Grail's End: The Grail Protocol Series, #3

Chapter 1

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1

In the dim light he prodded and guided the gathered people with quick light touches of his trembling hands. Keep quiet. Shhhh! the desperate man pleaded in a barely audible whisper. Move back into the bedroom.

The sun had set an hour before but the oil lamps were dark. The only light came through a single thinly-curtained window that looked out on the narrow, dusty alley. In the tiny house, people moved like shadows across deeper shadows, slowly filtering through the door into the back and away from the pale light of the front room.

Outside, the noise of angry men on the hunt grew louder.

Search every house, a strident voice demanded. They are somewhere near here. They were seen in this area only an hour ago. They will not get away!

The light from torches and flashlights rippled sporadically across the window as men ran up and down the alley, searching for their quarry. Suddenly, someone was pounding on the wooden door that guarded the entrance.

Open the door, an angry voice demanded. "Open the door, now!

No one in the house moved.

The pounding became an overwhelming hammering on the old wood. Suddenly the door shattered inward under the assault. Heavily bearded men with raised torches poured through the splintered frame and into the front room, firelight glinting in their crazed eyes. They swept the torches before them as they moved toward the backroom.

They’re here, screamed the first man through the door into the back as the torchlight reflected off the terrified faces of their trapped prey. I’ve found them! he yelled again, triumph rising in his voice. He grabbed the shirt of the nearest cowering man and half-dragged him through the front room and into the alley.

More men with torches and guns dragged others out of the house. The captives were roughly shoved down the alley and through a maze of narrow streets and finally into a large structure, poorly lit and crowded with grim-faced men, most heavily armed, clearly part of a fighting force.

The men corralled the captives into the center of the room. A man stepped forward jabbing aggressively toward the captives with his AK-47. Who speaks for you? he demanded, anger blazing in his eyes. When no one stepped forward, he reached out and grabbed the nearest prisoner, yanking him forward and down onto his knees. He loomed over the kneeling man, his sneering face only inches above the captives’ upturned, begging eyes. Who speaks for you? he said again, each syllable filled with menace.

Out of the group of captives, a young man stepped forward. His dark eyes peered out from under bushy eyebrows set in a young but stern and darkly tanned face. No one speaks for the entire group, but I am the oldest, so I am probably the one you seek.

The leader of the armed group kicked over the man on his knees and gestured impatiently for the new man to step forward. The leader lifted his chin imperiously and looked down his large hooked nose at the quivering captive before him. Do you know who I am?

The captive slowly shrugged and spoke softly, No.

He gestured expansively with both arms as his gaze swept across his armed men. Do you know who we are?

The captive lowered his eyes in submission and again responded in a quiet, but clear voice. Yes. You are part of the Al-Bashir Brigade. You took control of our village yesterday.

Very good, said the leader as he turned in a circle before his men, lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral grin. His voice boomed in the closed space. We kicked those worthless troops out with little fighting. They scattered like rats when they saw us coming. They are a joke, as is the pathetic so called government they work for—a government filled with puppets that bow and scrape before the Great Satan. The same puppets that have allowed you to live among the God-fearing people of this village. The leader grabbed the shirt of the man and pulled him forward, only inches from his face. What is your name?

Mohammed, sir, stammered the terrified man.

Is this your family?

The captive’s eyes were wide with fear, his voice barely leaving his terror-constricted throat. Mostly sir. All but two are my family. Brothers, sisters, and my children and grandchildren.

Then you are the eldest of this...this—family? he finally spat, his features twisted in disgust. How old are you?

Eighty-seven years.

The leader jammed his rifle violently in Mohammed’s stomach. Abomination! he hissed as the man before him doubled over and collapsed on the floor. You and your family are all abominations in the eyes of Allah!

We have done nothing, Mohammed groaned through clenched teeth as he looked up from the floor. He saw the coming horror in the maniacal gaze of the man looming over him, but he pleaded anyway. We are faithful servants of Allah.

He received a vicious kick in the ribs for his protest. Blasphemy! Do not speak the name of Allah. Look at you, all of you, the leader said as he shook his hands toward the cowering people. You are the devil’s work. You have sold your souls for the illusion of youth.

The leader raised his voice to another level, the zealot fever rising in his blood. His eyes burned with hatred as he turned to the gathered fighters and villagers. Do you see? he all but screamed the question. Do you see how they mock the Will of Allah. The contagion from the West has reached to every corner of the world. Tens of millions, no, no, hundreds of millions have become the spawn of the Evil One.

The leader jerked the man to his feet and shoved him violently back into the crowd of surrounded people. Bring the children forward!

The group in the center of the armed mob drew even closer together. In the midst of the fifteen people, four children cowered, wailing and clutching desperately at their parents. They did not come forward.

The children now! yelled the leader. They are not part of your blasphemy. We will spare them.

The group of captives drew even closer.

The leader gave a quick nod of his head toward the captives and several armed men charged the group, rifle butts slamming into faces as they knocked adults to the ground and roughly grabbed the children, pulling them away from their parents and grandparents and handing them to other militants. It was chaos. People screamed and grabbed for the children but were beaten down and back by the armed men. The other villagers who had been cooperating with the militants looked away. They had not expected this, not this violence, this cruelty.

Take them out, the leader shouted over the yelling and crying. The armed men herded the captives out into the street and a short distance to the open square in the center of the village. There, over there, he gestured with his rifle as his men hit and cowed the captive men and women to one side of the square, up against the mud-brick wall of a two-story building.

You have sold your souls to the devil. You have given up the faith of your fathers. You are corrupted and you seek to corrupt others. We will not permit this. Better that you are dead so that you cannot bring others into Satan’s fold.

His men pulled back from the captives, leaving the seven men and four women standing together and alone against the dark wall. Silence descended. Torchlight flickered, dimly illuminating the gathered onlookers and flashing in eyes wide, some with fear, some crazed with fanaticism. The militants pulled further back from the captives. The intermixed villagers pulled even further back, separating themselves from the armed men as the terror of what was about to happen finally seized them.

A moaning sound started low, almost below the level of hearing. It started with the captives, but was instantly picked up by the other villagers standing behind the armed men. The moaning gained strength and morphed into a wailing that gained force and transmuted into a high-pitched keening as horror swept across the square.  

Fire! yelled the commander. The automatic weapons fire was deafening as it mixed with the full-blooded screaming that filled the square. Panic hit like a thunderclap and villagers scattered everywhere. Within seconds it was over. There was silence. Smoke drifted through the flickering light, the acrid stench of gunpowder was overpowering.

Eleven bodies lay in pools of blood spreading out from their silent forms. Eleven young, vibrant adults, full of life and promise; but no, no longer. Now, only dead. The armed men left the square, left the carnage. Their work complete. The Will of Allah fulfilled.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

Rachel Hillcrest sipped the buttery Chardonnay from an elegant crystal wine glass as the model walked into the private viewing area. She smiled appreciatively at the lovely empire-bodice evening gown. It was a full-length, sapphire work of art that was spectacularly displayed on the beautiful model who posed before her.

Rachel had enjoyed the last couple of hours of shopping and she was taking a second pass at viewing her favorites. That’s the one, she said to Marie who was her personal consultant and always assigned to her whenever she visited the exclusive boutique.

"Yes, Mrs. Hillcrest. When would you like it delivered?

I think next Wednesday would be good.

"Yes ma’am. Would you like to try it on before we deliver it?

No. You have my measurements on file and I can tell by the design that this gown will fit perfectly.

Very good Mrs. Hillcrest. However, as usual, we’ll deliver with our full crew. Any adjustments you might want will be done on the spot.

The two women rose from their comfortable chairs and walked into the main part of the boutique.

Rachel smiled graciously. Thank you, Marie. I love coming here. You and the rest of the staff are most attentive, and your designs are absolutely the best.

Marie nodded appreciatively. It is always a pleasure. Is there anything else I might help you with today?

No, Marie. Thank you again. Bye-bye.

Rachel Hillcrest breezed out onto Fifth Avenue and into the waiting limousine, her lithe movement almost a dance. As her chauffeur closed the door she was instantly cocooned in the silence of the beautifully refined interior. The slight lingering fragrance of conditioned leather and recently polished wood enveloped her as she sank back into the deep cushions.

Are plans still the same, Mrs. Hillcrest?

Yes, Fredrick.

We’ll be a few minutes late. Do you want me to call ahead and let them know?

She paused for a second. "That won’t be necessary. It won’t matter if I’m a few minutes late. And I want to make sure everyone is there.

Yes, ma’am. We’ll arrive in fifteen minutes.

Rachel settled in for the short ride to the law offices at East 96th Street and Park Avenue. She watched as the woods and gardens of Central Park slipped serenely by, the sidewalks filled with people enjoying a sunny late-summer day. Rachel was heading for a family gathering, but not the type that one would normally anticipate with pleasant feelings. It was more of an obligation, something that simply had to happen. She had already put it off longer than she should have.

A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the building housing the law firm of Peterson, Stewart and McKinsey. It was a relatively small, but prestigious law firm. Most of their clients were like Rachel Hillcrest, that is to say, extremely wealthy. Rachel had been with the firm for nearly forty years, and they handled all of her legal needs. Today’s meeting, however, was going to be a first for everybody.

Her chauffeur came around and opened the door. Rachel got out and stood for a moment looking at the entrance to the building and wondering what the next hour would be like. People flowed down the sidewalk, on their busy errands, but many, especially men, took note of the beautiful woman standing beside the stretched Tesla limousine.

Rachel Hillcrest was stunning in three-inch black stilettoes and a bright emerald pencil skirt that stopped just above her knees. The plunging neckline of her cream, long-sleeved silk blouse emphasized her figure as did the understated simple string of pearls. Her lustrous deep black hair cascaded to just below her shoulders and was all the more striking in contrast to her perfect porcelain skin and violet eyes.

A small smile touched Rachel’s ruby lips. This is going to be interesting, she thought as she started toward the entrance. A short elevator ride brought her to the fifth floor and the offices of Peterson, Stewart and McKinsey which occupied the entire level. The receptionist immediately saw Rachel exit the elevator and rose with a smile to greet her.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Hillcrest. Everyone is already in the conference room. The receptionist started to come around the desk. It’s just down the—

Yes, Rachel interjected as she raised her hand to stop the receptionist. I know the way. Thank you.

Rachel walked down the hall and turned left. A few steps later she opened the door and entered the conference room. All talking ceased, all eyes turned to Rachel. She paused for what was a most satisfying dramatic moment, sweeping her gaze down the long conference table before settling on Bradley Peterson, the senior partner of the firm. Bradley stood.

Welcome, Mrs. Hillcrest, he said with a warm smile. Bradley gestured toward the empty chair next to his at the head of the table. Please. I believe everyone is here.

Bradley pulled the chair out as Rachel walked to the front of the room. Thank you, Bradley. She took a minute to glance around the gathering and to make eye contact with everyone, and offer a smile and a nod. Some acknowledged her silent greeting, others held back. It’s good to see all of you. For some, it’s been a while.

There was a general uneasiness in the room. Several shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Some studiously avoided looking in Rachel’s direction. The conference room felt crowded. There were fifteen around the table besides Bradley and Rachel. Four were clearly older, none under sixty. The remaining eleven were their children, all middle-aged.

Bradley smiled and cleared his throat as he looked around the group. Welcome, he opened cordially. Everyone on the list made it, and that is very gratifying. It took a while to get everything coordinated, and some had to travel quite a distance to be here, but here we are.

He turned to Rachel. Several months ago, Mrs. Hillcrest asked me to set up this meeting. He turned back to the group. "Every person at this table is here by invitation because you are named in your mother’s, or for some, your grandmother’s Will.

Mrs. Hillcrest’s Will was made available to everyone when the current edition was first drawn up twenty-five years ago. The Will has not been changed. The four of you, said Bradley as he gestured to the older people near the head of the table, are the only children of Rachel Hillcrest; and you remain the primary beneficiaries, each of you receiving fifteen percent of the estate upon your mother’s death.

Bradley raised his eyes and looked further down the table. Her eleven grandchildren will each receive two percent of the estate; and the remaining eighteen percent will go to the Olympia Foundation.

The fidgeting, finger-drumming on the table, and side glances became more pronounced. Bradley Peterson was stating the obvious. Each person had their own copy of the Will and knew its contents by heart. The Will simply implemented the legal functions of the Living Trusts that had been set up at the same time that the Will was created. Several trusts held all of the assets owned by Rachel Hillcrest; and these trusts were held jointly by Rachel and her children and grandchildren. While Rachel was alive, one hundred percent of control over the trusts was in her hands. Upon her death, control of the trusts and their assets would pass to her heirs. It was a convenient legal construct that minimized certain tax liabilities when inheritance was passed down within a family.

Martha Johnson was Rachel’s oldest child and was sitting directly to her left. At sixty-seven she was still physically active and in good health. She lived in a very upscale neighborhood, had only the most well-connected friends, and belonged to all the right organizations. Her naturally gray hair was always perfectly colored to a deep auburn and she never went out unless dressed to the nines with her makeup meticulously applied.

Martha raised her hand. May I ask a question?

Yes, of course, Mrs. Johnson, Bradley responded politely.

Martha was never one to dance around a sensitive topic. Her words were polite, but her tone was brusque, as was her overall demeanor. What are we going to do now? About the Will, I mean.

Bradley remained impassive, but his eyes tightened slightly at the display of near-rudeness. "Well, I believe that working that out is the point of this meeting. I will admit it feels awkward to me to be discussing a person’s Will in this manner while they are sitting next to me, very much alive.

Rachel’s oldest son, Richard Hillcrest, interjected. I’m uncomfortable too, and a little confused why we’re even talking about the Will. He waved his hand in Rachael’s general direction. You’re sitting right there, mother; healthy, young, clearly not in danger of passing away anytime soon. As far as I can see, barring some terrible accident or disease, the Will is not germane to this discussion.

That’s what I’m getting at, said Martha, her voice carrying a challenge. The Will is moot. As things stand now, there may never be an inheritance.

Rachel’s lips curled up at the edges in a slight smile as the elephant in the room landed squarely in the middle of the table. I always could count on Martha to get straight to the point. Rachel pushed her chair back and stood. She put both palms on the table and leaned forward on locked elbows, looking intensely at each person.

Look, I get it. I really do. I’m eighty-eight years old. A year ago I was in a nursing home, living out what was supposed to be the last months of my life. There was nothing specifically wrong with me. I was just worn out, old. Then the change happened. We all lived through it—saw it happen—or had it happen to us. I was one of the millions that caught the virus; that got the Longevity Gene. I didn’t earn it, didn’t ask for it. One thing is certain though, it changed my life; and it has sure messed with yours. I’m not going to die, at least not from old age. That means that inheritance through my Will is a very uncertain prospect.

Bedlam erupted around the table as everyone tried to speak at once. Rachel abruptly raised her hands. She waited. Slowly the noise died down and there was silence. Rachel looked around the table to gather back their attention. Her expression softened as she looked into the eyes of her family, saw the concern, the confusion etched in their expressions.

We all know that this is totally screwed up. And no one has a clue how to deal with it. You don’t. I don’t. Do you think we’re the only ones caught in this Twilight Zone? Bradley has attempted to explain the legal chaos that has erupted in the last year, but it’s all just legal mumbo jumbo to me. Suffice it to say, that many legal constructs, like inheritance law, are in turmoil.

So where does that leave us? Richard asked.

Rachel turned raised eyebrows towards Bradley.

Without missing a beat, Bradley responded. "Your mother has asked me, and now you, to figure it out. As your mother said, inheritance law is in a shambles when it comes to this new reality. Right now, under current law, if your mother tries to transfer a sizeable amount to you before she dies, taxes will take over seventy percent of it. It’s only if she dies, that your inheritance can transfer through the Living Trust without losing most of it to taxes.

Richard stared at Bradley with wide-eyed incredulity. Well that’s stupid.

Bradley maintained his unflappable lawyer exterior. Yes, but it’s also the law, he said. There is already a growing movement to get it changed. But it will take time. For right now, we need to focus on the near term.

What does that mean? Martha asked.

Rachel unconsciously began shifting her body, one foot to the other. Her expression becoming more somber, small tension lines suddenly appearing at the corners of her mouth. It’s a bit of a sensitive subject, she said, a subtle tension in her voice. This past year has had very different impacts on people around this table. I was not expected to live much past the New Year. My Will would have been executed and all of you would by now be quite wealthy. That didn’t happen. For some, this was of little consequence, and waiting for the law to change will not be a problem. But I know others have more pressing financial problems and were counting on their inheritance to help; so for them, my miraculous return to health and youth has created immediate and critical problems.

Chaos erupted again as everyone began talking at once.

Hey, hey, Rachel said. No one paid attention. Hey, it’s okay, she said much louder as she raised her hands. Please, calm down. Really, it’s okay. Finally the outburst started to subside. There is no judgement here.

Martha turned toward her mother, eyes flashing in defiance, voice strident. Sounds like judgement to me. Martha swept her challenging glare around the table. Does it sound like that to anyone else?

There were looks of confusion, and even a few looks of embarrassment. Most averted their eyes.

Rachel shook her head almost imperceptibly at Marth, her expression filled with compassion for her daughter. This is not the time or place, she said in a low voice.

Martha sat back and crossed her arms defiantly. Well maybe it is. If not now—when? I know you’re talking about me. So maybe this is exactly the time to get it out on the table.

Rachel’s eyes took on a reproving squint. You’re wrong. I’m not talking about you and Jeffrey. Well, perhaps it’s more accurate to say I’m not talking only about you and Jeffrey.

Martha’s eyes widened in confusion. What?

All right then. I’ll be blunt. You’re not the only one living beyond your means. Rachel moved her gaze around the table. Many avoided making eye contact, some appeared curious, and a few were clearly ashamed.

Martha’s challenge evaporated as she slumped back in her chair. I didn’t know.

Not your business to know, said Rachel gently. She turned her focus to the group. But it is my business. I’m your mother, she said to those closest to her. And I’m your grandmother, she said to those further down the table. I keep in touch with what’s going on in your lives... I always have.

Rachel stopped and waited to see if anyone wanted to talk. All remained silent, nervously squirming at the uncomfortable confrontation.

After the silence lingered sufficiently, Rachel continued. "Nobody knew that this was coming a year ago. We live and plan based upon what is, not on some fantastical miracle that drops