“That book,” she said, “was removed from a temple in Syria. One of the many archaeological sites where treasured artifacts have been stored or placed on display for the benefit of humanity. ISIL has gotten a lot of press because of the destruction they’ve leveled on those sites. Not merely UNESCO sites, but mosques, temples, shrines, great ruins, and more.”
“I’m sure that sucks to someone who gives a wet fart, but so what?”
“So some of those sites have a second purpose,” said Violin. “Some of them have been used to store dangerous objects for many years. Often the staff is seeded with soldiers or special clerics ordained for the purpose of protecting the world from the objects they guard.”
“You’re shitting me,” said Harry. “This is a joke, right?”
“It’s not. The world is larger, stranger, and darker than most people know. There are wars being fought on all levels, and many of them are very old wars in which blood has been shed for hundreds, even thousands of years. Maintaining the security over those items is critical, but the power of ISIL is so great that they have been able to overwhelm the guardians. The Brotherhood was quick to act and they sent teams into the field to try and reclaim these objects.”
“If this stuff is so dangerous, why not let ISIL just destroy them?” asked Harry, then he added, “And I can’t believe I’m building a case for those fucktards to do even more damage.”
“If these were ordinary books,” said Violin, “then the Brotherhood might have done just that. However, these books are not ordinary and it is possible, even likely, that an attempt to destroy them would result in a catastrophic release.”
“A release of what?”
She shook her head. “I… don’t know. There are so many different opinions on the subject because no one has ever opened some of those books. Not in many hundreds of years. In many cases the books themselves, the materials used to make them, and the inscribed metals that bind them were carefully constructed to contain the knowledge, to confine the power.”
“This is nuts,” said Harry. “We’re talking about books. I mean, c’mon, I read explosive thrillers but it doesn’t mean they actually blow up. You tell me this isn’t magic but then you tell me this crap?”
Before she could answer, the front door exploded inward.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Alexander Chismer — known as Toys to everyone who knew him — poured more wine into Junie Flynn’s glass, considered, added more. Then he refilled his own. The wine bottle was nearly as empty as its two predecessors and they were both well over the line into being drunk. They drank. She cried a little and he held her. They talked off and on. Sometimes they even laughed.
The TV was on but the sound was muted. On the screen a trio of thirty-something real estate brokers were backstabbing each other in pantomime as they fought for multimillion-dollar listings of Southern California properties. Toys had turned it on because the men were pretty, but he had no interest in the show. He had even less interest in the god-awful Enya music she had on an apparently endless playlist. He endured it, though, and the middling wine. At least in terms of the latter there was a lot of it.
Apart from the TV the only lights were a few votive candles and the starlight visible through the open French windows. The music was low enough so that the soft, rolling whoosh of the waves was not drowned out. Tibetan temple incense perfumed the air, and that was okay. Toys had bought that for Junie at a shop in Encinitas.
“I wish somebody would call,” said Junie. Toys figured it was the tenth time she’d said it.
“They can’t,” he told her. As he had before. “You know the drill with these spy chaps. Everything is hush-hush and need to know, and sweetie, we do not need to know.”
“I do, damn it,” she said, too loudly and with an emphatic swing of her glass that sloshed good Riesling on the couch. She yelped, lunged for it as if she could catch the spilled wine, and slid right off the sofa. She landed with a thump that spilled more of the wine.
Toys plucked the glass from her hand. “Oh, you silly cow, you are shitfaced, aren’t you?”
Junie looked down at the mess and began to cry.
Toys set his glass on the coffee table and joined her on the floor, wrapping a wiry arm around her and pulling her close until she laid her head on his chest.
“Oh, my little Junebug,” he said. “You are going to be a right mess tomorrow, you know that? Joe will come home and you’ll be tits up on the carpet. Very exciting.”
She punched his chest, and a snort of laughter bubbled out through the sobs.
“You’re snorting now,” he said, arching his eyebrows. “You’ve now become actual American trailer trash. Congratulations.”
“You are a total bitch,” she said as she pushed back from him. Junie swiped at her tears.
“You didn’t expect me to slog all the way over here to braid your hair and have a pillow fight, did you?”
“Bitch,” she repeated.
“Drunken sow,” he said.
They had some more wine.
Ghost was curled up asleep in his big dog bed in the corner behind the dining room table and as they laughed, and drank, and wept, the dog twitched and grunted softly. His legs moved as shadows flitted through his dreaming dog mind.
Then Ghost snapped awake and sat up, looking around at the room, at the people, and then through the window at the night. He sniffed the air and whined softly. He got up and walked over to the French doors, paused for a moment to sniff again, taking in the scents on the night air, then he went out onto the balcony. Toys and Junie did not notice any of this, nor did they see Ghost stand up on his hind legs with his front paws on the edge of the wrought-iron rail. They did not know he was even awake until the dog raised his muzzle to the sky and let loose with a howl that was high, plaintive, sad, and entirely wolflike.
INTERLUDE SIXTEEN
Mr. Priest declined the offer of a scotch.
“Sit,” said Bell, and they both settled into comfortable leather chairs. It was late and the estate was quiet. Most of the servants had gone for the day except for the live-ins, and they had been told to stay in their wing of the house. That part of the house did not have a view of the driveway.
“Where’s Dr. Greene?” asked Bell. “Should I start looking for an obituary?”
Priest did not smile. “No, sir. He’s alive and well.”
“Where?”
“He owns property in Washington state. He’s living in a Winnebago. You might be interested to know that he removed the tires and has it resting on blocks. He bought enough supplies to last him for months.”
“Does he know you know this?”
“No,” said Priest. “Nor does he know that we’re tracking his purchases and Internet usage. He drives to several local towns to use the free Wi-Fi. He’s visiting conspiracy theory Web sites. A lot of them. And he’s e-mailing some of the people who run those sites. He’s spoken to George Noory, Whitley Strieber, Junie Flynn, and several others. UFOs, alien races, secret societies, and government cover-ups.”
Bell grunted.
“He’s also been doing a lot of research on the various books that comprise the Unlearnable Truths. He’s bought copies of some, but alas, they are fictionalized or pseudo-nonfiction. He’s nowhere near obtaining a real one, of course,” said Priest. “I’ve made copies of all of his Net searches and obtained duplicates of every book he’s purchased or checked out of a library. I sent a complete report to your Drop Box account.”