Yes?” he asked.
“ I have news,” the voice on the other end of the line proclaimed. The caller was male and he sounded winded and overwrought.
The monk hesitated for a long moment before replying. “What is the code?” he asked. He would never acknowledge his identity unless the code was repeated exactly as he knew it; exactly as they all knew it. To do so would be to violate the most sacred of all oaths.
The man on the other end of the line recited a seven digit code. It was merely a series of numbers, like those on a lottery ticket. There was no deep or hidden significance to the sequence. The odds were one hundred and thirty-five million to one that the number could be randomly selected. Although the monk did not recognize the man’s voice, he was not surprised. For security purposes, The Brotherhood met infrequently, usually only if there was an emergency, and their meetings were always held in the greatest secrecy and in the most remote places. As priests swear oaths of celibacy, so these monks had sworn a long ago pledge against friendship, understanding that any complicity, however casual, could mean the Brotherhood’s destruction . It had been more than a year since the monk had spoken to another member.
Finally he said, “Yes, the number is correct. To whom am I speaking?”
“ This is Isaac,” the voice replied. Isaac was a pseudonym, of course. All members of the Brotherhood used pseudonyms. All were named for apostles.
“ Am I speaking to Brother Paul?” Isaac asked.
“ Yes, Isaac, this is Paul. Now please tell me what is so urgent that you felt the need to compromise security protocol.”
“ Something has happened,” Isaac said. “The chosen ones are in danger.”
The monk’s heart began to race. “Tell me, Isaac, what exactly do you mean by this? Be very specific.”
“ This morning their home was destroyed. They were driven out and pursued by men with guns.”
“ I want to know how this could have happened. Your duty was to protect them—”
“ Our agents were there, Brother Paul, as always, watching from the shadows. When the attack came it was so sudden that we were taken completely off guard. We believe the attackers . . . knew.”
“ That you were there? About us and our intentions? About the information we possess?”
“ Yes, we believe so.”
“ Do you know who these men were?”
“ Several are dead. Their bodies were taken to the city morgue. By morning they will be gone and the authorities will be left scratching their heads.”
“ Yes, of course,” said the monk. “Men without names or identities. I should have guessed.”
“ There is something else,” Isaac said.
“ Yes?”
“ The Collector has resurfaced.”
There was a long silence on the line before the monk replied. “I need details,” he said.
“ Last night he murdered a family in coastal New Hampshire. The details are sketchy. The police have yet to issue a statement. But my sources are reliable.”
“ You are certain of this?”
“ There is no mistake. He left his calling card.”
“ Written in the ancient language?”
“ This is what my sources tell me.”
“ Was there anyone . . .?”
“ Taken? I’m afraid so. A six-year old girl.”
The monk was suddenly speechless. His heart began to race and his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth. He was gasping for breath, grasping to make sense of what he’d just learned.
“ There is something else, Brother Paul.”
“ Yes?”
“ Along with his signature he left the image of a symbol.”
“ A symbol?”
“ Yes. Burned onto the wall beneath the words.”
The priest put his hand in the pocket of his robe and felt the object there. It seemed to be vibrating slightly, and although the sensation was slightly uncomfortable he did not remove his hand. “I see,” he said.
“ He knows, Brother Paul.”
“ Yes, he knows. But he also knows that he cannot touch the mother or the child. At least not until the child is born.
“ I have news,” the voice on the other end of the line proclaimed. The caller was male and he sounded winded and overwrought.
The monk hesitated for a long moment before replying. “What is the code?” he asked. He would never acknowledge his identity unless the code was repeated exactly as he knew it; exactly as they all knew it. To do so would be to violate the most sacred of all oaths.
The man on the other end of the line recited a seven digit code. It was merely a series of numbers, like those on a lottery ticket. There was no deep or hidden significance to the sequence. The odds were one hundred and thirty-five million to one that the number could be randomly selected. Although the monk did not recognize the man’s voice, he was not surprised. For security purposes, The Brotherhood met infrequently, usually only if there was an emergency, and their meetings were always held in the greatest secrecy and in the most remote places. As priests swear oaths of celibacy, so these monks had sworn a long ago pledge against friendship, understanding that any complicity, however casual, could mean the Brotherhood’s destruction . It had been more than a year since the monk had spoken to another member.
Finally he said, “Yes, the number is correct. To whom am I speaking?”
“ This is Isaac,” the voice replied. Isaac was a pseudonym, of course. All members of the Brotherhood used pseudonyms. All were named for apostles.
“ Am I speaking to Brother Paul?” Isaac asked.
“ Yes, Isaac, this is Paul. Now please tell me what is so urgent that you felt the need to compromise security protocol.”
“ Something has happened,” Isaac said. “The chosen ones are in danger.”
The monk’s heart began to race. “Tell me, Isaac, what exactly do you mean by this? Be very specific.”
“ This morning their home was destroyed. They were driven out and pursued by men with guns.”
“ I want to know how this could have happened. Your duty was to protect them—”
“ Our agents were there, Brother Paul, as always, watching from the shadows. When the attack came it was so sudden that we were taken completely off guard. We believe the attackers . . . knew.”
“ That you were there? About us and our intentions? About the information we possess?”
“ Yes, we believe so.”
“ Do you know who these men were?”
“ Several are dead. Their bodies were taken to the city morgue. By morning they will be gone and the authorities will be left scratching their heads.”
“ Yes, of course,” said the monk. “Men without names or identities. I should have guessed.”
“ There is something else,” Isaac said.
“ Yes?”
“ The Collector has resurfaced.”
There was a long silence on the line before the monk replied. “I need details,” he said.
“ Last night he murdered a family in coastal New Hampshire. The details are sketchy. The police have yet to issue a statement. But my sources are reliable.”
“ You are certain of this?”
“ There is no mistake. He left his calling card.”
“ Written in the ancient language?”
“ This is what my sources tell me.”
“ Was there anyone . . .?”
“ Taken? I’m afraid so. A six-year old girl.”
The monk was suddenly speechless. His heart began to race and his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth. He was gasping for breath, grasping to make sense of what he’d just learned.
“ There is something else, Brother Paul.”
“ Yes?”
“ Along with his signature he left the image of a symbol.”
“ A symbol?”
“ Yes. Burned onto the wall beneath the words.”
The priest put his hand in the pocket of his robe and felt the object there. It seemed to be vibrating slightly, and although the sensation was slightly uncomfortable he did not remove his hand. “I see,” he said.
“ He knows, Brother Paul.”
“ Yes, he knows. But he also knows that he cannot touch the mother or the child. At least not until the child is born.
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