"Yeah ... lots of 'em."

"Can you take me to one?"

"That bad, uh bud? I don't blame you for not wanting to fly. We all saw the smoke from the crash. Probably won't be much flying going on anyway ... at least not out of here. They just closed the airport."

"Any word on what happened?" Leo asked.

"They haven't said yet, but I just heard on the radio that President Simon is refusing to follow this Acerbi guy, and they're saying he'll probably turn the power off unless we get ourselves a new president. Damn shame too. I really liked Simon. Lots of people did. He was a good, upstanding Christian sort of man ... know what I mean?"

Leo nodded from the back seat. "I know exactly what you mean. It is a damn shame."

Pulling back out onto the exit road, the cab passed several large hangars next to a row of corporate and freight-hauling jets parked out on the tarmac, and as they passed the last hangar, he noticed a corporate logo stenciled over the door. It read: Carlton Oil Company Aircraft Division.

Leo leaned over the front seat and pointed. "Pull in there!"

"I thought you wanted to go to a bar?"

"I did, but I just remembered something."

The driver frowned in the mirror. "We've only driven half a mile, buddy. You'll still have to pay a minimum charge of five bucks."

"No problem," Leo said, tossing a ten over the seat. "Thanks for the ride." Leo grabbed his bag and hopped out into the parking lot, and after pausing to watch the smoke rising in the distance, he walked into the hangar office and set his bag next to the counter.

A pretty freckle-faced girl turned away from the window and looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. "First this crash ... and then the pope. What's happening in the world, mister?"

"I wish I knew," Leo said. "When did you hear about the pope?"

"It was on TV a few minutes ago. Terrible ... just terrible. I'm a Catholic and we all loved the pope."

"So did I." Leo removed his dark glasses, prompting the girl to stare into his green eyes with just a hint of recognition.

"Anybody ever tell you that you resemble a very important cardinal?"

"All the time." Leo tried to smile. "Listen, I hate to bother you, but I need to get hold of Jeb Carlton. Can you help me?"

"Sure. He just happens to be in town. Flew in this morning on that new Gulfstream jet parked out there. Had some business at a refinery in New Jersey, but he should be back any minute."

"Great. Mind if I wait around?"

"Not at all, hon. There's coffee over there if you want some."

Leo smiled again. It had been a long time since anyone had called him hon, and finding Jeb Carlton's hanger and had been a stroke of good luck on a day he was wishing had never happened. Leo had only met Carlton once. He was a wealthy Texas oil man who had befriended Lev Wasserman when he and his crew had been searching for oil in the Negev Desert a few years back. Not only that, but Daniel's wife Sarah had once worked for him as a flight attendant, and he had loaned private jets to Lev in the past when the members of the Bible Code Team needed to get somewhere in a hurry.

Bursting through the front doors, the bigger-than-life figure of Jeb Carlton walked into the office and poured a cup of coffee. "Damn, did y'all see that crash out there? All of those poor people!"

"I know, boss," the red-haired girl said. "I've been praying for them. They say the airport's gonna be closed for a while."

"Well, that suits me just fine. I'll just grab a hotel room and fly out in the morning. Maybe there's something we can do for those folks over there who just lost loved ones."

The girl nodded in Leo's direction. "That gentleman over there said he needs to speak with you."

Turning around, Carlton's eyes widened. "Cardinal Amodeo! What in the hell ... I mean, what are you doin' here?"

The girl behind the counter looked like she was about to faint as Leo stood and shook Carlton's hand. "Hello, Mr. Carlton. It's good to see you again. I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a jam."

"How can I help?"

"I need to get back to Europe."

"Uh, I heard about the pope, Cardinal. I'm real sorry to hear about that. Seems like the news just keeps gettin' worse by the minute. You can take that G5 sittin' out there. As soon as they open up the airport my pilots will fly you to Rome."

"That's very kind of you, sir, but I'm not going to Rome."

"Not going to Rome?" Carlton laid his white cowboy hat on the counter and looked Leo right in the eyes. "OK, Cardinal. You just tell me where you need to go and we'll make sure you get there."

"France, Mr. Carlton. I need to get to France."

CHAPTER 50.

The gleaming white jet whistled between two snow-capped mountain peaks on the French side of the Pyrenees before turning north for its final descent to the small private airstrip near the town of Foix. Seated near the front of the cabin, Leo looked down at the green, bucolic-looking countryside and wondered if he had made the right decision. He felt like an outcast- a fugitive on the run-but from what? For all practical purposes he was now the de facto leader of the Catholic Church and should be in Rome, but to return to Rome now would serve only to mirror the fate that awaited Caesar when he walked toward the Forum on that fateful day in March two thousand years before.

As soon as the jet's engines whined to a stop, Leo ducked his head into the cockpit to thank the pilots before descending the stairs and walking toward an empty-looking office attached to a dilapidated metal hangar. Trying the door, he found it locked, so he decided to walk up a dirt road to the highway where he could thumb a ride.

With autumn in the air a chill had already descended on this part of the country, prompting Leo to pull on an old worn sweater he always packed when he traveled. At least that would keep him warm until he reached the cabin, he thought. Looking up the highway toward Foix, he noticed that there was practically no traffic on the road, but after waiting only five minutes a small, rusty truck pulled to the side and stopped.

Waving Leo into the passenger seat, the middle-aged driver straightened his black beret over his head and paused to relight a long, carved pipe before pulling back onto the highway without speaking.

"Parlez-vous anglais?" Leo asked.

The man's intelligent eyes blinked back from behind a pair of round, rimless glasses. "Oui."

"Thank you for picking me up. Are you headed to Foix?"

"Oui." The man smiled. Leo was beginning to wonder if Oui was the only word the man knew as he watched the smoke curling off his pipe.

"What are you doing back in Foix, Cardinal?"

Leo felt his hand gripping the door handle. "I beg your pardon?"

The man laughed. "Everyone in Foix knows the face of the famous Cardinal Amodeo. My name is Albert Cousteau, and no, I'm not related to the famous sea explorer. My wife and I have a small farm just over the hill. When that jet flew over my house and landed at the old airstrip, it made me curious. Not many planes land there anymore. They all fly into the new airport in Foix now. I was on my way into town to buy some feed for my truffle pig when I saw you and your suitcase sitting by the side of the road. Then I had to ask myself. How is it that a man who just arrived in a private jet doesn't even have a ride into town? The answer seems obvious. No one is expecting you ... n'est-ce pas?"

Leo watched the man's thin moustache twitch as he clamped his teeth down on his pipe. "You're very astute, Albert."

"Then please allow me to go one step further, Cardinal. You'd like to keep your arrival a secret."

Leo shrugged his shoulders. "Let's just say that I'd like to keep my visit from drawing any unwanted attention for now."

"I think it would draw more than a little attention. Apparently I'm talking to a ghost, because the press is reporting that you were killed in that plane crash in New York after you attended a meeting at the UN."

"Oh ... you've heard about that."

Albert removed his pipe and tapped the ashes out the open window. "My wife and I thought it was a little strange, especially coming on the heels of the death of the pope." Albert glanced sideways at Leo. "My condolences, Cardinal. Pope Michael was very popular around here."

"He was a great man." Leo turned away to look out the side window. "His loss is not only a great tragedy for the Church, but for the entire world."

Leo looked back inside the truck at the mysterious man who claimed to be a farmer although his eyes told a different story. Somehow his presence had had a calming effect on Leo, and from his manner of speech, it was evident that Albert was well-educated. But there was something else-something Leo couldn't quite put his finger on. There was something special about this man, and the fact that he had chosen to live a life of relative obscurity with his wife on a small farm at the base of the Pyrenees reminded Leo of another old man from Foix.

"I've heard you have a cabin in the mountains nearby," Albert said, startling Leo with his knowledge of the cardinal's affairs. This man knew way too much.

Without waiting for Leo to answer, Albert slowed the truck as they approached a crossroads. "Would you like me to take you there?"

"Who are you?"

"A friend, Cardinal. Don't worry. No one will know you are there ... at least not from me. You have many friends in this part of the world, and your secret is safe with us."

"You're a Cathar, aren't you?"

Albert winked at Leo as he swung the wheel all the way over and turned the truck around. "Let's go back to my farm. My wife can make you something to eat while I gather up some supplies for you before we head up there. The snows come early in the mountains this time of year."

CHAPTER 51.

THE WHITE HOUSE.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Still wearing pajamas that covered his thin frame, President Blake Simon was eating breakfast and reading the New York Times by the early morning light that filtered in through the grand palladian window on the east side of the upstairs living quarters. The headlines were bleak. It seemed as if Acerbi's PR machine had already mounted an attack on the president's decision to walk out of the meeting at the UN, and they were now appealing directly to the American people to rally to Acerbi's cause by demanding the president's resignation.

Sipping his coffee, the president looked around the table at his aides. "What do they expect? Do they really think we're going to let some corporate big wig from Europe come in here and dictate terms to us? He's obviously a wolf in sheep's clothing. I mean, doesn't anyone find it odd that he's using threats to offer world peace?"

"He does seem to have the upper hand, Mr. President," said a tall aide who stood to the side of the table. "Maybe we should just play along until we can find the source of his computer power and eliminate it."

Simon looked across the table at Doug Peterson. "What kind of computers did the Israelis say Acerbi was using?"

"Quantum computers, Mr. President, and evidently they're hidden in locations all over the world. We might be able to locate some of them, but there's always the chance we'll miss a few. If we make a move to destroy any of them, the others will just take over and shut us down." Peterson paused as his eyes followed the white crown molding around the top of the yellow walls.

"Spit it out, Doug," the president said. "I can tell by that look on your face that you've got something else to say."

Peterson lowered his gaze and looked directly at the president. "All of our military satellites went dark this morning, Mr. President, which means Acerbi's already sending us a message."

The president slapped his paper down on the table and exhaled sharply. "So now, because we've lost a few satellites, we're supposed to agree to his demands? Do you realize what that means? Let me answer that question for you. It means that I would be surrendering the United States of America to a man who wants to eliminate our democratically elected government. Can you imagine that? We're talking about a dictator here, and people are rejoicing in the streets. It's madness!"

Shane Trent shifted uneasily in his seat. "Did you read the report from our meeting in Gibraltar, Mr. President?"

The president's face became a mask of disbelief. "You mean the meeting where Acerbi's father told you his son is the Antichrist? Am I really hearing this?"

Trent looked nervously around the table. "I'm only presenting the facts, Mr. President. I was probably more skeptical than most when Acerbi's father and Pope Michael came to us with that story. But now I'm not so sure. I mean, this guy basically turns the world on and off with the flick of a switch, and people seem hypnotized by his ideas. They think he's some kind of savior. Then there are the deaths to consider. Eduardo Acerbi and the pope are both now dead, and our sources in Rome are telling us the pope's death looks suspicious. Then Cardinal Amodeo, the next in line to follow the pope, dies suddenly in a plane crash that hasn't been explained yet. If this guy's not the Antichrist, he's doing a pretty damn good job of imitating him."

The president shoved back from the table and stood. "I think you all know that I am a religious man, but I find all of this talk about the Antichrist to be just that ... talk. Let's keep our eye on the ball and remember that we're dealing with a megalomaniacal crazy man who wants to rule the world. This isn't the first time in history that a delusional madman has appeared on the world stage expecting everyone to bow down to him, and it won't be the last. It's your job to try and figure out how we can defeat this threat, and the sooner the better."

"That's exactly what we're trying to do, Mr. President," Peterson intoned. "We've gone to a wartime footing at the CIA and NSA, but we're pretty sure he knows what we're doing. Our communications networks are all interconnected by computers, which were extremely secure until these quantum computers showed up. All of our top computer scientists believed this kind of technology was at least twenty years away, but somehow the Acerbi Corporation got the jump on us. He now has a trump card, and we're pretty sure his people know what we're doing, which means we can't send any traffic that contains sensitive information. We've been flying couriers back and forth across the Atlantic with written messages in diplomatic pouches like we used to do in the Cold War days, which means he's forced us into using a modern version of the old Pony Express. Not only that, but the targeting systems on all our modern weapons systems rely on the global positioning network provided by our military satellites, which, as you heard, just went dark this morning."

The president turned his back and looked out through the large curved window. "What do you suggest?"

Peterson leaned back in his chair. "I agree with the assessment that we should play along for the time being until we can figure out a way to defeat this madman. Our contacts at MI6 and in Israel both agree with this strategy, because basically we have no other options on the table right now. If we fail to capitulate in the face of his demands we'll be tossed back to the Stone Age. Better to have our infrastructures functioning while we work out a way to defeat him."

The president seemed to wobble on his feet before he sat back down. "Can we stall him?"

"That would be up to you, Mr. President. Any direct dealing with Acerbi would fall under the umbrella of diplomatic negotiation. You could probably stall him for awhile on the details of the transition. I believe he plans on leaving all the current world leaders who cooperate with him in place as figureheads, so at least you would still be the president."

Without a word, the president stood and looked around the table before he walked to his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER 52.

ROME THE VATICAN In the sealed-off Apostolic Palace, the darkened hallways echoed with the ghosts of the past, while outside, standing shoulder-to-shoulder between the travertine lines that radiated outward from the obelisk in the center of Saint Peter's Square, thousands stared up at the closed shutters of the Papal Apartments.

Peering out from behind one of Bernini's columns, Francois Leander watched the growing crowd. He had always been proud of his profession. Never for a moment had he doubted that he could protect the pope. Maybe that had been the problem, he thought. Maybe his pride had gotten in the way and prevented him from doing his job. Whatever the reason, a pope had died on his watch, and the hardened commander of the Swiss Guard blamed himself.

"The crowd's getting bigger," a familiar voice called out behind him. Francois turned to see Bishop Anthony Morelli standing behind him. "Still thinking about leaving, Commander?"

"I don't know, Bishop. Maybe it's time I step down and let someone younger take the helm. Leo was next in line, but since he and the Holy Father departed this Earth on the same day, I don't think I could stomach protecting Acone. If I ever find out he had anything to do with Pope Michael's death he'll need protection from me."

"No matter what our suspicions, we still don't know the cause of death, Francois, and Church law prevents us from having an autopsy performed. You can't blame yourself. You did everything in your power to prevent him from returning to the Vatican. We're all just soldiers who take orders, and we have to follow those orders. You were just following the Holy Father's wishes."

"Yes, and now Pope Michael and Cardinal Leo are both dead."