say that I’ve been thrilled with Penguin UK would be an understatement. In particular, I’d like to single out my well-dressed editor, Alex Clarke. Working with him has been a wonderful experience.
Next up is my good friend Ian Harper, who gets to read my work before anyone else. Even though he’s strong enough to kill a rhinoceros with his bare hands, his suggestions and advice are surgically precise. If anyone’s looking for a freelance editor (or is having problems with large horned mammals), please let me know. I’d be happy to put you in touch with him.
Finally, I’d like to thank all the readers, librarians, booksellers, and critics who have read my thrillers and have recommended them to others. At this stage of my career, I need all the help I can get, so I would appreciate your continued support.
Okay, I think that just about covers it. It’s finally time to get to the good stuff.
Without further delay, please sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story…
Prologue
The letter was written by an apothecary who had gained his notoriety in another field. Knowing the uproar it would cause, Michel sealed it and several documents inside a wooden box. He gave the box to his lawyer on the same day he signed his last will and testament.
The year was 1566. He was sixty-two years old.
He died fifteen days later.
When his possessions were divided among his heirs, the box was not mentioned. If it had been, the rest of his estate would have seemed inconsequential, for the contents of the box were far more valuable than gold or jewels or anything that he owned. Knowing this, he added a secret codicil to his will that only his lawyer knew about. The four-page appendix described in very specific terms what was to be done with the mysterious box and, more importantly, when.
To ensure that his wishes were followed, Michel established a trust fund that compensated the guardians of his secret from one generation to the next. None of these men knew who their benefactor was — otherwise curiosity would have overwhelmed them, tempting them to open the box. Instead, all they were given was a date and a simple set of instructions.
If they completed their task, they would be paid handsomely for their efforts.
If they didn’t, they wouldn’t see a cent.
Amazingly, the chain remained unbroken for over four hundred years. Decade after decade, century after century, they followed their orders like scripture and were rewarded as promised. Wars raged throughout Europe, but somehow the box survived. Cities burned to the ground, but somehow the box survived. No matter what happened, no matter where it was stored, the box always survived — as if it had a guardian angel. Or was protected by magic.
Those familiar with Michel might have suspected the latter, since he had been publicly accused of practising the dark arts on more than one occasion. But those charges never stuck. Partly because of his connection to the queen of France, a loyal patron who believed in his special powers, and partly because of his cunning. Nearly everything he had written was hidden in plain sight, published for the world to see, but purposely ambiguous. This was his way of avoiding prosecution. Authorities couldn’t convict him of witchcraft or wizardry because his writings could be interpreted in a variety of ways, most of which were benign.
Yet most scholars knew his work was anything but innocuous. They realized it was complex, and layered, and intentionally cryptic. The proverbial enigma, wrapped in a riddle, shrouded in mystery. Just like the man himself. Of course, Michel knew how he was perceived, which was why he penned his final letter in straightforward language and sealed it inside the box.
This was his last chance to explain himself to the world.
His last chance to warn the human race.
1
Louis Keller had been waiting for this moment for over thirty years, ever since his dying father had explained what must be done in the distant future. For five generations, their family had been in charge of a mysterious trust fund at Capital Savings, the second-largest bank in Switzerland, and now, after three decades of waiting, the big day was finally here.
Keller would soon be free.
In the beginning, he had viewed his duties with frustration, nothing more than a silly game that his father had forced him to play. But as the years went on, his viewpoint had started to change. What had once been a mild annoyance was now a burden he was forced to bear, a yoke he couldn’t shake. Although he was a healthy man, he’d had trouble sleeping in recent months, afraid he would pass away before he completed his final task, worried he would let down his ancestors. He realized it was a foolish thought, completely irrational, yet he knew the weight wouldn’t be lifted until he had fulfilled his obligation.
Then, and only then, could he sleep in peace.
Wearing a dark suit and overcoat, Keller entered the bank as soon as it opened on the first morning of December. He nodded to the elderly guard who had unlocked the door, removed his fedora in the warmth of the foyer, then climbed the stairs to the main lobby.
Although he had visited this building on many occasions, he was always reassured by its architecture. In his opinion, every bank should be built this way: marble floors, stone pillars, and vaulted ceilings. Everything about the place felt solid, as a proper bank should. Like a medieval fortress or a modern museum. Over the years he had spent some time in the United States and was amazed at the inferiority of its banks. Oftentimes they were wedged into local shopping malls or grocery stores, nothing more than plastic countertops and fake wood panelling squeezed into cheap retail space. Nothing about them seemed safe or secure, which probably explained why the wealthiest Americans deposited their fortunes in Swiss banks.
For peace of mind. And to hide it from Uncle Sam.
Keller smiled at the thought as he strode past the bank tellers, all of whom were locked behind sturdy iron bars, and made his way towards the safe-deposit vault. It was downstairs, nestled underneath the lobby floor. To gain access to the facility, customers were required to pass through security. Ten years earlier, everything had been done with picture IDs and signature cards. Now the system was high tech, like something out of a Hollywood movie.
As he approached the first checkpoint, Keller removed his leather gloves and tucked them into the pockets of his overcoat. Still stiff from the morning cold, he cracked his knuckles then typed his ten-digit, alphanumeric code into the computer keyboard. The hard drive whirred for several seconds before his password was accepted and additional instructions filled the screen.
Knowing the procedure by heart, Keller ignored the monitor and placed his hand on the scanner, making sure his fingers were positioned in the proper slots. Instantly, a beam of green light, which resembled the lamp inside a photocopier, moved under the surface of his hand. Starting at the tips of his fingers, it slowly made its way towards the base of his palm, analysing the ridge structures of his skin and the nuances of his hand. In a flash, millions of computations were made, and his identity was verified: Louis Keller, age 52.