Payne hung up the phone and looked across the desk at Jones and Megan. For the past few hours, they had been reasonably safe at the airbase, but as soon as they left Willow Grove, they would be back in the line of fire with huge bull’s eyes on their backs. Unfortunately, it was a condition that wouldn’t change until they found the ‘fortune’ that had been mentioned in the text message or they figured out who else was gunning for it. Or preferably both.
He had broached the idea of stashing Megan in a safe house for her protection, but she had fiercely objected. There was no way in hell she was going to let them risk their lives for her while she rested comfortably. She was a fighter and had been as long as she could remember. In her mind, it was pointless to stop now — even if the violence escalated.
In Payne’s opinion, the best way to accomplish their goal was to become aggressive. No more detective work behind the scenes. No more treading lightly. He and Jones were two of the best-trained soldiers in the world, but over the past forty-eight hours they hadn’t been playing to their strengths. Instead of searching for targets, they had become one. Instead of firing first, they had been fired at. If that trend continued for much longer, it was just a matter of time before someone got lucky and picked them off. That was the law of averages.
No, if Payne was going to die, it wasn’t going to be solving puzzles in Pennsylvania.
It would be overseas — with Jones by his side and blood on their hands.
52
A private jet, chartered by Petr Ulster, and paid for with funds from one of his confidential Swiss bank accounts landed at the airbase. The name of a fictitious company had been used during the transaction, and a fake flight plan to Paris had been filed, thereby minimizing the possibility of detection. As long as the workers at NASJRB Willow Grove kept quiet, no one would know Payne, Jones, and Megan had boarded the transatlantic flight to Geneva without the proper paperwork.
Once they landed in Switzerland, things would get a bit more complicated. Due to its proximity to the French border, Geneva international airport was divided into two sections. The majority of the facility was in Switzerland — where Ulster had plenty of clout — but a small part was known as the French sector. This area allowed passengers on certain flights to enter or leave France without possessing a Swiss visa. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem because Ulster’s jet was supposed to land in Switzerland where he had several connections who could help sneak them into the country. Unfortunately, bad weather sometimes forced private planes to land on auxiliary runways monitored by French personnel, officers who weren’t influenced by Ulster. In that scenario, there was little he could do for them; they would be stuck in diplomatic limbo until the US embassy intervened.
Of course, Payne and Jones weren’t the least bit concerned. Sneaking across borders was a way of life for them. And because of their confidence, Megan was able to relax and focus on more important things — like her connection to Nostradamus.
‘I still don’t understand how he could’ve written a poem about me. He lived in the sixteenth century. That’s before Philadelphia was even a city!’
Reclining in a plush leather seat, Jones glanced up from a book he had been reading about the French prophet. It was one of several that an airman had bought for them at a bookstore near Willow Grove. The titles ranged from the academic (Nostradamus and His Prophecies) to the simplistic (Nostradamus for Dummies). They thought the more they knew about Michel de Nostredame, the better.
‘Honestly,’ Jones admitted, ‘I’ve been a casual fan of Nostradamus ever since I saw a movie about him back in the mid-eighties. It was called The Man Who Saw Tomorrow and was hosted by a fat Orson Welles, who smoked a cigar through half of his narration.’
Payne, who was sitting next to Megan, laughed at the memory. ‘I remember that film. The first time I saw it I was just a kid. When they started talking about our impending war with the third antichrist, I pulled the blanket over my head. It scared the crap out of me.’
Megan giggled at the image. She found it hard to believe that anything scared him, even as a child. ‘I’ve never seen the movie. Was it any good?’
‘Way back then, I thought it was awesome. Unfortunately, I saw it again a few years ago and couldn’t believe how cheesy it was. Everything was so over the top. Then again, that’s Nostradamus in a nutshell. Some of his prophecies were accurate; others were way off base.’
‘Or maybe they haven’t happened yet,’ Jones joked.
She pondered Payne’s comment. ‘I have to admit I don’t know much about him. Obviously I’m familiar with his name — I think everyone is — but I’m clueless about his predictions. For instance, you just mentioned the third antichrist. Who were one and two?’
Jones answered, ‘The first was Napoleon. The second was Hitler.’
‘He predicted them?’
‘Kind of,’ Payne admitted.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means his prophecies weren’t written in straightforward language that could be easily read. Like your letter, his quatrains were coded and ambiguous.’
‘Why do fortune-tellers always do that? If they really know what’s about to happen, why don’t they come right out and say it?’
Jones smiled at the question. ‘Why? Because most fortune-tellers are charlatans. They speak in generalities to preserve their ruse for as long as possible.’
‘Is that what Nostradamus did?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. He wasn’t reading tea leaves at the local carnival, trying to string along some sucker for an extra buck. Nostradamus was writing verses for the masses. By doing so, he opened himself up to a world of trouble. In fact, that’s the main reason he wrote in riddles. He did it to save his life.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Nostradamus wrote his prophecies in the sixteenth century during the same time as the Catholic Inquisition. Tribunals, established by the Vatican, prosecuted people throughout Europe who were accused of sorcery, witchcraft, and other offences. If he had written his thoughts in simple French, he would have been burned at the stake. Instead, he coded his messages, sprinkling in Greek, Latin, and other languages, in order to protect himself. That way he could claim they were puzzles or poetry, not prophecies.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I guess I can understand that. But if his writing is so vague, why is he famous?’
‘Because there’s a beauty in his ambiguity. Take Hitler, for example. In the passages that describe the second antichrist, Nostradamus claimed that the evil one would come from the Rhine and Hister. Well, guess what? The Rhine runs through Germany, and the Hister is the Latin name for the Danube. Later, he mentions Hister again in connection with armies and fighting. Most people go nuts over that one.’
Megan scrunched her face. ‘What’s your point?’
‘When Adolf was a young boy, he played along the shores of the lower Danube in Austria. Furthermore, Hister is only one letter different to Hitler. If Nostradamus had written the river’s name in French, Italian, or a dozen other languages, the two names wouldn’t have been similar. But for some reason, he chose the Latin name of the waterway. Some view this as coincidence. Others see it as prophetic.’
‘And what do you think?’
Jones pointed to himself. ‘Me? I think most of his verses have been pushed and pulled and contorted so much that his believers could make his words fit any historical event. I also think his critics have plenty of ammunition to poke holes in every quatrain he’s ever written.’