"We have a contingency for that," said Patchin quietly.
"Ironstone?" Sinclair asked. "That's the next best thing to treason."
"Nevertheless," said Patchin, pushing his plate away, his appetite suddenly gone. "If the senator doesn't get the nomination Ironstone may be our only chance. Another four years of that starry-eyed socialist in the White House and you'll be able to use the Constitution for toilet paper. He's already flushed the country down the crapper."
"Could you guarantee Ironstone's success?" Sinclair asked. She doused her cigarette in a sixty-dollar glass of wine.
"With help from your friends? Yes." He shrugged. "However, it would be considerably better if he could become head of your… organization. Ironstone would fundamentally change the United States forever."
"Some would say for the better," said Sinclair.
"And some would call it the last gasp of a failing empire," answered Patchin. "Ironstone is not an alternative; it is something to be avoided at all costs."
"Then help me," said Kate Sinclair. "If the ark is discovered, help me to ensure that it doesn't fall into the wrong hands."
"Speaking of the wrong hands," said Patchin, "just who are we talking about here?"
"There are seven families of the Blood within Rex Deus, all descended from the Desposyni, the blood relatives of Christ, all families of royal blood."
"I don't really care about all the religious gobbledygook and the secret handshakes. I just want to know what we're dealing with. Do all seven of these families have an equal shot at taking over?"
"No," said the old Sinclair woman. "All of them are descended from the children of Mary-Christ's brothers and sisters-but ever since the dissolution of the Templars, Rex Deus only accepts members of those families who survived and came to America. Of the fifty-six signatories of the Declaration of Independence, eight were members of Rex Deus and knew of each other. It was those eight who formed Rex Deus as it now exists."
"I don't recall anyone named Sinclair having signed the Declaration," said Patchin.
"Rex Deus and the Desposyni follow a matriarchal line, just like the Jews, which of course Christ was by birth. They are less the children of Jesus than they are the descendants of Mary Magdalene."
"People still believe this stuff?" Patchin said. "It sounds like it's straight out of a novel."
"Are the Freemasons out of a novel, or the Bilderberg Group or the Roman Catholic Church, or Skull and Bones of Yale University out of a novel, Joseph? As I recall, you're a Bonesman. Class of eighty- four, wasn't it?"
"Eighty-two," responded Patchin. He took a long swallow of the expensive wine, barely tasting it.
"Rex Deus is like all of those institutions, Joseph; trappings aside, they are about money. A great deal of money and almost infinite power."
"Yet it's trappings we're talking about," argued Patchin.
Kate Sinclair lit another cigarette. "It's the one thing that Mr. Brown got right in his book, and probably accounts for its success-the power of symbols on people's lives, even when those people have no idea of the symbols' origins.
"The lucky horseshoe is actually the gilt remains from paintings of saints' halos when all the other paint had faded. The cross has been used since the Stone Age and has nothing to do with Christianity. The color white is used for funerals in Japan, not weddings. The swastika was in use in Iceland as far back as the eighth century and was known as Thor's Hammer-it was in use in India long before that. But show a swastika to an Israeli and watch their reaction. An advertising person said it years ago-perception is everything." The older woman paused and tapped ashes into the remains of her veal.
"The perception in Rex Deus is that the True Ark and its contents are the most sacred icons and symbols of an ancient and holy order. You can't crown the British king or queen without the Sceptre, the Orb and the Crown. Philosophically it is Rex Deus's job, its holy goal, to save America until Armageddon and the Last Judgment. The United States itself is the vessel through which humanity will survive and the True Ark is the symbol of that survival."
"You believe all that?" Patchin said, dumbfounded.
"It doesn't matter what I believe, Joseph. What matters is that the person who returns the True Ark to its rightful place is guaranteed to be made adelphoi or chief elder of Rex Deus, with all the commensurate power such a position entails."
"And his competition?"
"Of the eight families there are only three in real contention."
"Who are they?"
Kate Sinclair opened up the expensive little clutch and took out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Patchin. He unfolded the note and read the short list of names. His eyes widened.
"My God," he whispered, staring at the little slip of paper.
"Precisely." Sinclair smiled coldly.
"But the one at the top, that's…"
Kate Sinclair lifted a bony finger to her bright red lips, silencing him.
"Can you still help me?" Sinclair asked.
Joseph Patchin stared at her, wondering what kind of terrible snake pit he had stumbled into. He tried to shrug it off. In for a penny, in for a pound; the kind of thinking that got Bernie Madoff a hundred and fifty years in the slammer. He swallowed hard.
"I'll see what I can do."
The sea was black glass. The only motion of the dark water was a slow, rolling swell that gave the thirty-two-foot lobster boat a faintly nauseating corkscrew twist that was turning Meg a faint shade of green. The Deryldene D was making a steady twelve knots and had been doing so ever since leaving Halifax at dawn, almost seven hours ago. Above them the sky was a featureless gray slab.
"I was expecting worse weather than this," said Holliday, standing beside Gallant at the wheel and looking out over the slowly undulating sea. Laid out on the windscreen shelf in front of the wheel was a group of high-tech instruments, including a depth finder, a side-scanning sonar array, a fish finder, a color radar screen, and a marine radio.
"You know the expression 'the calm before the storm'?" said the maritimer.
"Sure," said Holliday.
"This is it," Gallant answered flatly.
"There's a storm coming?" Meg asked anxiously, perched on the bait box close to the transom.
"We're in a high-pressure system that's moving with the swell. We meet a low-pressure system and you get what's called a cyclonic effect. Down south they'd call it a tropical storm. It's how you get hurricanes."
"Please tell me we're not heading into a hurricane," pleaded Meg.
"Maybe not a hurricane yet, but odds are it'll become one before long. They've already evacuated the island and the offshore rigs nearby; they don't do that for an ordinary storm. The only question is when she hits," answered Gallant.
"Best guess?" Holliday asked.
Gallant shrugged and stroked his mustache. "Trying to guess what the sea's going to do is a fool's game," said the lobsterman. "But from my experience and the Doppler radar I'd say we've got a few hours yet."
"You're saying that Sable Island is deserted now?" Meg asked.
"For what it's worth," answered Gallant. "I've never seen one, but the captain of the QE2 ocean liner reported a ninety-two-foot wave nearby. That's the height of a ten-story building. Sable's barely thirteen feet above sea level. I sure as hell wouldn't want to be anywhere on the island when a wave like that hits."
"We should check all that equipment you bought," said Holliday pointedly. Meg nodded. Holliday led the way through the small hatchway- like door to the left of the wheel down three narrow steps.
There was a galley with a propane stove and burners on the left and a fold-up Formica table on the right with a vinyl-covered banquette against the starboard bulkhead. Everything in the little space seemed coated with a light sheen of old cooking oil and there was the distinct odor of boiled fish in the air. Holliday edged his way through the galley, ducking low, and stepped into the forward cabin.