Sons Read online

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  Dreamspinner Press

  382 NE 191st Street #88329

  Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Sons

  Copyright © 2012 by Michael Halfhill

  Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected]

  Cover Design by Mara McKennen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  ISBN: 978-1-61372-510-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Second Edition

  May 2012

  First edition published in 2007 by Book Surge Publishing.

  eBook edition available

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-511-5

  In memory of my father

  I’d like to acknowledge Margaret Whitfield, Dan Hoxter, and Kathleen Conley-Aydin for their help, with special thanks to Peter Kim, Betty Conley, Ruth Sims, and Tobias Grace.

  Prologue

  Arles, France

  PRINCE PAULO DA SARACENA, Count of Campobasso, rapped his pen on the smooth surface of the round walnut table. “Gentlemen, ladies, please! We have been here for five days, and as lovely as our accommodations are, everyone is anxious to go home. We have one more item to discuss, and that is the emergence of another terrorist group. Please refer to item sixty-three in your agenda.”

  Four men and three women comprising the worldwide leadership of The Mundus Society opened their leather-bound folios once again. These seven represented each of the planet’s continents. Combined, they and their membership wielded more influence, wealth, and sheer power than Europe, Asia, and the Americas.

  Outside, a passing cloud momentarily blotted out the late afternoon sun’s brilliance, plunging the high-ceilinged room into gloomy gray. Jan glanced at Margarita Corona, Mundus Master of South America, and nodded to the darkened room.

  “I hope that’s not an omen!”

  Margarita smiled, arching her eyebrows. “Me too,” she whispered.

  The room, a long oak-paneled gallery flanked with heavy beveled glass windows, grew quiet. Against the wall, a narrow case clock ticked away the minutes.

  Paulo cocked his head toward Sebastian Faust and said, “Our Master for Africa will report.”

  For the past two hours, Sebastian Faust had been looking over Paulo’s shoulder at a short sideboard, in the center of which squatted a decanter of vintage claret. Seven crystal glasses shared the small space.

  Sebastian stood to address his colleagues. Clearing his throat, he picked up a glass of water, frowned, and returned it to the table. He looked over his half-rimmed glasses at each one, and said, “I’ll try to be brief. As you all know, al-Qaida, while most notorious, is not alone in making terror in the world. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have a new kid on the block. They call themselves al-Qâdi, which means judgment or justice. Make no mistake. They’re every bit as ruthless, resourceful, and dangerous as Bin Laden. We know that al-Qâdi has spread into Europe and parts of Asia—perhaps even the Americas. We know they have linked up with outlaw elements in the former Soviet Union. They gather much of their funds through murder, extortion, slavery, and child exploitation.”

  Sebastian paused, eyed once more the carafe and its liquid balm, and continued, “Although our agents are exploring all the places al-Qâdi is likely to use for its bases, we believe that an inner city, or a very remote locale—a rainforest for example—is most probable. Our intelligence also suggests that, due to their close-knit nature, small communities would pose a threat of discovery. Al-Qâdi avoids these.”

  Sebastian waited for everyone seated to absorb the information before continuing. “What we suspect, but have not yet confirmed, is al-Qâdi has done what Bin Laden has yet to achieve. We believe they have gotten hold of a small amount of weapons-grade plutonium.”

  Sebastian’s disclosure brought the members to their feet in a frenzy of questions.

  Dagmar Lintz, Iceland’s Mundus Master, representing the Artic Regions, stood next to Sebastian. Snatching the report from his hand, she ignored the noise around her and read for herself the information and its source.

  “My God! Sebastian, if this is true, we have no time to lose. We have to find them!”

  Australia’s Margo Whitefield looked at Jan accusingly. “Did you know about this?” she asked.

  Jan plopped back into his chair and stared at his copy of the report. Jan had been North American Master for almost fifteen years and was regarded as the group’s nominal leader.

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Please,” Paulo said, “take your seats. This report is preliminary. We will issue updates as we get them.”

  Arata Tsukamoto, Jan’s counterpart in Asia, looked over and mouthed, “This is bad—very bad.”

  Jan nodded back and sighed.

  Sebastian Faust looked around the room. “There is one more item about al-Qâdi. Bin Laden ordered al-Ansar, in Iraq, to stop the beheading of hostages. It seems al-Qaida feared a public backlash. Al-Qâdi, however, does not share that fear. They have picked up where al-Ansar left off and now hold a Korean man hostage. We know where they are holding him and are attempting his rescue. I can share details of that operation with anyone interested, after the meeting.”

  Sebastian turned to da Saracena. “That is all I have.”

  “If there are no objections,” Paulo said, “I adjourn this meeting.”

  Sebastian headed for the wine.

  Jan stood, walked to the windows, and stared out at the boxwood maze below. He tried to blot out the jabber behind him as he hung his head and whispered a silent prayer for the Korean hostage.

  One

  “THIS is BBC World News, and I’m Felicity Fellstone, sitting in for Malcolm Talley.”

  Turning a page that lay before her on the shiny glass desk, the newscaster continued, “Al Jazeera television today aired a film of what it said was a Korean hostage taken by yet another terrorist group, calling itself al-Qâdi. The Korean man, twenty-year-old Soo Kwon, worked for Save the Children, an arm of the Christian Children’s Foundation, when armed men took him from the parking lot of his hotel in Mosul. The kidnappers threatened to behead Mr. Kwon unless the South Korean government announces an immediate withdrawal of its presence in the Middle East. We advise viewers, these scenes are graphic.”

  A moment later, a scene all too familiar appeared on the screen. A terrified young man, flanked by masked men armed with assault rifles, stood shaking and sobbing. Behind them, a black banner proclaiming Death to Infidels and Glory to Martyrs stretched across a blood-spattered wall.

  “Please! Please!” begged the Korean youth, Kwon, his hands tied behind his back. “I want to live! I know you want to live… but I want to live too! Please! Please! I want to live!”

  A sober Felicity returned to the screen and said, “The South Korean government rejected al-Qâdi’s demands, insisting it would not be held for ransom by terrorists. A spokesperson for the South Korean government went on to say that Mr. Kwon is not affiliated with Korea’s military presence in the region, which consists of hospital support for the civilian population. As of this d
ate, efforts to locate Mr. Kwon or contact his captors have failed.

  “Moving on to other news, Buckingham Palace announced today….”

  Arles

  JAN PHILLIPS and his estate manager, Kevin Andrews, sat wrapped in wool blankets on the terrace of the Chateau Coeur d’Alène. A pale morning sun struggled to burn away the night’s shade as they sipped their coffee. Beyond the marble balustrade, the broad expanse of dull green lawn, flanked by rows of naked beech trees, stretched far into the lingering morning mist.

  Kevin eyed his boss a long moment and then asked, “Did you see the video al Jazeera aired last night?”

  “Yeah.” Jan’s tone twirled with resignation and anger.

  “Did you try to save him?”

  “Mundus tried. We were too late. You saw the video on TV. They never intended to let him go. He was dead the minute they took him. These killings have become a blood sport.”

  “You’re awfully calm about it,” Kevin accused.

  “When you’re calm, you can focus your energy. When you’re not, you end up running in circles.”

  Jan looked over at Kevin.

  “We’ll get ’em in the end… we’ve got to.”

  Kevin shivered at the thought of the young Korean begging for his life minutes before his head was pulled back, exposing his throat to the knife.

  “Isn’t it kind of cold out here?” Kevin said, trying to mask the real reason for his discomfort.

  “Think of it as self mortification. Besides, it’ll never hurt you,” Jan mumbled, his mind wandering far away, back to a sunny autumn day, the day Tim Morris first brought him to the chateau. Suddenly, the phone rang, jarring him from guilty memories of Tim. Jan had behaved badly on that first day. Tim tried hard to please him by showing his exclusive private world of wealth and privilege—wealth and privilege that one day would be his. All Jan did was to retreat into sullen anger. Overwhelmed, he was reluctant, unsure of his budding gay sexuality, and scared stiff by the real chance that Tim just might get him killed.

  When Jan didn’t move to answer the intruding bell, Kevin sighed.

  “I’ll get it,” he said.

  Heaving himself out of the chaise lounge, he jogged across the terrace and through the open double doors. Jan could hear Kevin as he spoke to the caller.

  “What! No, no—do nothing! Le seigneur will be there right away.”

  Kevin returned, slightly out of breath.

  “What’s going on?” Jan asked.

  “Big trouble. There’s a bulldozer about to raze the Chapel of the Transfiguration, and a crowd of protesters is blocking the way! The cardinal called the police. He wants the mob dispersed so the demolition can proceed. He’s on his way there now. That was Father Malreve from Saint Sebastian’s on the phone. He’s going down, and he wants you there too. I think the chaplain is making a speech. You know the French!”

  “Well, if we can get one more priest to show up we can baptize a jackass,” Jan said sarcastically. “I knew this was going to be a problem as soon as I heard the rumor.”

  “You know, sometimes you can be a real prick,” Kevin complained.

  “Flatterer. All right, go get the car. I’ll change into my shining armor just for you.”

  Situated smack in the middle of four hundred ninety-six acres of prime bottomland, stretching in a narrow band along the banks of the slow moving Rhône River, the Chapel of the Transfiguration was considered the soul, if not the heart, of the village. Farmers had planted wheat, barley, and lavender on this ground for hundreds of years. To the north and west, the land was bounded by church property. The Monastery of Saint Sebastian and a sliver of Jan’s estate shared the southern line. The only paved road cut across Jan’s portion. Built not long after the Roman Empire imploded, the chapel was a provincial, some might say ugly, attempt at recalling the architecture of a defunct order. Unlike churches of later design, the interior of the church was unadorned, while multicolored mosaics depicting the life of Jesus and the promise of a glorious afterlife clad its four exterior walls. The front wall featured adoring apostles surrounding the resurrected Christ. After nearly two millennia, it retained much of its original brilliance.

  To the chagrin of the local cardinal, busloads of savvy tourists regularly siphoned themselves from the glitzy Arles Cathedral to see the village’s rare art treasure.

  When they arrived at the site, Jan and Kevin saw a demolition crew of twelve beefy men arguing with an equal number of hysterical townsfolk. The chaplain stood in the church’s doorway defying anyone to move him. The milling mob, added to the heavy morning dew, made the usually hard packed dirt soft and muddy.

  Jacques Malreve, the father abbot of Saint Sebastian’s, had pulled the village leader aside and was attempting to get her, and her followers, to leave before the police arrived and arrests were made.

  Jan and the abbot had been friends since Jan was eighteen. Père Malreve was still as chubby as the day Jan had met him. Patting his stomach, Jacques would say, “It’s my one weakness… well, perhaps not the only one.”

  “Jacques, you’re just making up for what His Arrogance doesn’t eat,” Jan would joke.

  “Jan! I wish you would stop calling the cardinal that! The man is anointed of the Lord, a priest, according to the Order of Melchizedek. Come Judgment Day, you will be sorry,” the monk warned with a wagging finger.

  “Well if Cardinal Cock Robin allows Jesus to be my judge, I’ll have nothing to worry about,” was Jan’s standard reply.

  Jacques usually replied by putting his head in his hands and mumbling something about praying for Jan. In Jan’s estimation, a better person than Jacques had never lived.

  The cardinal, on the other hand, was a high-handed, mean man. When Tim’s body arrived in Arles to rest in the tomb of the Lords of Guyencourt, the cardinal made a loud and public objection. “Homosexuals have no place among the nobles of France,” he opined.

  The cardinal’s rant sparked a deep, abiding dislike of the prelate in Jan. Over the years, the two men quarreled openly. Jan hated these episodes because they produced nothing but more ill will—something very much out of his character.

  “Okay, okay, Jacques. I’ll be more respectful of the Lord’s anointed.” It was a promise Jan never kept.

  Jan shook off the remembered conversations. Handing his briefcase to Kevin, he said, “Hold on to this and wait here. I may need you.”

  Leaving Kevin in the car, Jan walked to where Jacques stood. The crowd got louder. Juliet Dufort, the village representative, moved off to confer with her fellow protesters.

  Jan caught the abbot’s eye as he approached. “Jacques, how nice of you to invite me to the party!”

  Jan looked around for his nemesis. “Where’s His Arrogance?” he asked acidly.

  “My Lord Cardinal!” Between clenched teeth, the abbot said, “Jan, you promised to stop calling him that.” Then, sotto voce, “He is right behind you, Jan. Please, help us!”

  Jan turned and beamed a smile any car salesman would envy, his hand extended in a friendship he didn’t feel. “Ah, Your Eminence!”

  A gaunt man clothed in red silk moiré from nose to hose stood glaring at Jan. His billowing red cape and matching skullcap proclaimed Alphonse Paré de Breton as a Prince of the Church. If not for occasional movement and speech, he could have served as a cadaver for an anatomy class. Many said his emaciated look was due to his holy fasting. Jan’s take was that good food refused to digest in his sour stomach.

  Ignoring Jan’s outstretched hand, the cardinal said, “Monsieur Phillips, the salutation for a cardinal changed some time ago. Please address me as, ‘My Lord Cardinal’.”

  Jan made a deep bow.

  “And since I am the lord of the Chateau Coeur d’Alène, you, My Lord Cardinal, may address me as le seigneur. You may as well, everyone else does.”

  “I will do no such thing!” snapped the cardinal. “Have you come here to add your sarcasm to this chaos? I phoned the police and demanded they clear away
this rabble. It would be wiser for you to leave now and avoid arrest.”

  Looking around with the hauteur only one confidant God is on his side can muster, the prelate pointed toward the chapel.

  “That,” he sneered, “and all the surrounding land is the Church’s property. It belongs to the Diocese of Arles, not to these villagers, and certainly not to you! Holy Mother Church has decided to put it to better use—for the benefit of all, I mean.”

  “I don’t suppose the cathedral’s loss in tourist Euros has anything to do with Holy Mother’s recent interest toward land reform,” Jan said.

  “I warn you, monsieur, you place your immortal soul in peril by impugning the purity of our intentions.”

  “Ha!” Jan scoffed. “I place my soul’s safety in God’s hands. Somehow, I feel it’s safer with Him. You understand. By the way, where is Monsieur le Maire and his cadre of gendarmes? I thought…. Oh! There they are.”

  Jan waved mockingly at an unmarked van parked under a naked chestnut tree. The mayor slid low in the front seat, obviously wanting no part of this mêlée.

  “They are keeping a safe distance at my request. Of course we hope force will not be needed,” the cardinal said.

  “He’s more likely afraid of a bolt lightning,” Jan mumbled.

  “What did you say, monsieur?”

  “Nothing,” Jan lied. “Look, Eminence, why do you want…? Uh, no, let me rephrase, what plans has our Holy Mother for this property? It isn’t as if the cathedral hasn’t enough land already.”

  The cardinal ignored the repeated slight, yet his face flushed with rising anger. “I do not need to justify Holy Mother’s decisions to you! However, because of your generosity to the Church in the past, I will tell you that we have a gentleman’s agreement of sale, on condition that we remove the chapel. It is that simple. We need the money, and the community will benefit from the income derived from the sale, as will the Church.”

  Jan eyed the old man with a knowing look and shook his head at what he knew was a lie.