PROLOGUE
FRIDAY DECEMBER 8TH, 2006
He’d always appreciated fine automobiles, and despite the financial trouble that led to their merger with BMW, Rolls Royce made the finest. He waited patiently in the back of the Phantom Centenary Edition. Patience came naturally to him. When you reached his age, a few minutes, a few hours, even months meant very little.
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His left forearm lay on the driver’s side armrest while his right hand had settled on the Oxblood Connolly leather interior he’d had custom installed – one of the last jobs the company had done before it shuttered in 2002. It wasn’t the machine stamped hide of glossy, lesser vehicles. Every surface was a testament to experience, to feeling. Smooth to the touch, but with the faintest hint of grain like a century old, leather bound book. The seats were double stitched with black silk thread, a detail invisible to most people with the lack of light that penetrated the car’s mirrored windows. Along the interior door panels and center console, the leather wrapped seamlessly into dark walnut inlay, oiled to a low luster. Even the headliner was swathed in suede finished hide dyed the midnight gray of storm clouds at dusk.
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A subtle scent hung in the air. Not new car. Aged leather, centuries of refinement with whispers of sandalwood, ink, and old secrets. It wasn’t just a car. It was a sanctum, a confessional, a retreat from the world. A coffin.
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The nineteen foot long, almost three ton car couldn’t have been more out of place in the back alley parked next to an undersized overhead door. It loomed like a near hidden predator in the deep gloom of the urban jungle, almost invisible as the sun went down behind the city’s horizon. The car could have easily belonged to a high powered mob boss or maybe an internationally wanted arms dealer. Maybe it would in his next book.
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A beige painted metal door set into the wall nearby opened, spilling harsh white light into the alley. An enormous silhouette filled the doorway. The light argued with the huge man standing there, and it lost, barely managing the squeak around him at the edges. It had the added effect of darkening his face and clothes, giving the man a deadly presence.
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He came toward the car, his shaved head, solid jawline, and cleft chin materializing from the darkness. He had the impassive, stolid face of a man who knew his business, a pure professional. A suit hung perfectly tailored on a muscled but agile body. Most people would never recognize an eight thousand dollar Brioni except maybe from a James Bond movie. He leaned forward and pulled open the car door as the other door closed behind him.
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“Everything is prepared, Mr. Carver,” Branson said.
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“You are certain? Camera system?”
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“Yes, sir. I personally checked the security system,” Branson answered with a nod, and he moved to the side.
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“Very well.”
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He exited the car as gracefully as his aching, creaking knees would allow him. They were beginning to fail, like much of his body, and he would have to do something about them soon. Heat radiated from the powerful automobile, driving away the frigid air of an early onset winter. Yet another way the car protected him. He would miss it.
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Carver ran prematurely age spotting hands down his clothes, smoothing wrinkles in the Italian silk. His tie was in perfect form. He headed for the door, straightening his posture to regain just a few inches of height.
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He heard the car door shut behind him, and then Branson appeared suddenly to open the door leading into the building. All he said was, “Sir,” as he did it. Branson was good, one of the best Carver had ever had. He hoped the man stayed on even after everything that was to come.
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He entered a small warehouse, just a storeroom really. Rolling three foot long carts stood in rows with stacks of books on them. Metal shelves to the left held cardboard boxes, some of them flattened and other bulging with the words Christmas, Easter, or Halloween written on their sides in magic marker. A counter lined the right wall with two computers and an electronic scale. The fluorescent lights overhead glared down with an electric hum, causing him to squint. He reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved his platinum framed Cartier sunglasses. The helped subdue the brilliance.
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There were three people waiting inside for him, and Carver resisted the urge to roll his eyes. On the other hand, there were only three. Sometimes, he’d run into a dozen or more, small armies of people.
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“Mr. Carver, we’re so honored to have you!”
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“Mr. Carver, I can’t believe you came!”
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“Mr. Carver, I…”
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“Mr. Carver, you…”
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He recognized the first to approach him. Julie Brumbaugh. Stereotypical blond eye candy provided by the publisher to give the talent something shiny to look at. Her hair was always perfect, her skirts too short, and her blouses too open. He’d worked with her more than once, and she’d made it more than clear he was welcome to anything he needed. She smiled that familiar, fake smile as she greeted him, tried to shake his hand.
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He just nodded and looked over the second person – a middle aged woman with bobbed brown hair going gray. She wore a very understated pantsuit that looked like it was twenty years old. Probably all she could afford. She gave that polite, reserved smile and introduced herself as Susan something, the store’s event coordinator.
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The third introduced himself as the store manager, Chris or Matt or John or something. They all looked alike. Jeans. Polo shirt. Five foot seven at the most. Probably had an art history degree or regular history or underwater basket weaving or something. He danced like he was going to piss himself.
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“He’s going to make sure that you have everything you need, Mr. Carver,” blondie said.
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“Yes, sir. Absolutely. Just ask!”
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“No pictures,” Carver said.
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“Oh, of course, no pictures,” the store manager replied. “I’m going to make the first announcement, and Susan is going to show you to the table. Is there anything you need from me right now?”
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“No.”
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“Good evening, Book Pages customers! We’re excited to announce that acclaimed bestselling author Johnathan Carver has arrived and will begin signing his new book The Anders Protocol at six p.m. at the store’s center crossroads. Come meet Mr. Carver and get your signed first edition and thank you for shopping at Book Pages! Oh, and remember, no pictures please.”
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The eccentric Johnathan Carver. He’d never publicly given a reason for why he didn’t want to be photographed, even to the extent that he’d never given an interview on television. The popular theory was that he was a wanted man. Or he would be if certain people in the world saw pictures of the man who wrote these political, spy, and special forces thrillers. How could he know so much? Carver might have had that particular rumor spread around.
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Anywhere he went, Branson or whoever worked for him at the time would go ahead to make sure that no security cameras were on. It was becoming difficult though, because digital cameras were now being integrated into cell phones. In a few years, everyone would have a camera in their pocket. Hell, he’d heard that any time now, people would have full blown computers in their pockets.
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The speed of technological advancement amazed him. He remembered many times where he’d found a single error and had to retype the entire page to fix it. Now, he needed only to find the error on the screen, hit his delete key, and fix it. Incredible.
Book Pages was a big place, a book superstore chain run by some corporate office in New York or L.A. or Chicago, and it worked hard to convince its customers that it was their local, friendly bookstore. There weren’t many of those left, and the rise of this new online behemoth would probably put the final nail in their coffins. He’d done signings at places like this before. A huge intersection of two main aisles, dividing the store into quadrants with a children’s book section off to one side. Many, like this one, had coffee shops on elevated stages. The heat blasted infernally.
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His table was set up just in front of the café, and a huge standup banner of the book cover with his picture stood behind it. A black tablecloth covered the six foot table, and fifty hardbacked books were stacked on it. The store hadn’t even bothered to unpack most of the books. Next to the table was a small wooden pallet with layers of cardboard boxes. Each layer was five boxes wide, five deep, and seven layers. Each box contained ten copies. Either the store, the corporate office, or the publisher had high expectations.
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There was already a line. At least two dozen people stretched from a stanchion marking the start of the line about a yard from the table, and the line grew by the moment. Within minutes, it would stretch out the store’s front door. Carver repressed a sigh as he sat in the cheap, stained armchair they gave him. He should enjoy this. He used to enjoy this. Now it was… tedious.
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The onslaught began. The torrent of people came forward. Branson moved along the line, a silent enforcer to make sure everyone behaved and followed the rules. Carver signed books, making them out to Chris or William or Brittany. Many asked him questions, most of which he ignored or answered with a few curt words. The publisher bimbo handled most of them, moving people along quickly while Susan continuously unpacked more and more books for him to sign. Sometimes she leaned toward him to ask if he needed anything.
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He shook his head slowly or responded with a whispered, “No, thank you.”
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An hour had passed, and the line had only grown. A hundred books had passed through his hands, which were already starting to cramp around his Montblanc fountain pen. He ignored the stupid grin of the store manager and his whispers that they may have to stay open late to accommodate everyone. People came. People went.
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A man in jeans walked away with his signed copy, and someone else stepped up to the table. His peripheral vision told him it was a woman in black. Carver didn’t look up as he grabbed the next book and opened it to the title page.
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“And who do we make this one out to?” Julie the blond asked.
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We? What we? The word, the presumption behind it grated on him. Years ago, when he was younger, he might have shown her just how much.
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An answer was not forthcoming. Carver felt something in the silence, and his eyes traveled up the black clad woman in front of him. The dress was tight but slit up the leg almost to her waist. The neckline plunged, her alabaster skin and womanly attributes on full, confident display. A silver raven with black diamond eyes hung on from a matching chain around her neck. Her black hair framed an angular, Germanic face. Dark eyes and black painted lips smiled back at him.
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“Lori, please,” she purred. She leaned toward him over the table. She reached out a single finger and traced the muted edge of his own jawline and said, “I am so excited Mr. Carver. I have all your books. All of them.”
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Her hand retracted, and Carver looked down at the title page. He addressed it “To Lori”, added one of three messages he wrote in all of them, and then signed it. He said nothing as he handed it to her.
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“Thank you, Mr. Carver. I cannot wait to add it to my collection,” the woman said, and she turned and strode away. Everyone watched her leave. They couldn’t help but see her as she strode right by them and out the door without even paying for the book.
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“That was odd,” Julie said with a shiver despite the uncomfortable thermostat setting.
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Carver said nothing.
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“I’ve read all your books too, Johnathan,” a voice cold and hard as stone said.
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The man who’d stepped up to the table would have intimidated most people. He was over six feet, almost as tall as Branson. He wore dirty jeans and a black Grateful Dead T-shirt covered in bright colors. The one with the skull and the yellow lightning bolt bisecting it into red and blue halves. Tattooed arms bulged from the short sleeves, and Carver was surprised the man’s head and thick neck even passed through the hole at the top of the shirt. He had an ornate crucifix tattooed on the right side of his neck and a full, thick beard, though it was stone gray like his short hair.
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“Mr. Carver, please,” Julie said. “Who do we make it out to?”
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He paused for a moment, and then a spectre of a smile appeared behind his beard. He said, “Roland Perry.”
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Carver opened the book Susan placed in front of him, and his pen hovered for a few seconds over the title page. He could have been frozen in time as far as anyone could tell. Julie’s light hand came to rest on his shoulder. It broke him from the stasis, and he scrawled out something on the page before signing it. He handed the book back to the man.
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The man calling himself Roland Perry stood there for several seconds, admiring the dedication and signature on his new book. The smile grew, and his eyes narrowed. Finally, he nodded and said, “Thank you very much.”
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He turned and headed for the cash registers. Carver watched him go, ignoring the next person in line for a moment. He glanced forward to find Branson staring at him with an unspoken question, but Carver just blinked, shook his head, and then cast the tiniest of smiles as the next person in line.
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“Do you know him?” Julie asked.
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Carver just shook his head, slowly.
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“He has the same name as one of my favorite authors,” Susan the event coordinator offered.
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“Who?”
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“Roland Perry,” Susan explained. “He wrote novels about the American west a hundred years ago.”