"I'm going to slip us up behind that mangrove island to keep out of the wind so we won't rock so much."

She closed the hatch. With the boat in neutral, Matt flipped a switch on the control panel, causing the electric winch to lower the anchor. A moment later, she felt it grab and swing the boat around.

"Chill time." Matt turned off the engines and moved to the stern. "Come sit back here so the T-top doesn't interrupt your view."

Joining him, she sat on the padded bench and gazed up. "I've been living in Miami for so long and its city lights, I've forgotten the absolute beauty of the night sky."

A whooshing noise close by startled her. Then a smile of recognition broke over her face. "A dolphin taking a breath, right?" But she didn't need Matt's confirmation. "I can remember when I was a kid being out on the water with my mother. Some days it was so quiet we could hear the dolphins breathe. No splashing, just breathing. We'd hear them before we saw them."

"If we get lucky, we'll see shooting stars." Matt pointed. "Now there's a beautiful sight."

Seneca saw a half-dozen twinkling lights the size of stars on the horizon forming a long line from west to east. They seemed to be moving, but very slowly. "What are they?"

"It's called the string of pearls. Those are airliners lined up on their approach to Miami International. Tonight the line stretches way out over the Everglades."

"I guess you need to be this far away to appreciate it."

"On a clear night like this one, you can-"

She turned to him. "Something wrong?"

Matt leaned forward. "Must be my imagination." He continued to stare intently into the blackness of the night sky. "How peculiar, there it is again-something moving across the sky about twenty degrees off the horizon. You can see it block out the stars for a few seconds."

"Where?"

"One o'clock."

Seneca strained to see. "Yes! I can make out its outline. Kind of like an airplane but no lights."

He stood and cocked his head to the right. "Or sound. I've never seen anything quite like it. It's sort of cigar shaped."

They were now standing elbow to elbow. "Shaped more like a flying killer whale."

"You're right. But it's impossible to judge how big or how far away it is."

She cupped her hand to her ear. "Matt, I do hear somethinglike a beating sound, but really soft and muffled."

"Yeah, now I hear-"

Suddenly the Boston Whaler buckled and shook, chunks of fiberglass, metal, and plastic shooting through the air as largecaliber rounds ripped into the cabin.

In almost the same instant, Seneca felt Matt grab her shoulders and shove her over the side.

FACE TO FACE 1981, WASHINGTON, DC.

"WE HAVE A MUTUAL friend." Scarrow sat in the back of the bil- lionaire's limousine as it sped along Independence Avenue. The two men had just left Reagan's inaugural ball at the National Air and Space Museum and were headed to Washington National Airport.

Scarrow didn't scare Groves, there had been others like him before-those hell bent on extortion. A handful down through the years discovered the tiny cracks in his facade when they caught him in an unguarded moment without his specialized makeup and facial prosthetics. Fools like Colin Black who paid for their greed with their lives. Each one had suffered an untimely demise or mysterious disappearance. Unlimited funds could buy anything.

But even though this man didn't intimidate him, Groves knew in his gut that Scarrow was different. He felt it from his first glimpse of the man's face in the parking lot.

He pushed a console button and the soundproof divider separating the passenger compartment and the driver closed. Staring at the handwriting on the back of Scarrow's business card, he read aloud, "I know the secret of your longevity." He looked at Scarrow. "Explain yourself."

"It needs no explanation."

"You say you know the secret. What secret is that?" That's what intrigued Groves. No one had ever claimed to know how this had happened to him. Hell, he didn't even know. But suddenly there was this new thread that he couldn't quite untangle. He'd seen Scarrow's face before all right, only back then it was more primitive looking and he wore a crown of feathers. It was the imprint on the piece of cloth in the silver chest. And then, that night in Reno the hooker held up the cloth and Scarrow's face had been replaced by his own.

Was that old scrap of cloth the link to what had happened to him? That made no sense.

All these years, he had hidden under layers of lies, masquerade, and deception. Had someone-this stranger-actually discovered the secret to what caused him to remain ageless? The idea of Scarrow being able to explain how his condition had happened would be nothing short of a blessing. And a relief. Once he understood, there was the possibility the weight might finally be lifted from his soul, a weight that tried to suffocate his every thought. Growing more apprehensive, Groves wiped his palms on his pants legs.

"Who is the mutual friend you mentioned?"

"Veronica."

Groves' mind sifted through current and past acquaintances, close and distant. There were so many women he'd known down through the years and thousands in his many corporations. It was possible some were named Veronica, but none of any importance came to mind.

"I don't know anyone by that name. This is all a mistake, a misunderstanding. I think you have me confused with someone else. I don't know this Veronica person, and I don't know you."

"How old are you, William? You don't mind if I call you William, do you?"

"My age isn't any of your concern."

Scarrow leaned in close. Almost in a whisper, he said, "By my estimates, you're around one-hundred forty." He smiled broadly. "But you only look like you're in your late thirties." Looking smug, he added, "How'd I do, William?"

Groves's palms turned clammy. "What do you want?" He lowered the pitch of his voice to sound as menacing as possible, not wanting Scarrow to think he felt threatened. After all, this man could be bluffing-a lucky guess, an outside bet in order to swindle money out of him.

"You're probably thinking that I'm here to blackmail you or intimidate you or in some way take advantage of your situation." Scarrow seemed to relax as he leaned back into the plush seat. "Let me assure you, it's the farthest thing from my mind. You see, William, we not only have a mutual friend, we also share a common set of unusual circumstances."

"I doubt that." Groves laughed nervously. "You're just another scam artist-"

"Oh, William. Have a little faith. I'm probably the only person on the face of the Earth who understands your gift. It is a gift, you know. To help answer your concerns, let me tell you my story, first." He rubbed his chin as if organizing his thoughts. "I received the gift four hundred and sixty-one years ago-way before you did. I'll leave the details for a future discussion, but I'll tell you that it was at a time of great turmoil. I was the leader of a vast nation facing the peril of an invading army threatening to destroy our culture and civilization. The commander of the enemy forces displayed a swatch of cloth which he claimed bore the image of his god. He told me that the cloth was a priceless relic known as the Veil of Veronica. He said it originally belonged to a holy woman who used it to cleanse the sweat and blood from the face of a condemned man on his journey to be executed. William, the face I saw embedded within the threads of the veil was of the great prophet and rabbi, Jesus Christ."

He paused as if to let the story sink into Groves's mind.

"The one who showed me Veronica's veil told me of Christ's crucifixion and resurrection. It occurred to me that, because of the miracle of the face appearing on the cloth, there might be a connection between it and Christ's rising from the dead. So, in a brief moment when I was alone with the veil, I decided that if it conveyed some magical power, I, too, wanted to be like Christ and have the power to rise from my tomb. In desperation, because I knew that I would soon be taken prisoner and put to death, I touched the veil to my face just as Veronica had done to the rabbi. After my cruel execution I found myself wrapped in a burial cloth-and most astonishingly alive inside my tomb. My closest attendants may have returned at some point to cremate my body. But I had risen from the dead and escaped. That began my endless search for the veil. I knew that by touching it to my face I had been given immortality."

Groves shuddered. Like an avalanche of memory, he saw himself standing in the Apache cave staring at the face of the man with the crown of feathers. Then he remembered what happened next.

He used the cloth to wipe the sweat from his own face.

"Tell me, William, the first time you gazed upon the cloth, whose face did you see?"

"Yours." Groves could only manage a whisper.

"And whose face is on it now?"

THE LESSON 2012, BAHAMAS.

AN ABUNDANCE OF STARS filled the Caribbean sky and thin wisps of cirrus clouds curled around a crescent moon as Scarrow looked out from the ceremonial terrace atop Azteca. Although the lights on the horizon were from distant Bahamian hamlets, he so yearned for them to be the home fires of his beloved city of Tenochtitlan and the boat lanterns that were once scattered across Lake Texcoco. Flickering around the perimeter of the temple roof, torches filled the breeze with a pungent smoky haze.

In the middle of the terrace stood a single, knee-high trapezoidal stone slab. It was designed so that when the xochimiqui, or captured warrior, was stretched out upon it, his back would naturally arch.

Scarrow searched the faces of the current nine apostles as they watched from the opposite side of the slab. Each wore decorative, floor-length cloth sheaths that hung down the front and back. Scarrow was dressed in a similar manner but also wore a crown of feathers that pointed toward the heavens and a wide, hand-tooled silver belt on which was depicted the Aztec Fire Serpent of Time. Upon his feet and those of the apostles were leather sandals with strands of thin golden rope that wound around their legs to their knees. Bracelets, earrings, and necklaces of turquoise and silver hung from their bodies. And in his hand he held a trowel-shaped, black obsidian knife with a leather-bound handle. Torches bathed the sacrificial altar in shimmering golden light.

"We have allowed our universe to become out of balance." He knew there were modern scientific explanations of the imbalance, of how on December 21, 2012, many ancient calendars predicted calamity. Scientists calculated that the Earth would be in exact alignment with the sun and the center of the Milky Way Galaxy. The whole mantle of the Earth would slide, resulting in the shifting of the magnetic poles. The result would be global devastation. It didn't matter what scientific terms were used or what modern geophysicists projected. His advisors and other ancients prophesied the same day as cataclysmic. And that day was quickly approaching.

He continued. "We have little time to reverse the gods' discontent. But we will. We will restore universal harmony with our own hands and pay them our endless debt. Tonight you will witness the setting free of the tonalli, the animated spirit that lives within our blood. When we experience great fear, it concentrates in the heart. This is why our gods hunger for the human heart, for without the sacrifice of the spirit and the consumption of the tonalli, they will command the total destruction of our world. Tonight we will ensure that Tonatuih, our sun god, is appeased."

With a nod, he watched two apostles enter a nearby antechamber and return escorting a young bronze-skinned man. The man's hands were bound behind his back, and he was blindfolded and gagged. Coming to stand beside the stone slab, he was made to face Scarrow.

"Are you ready to offer up your tonalli to nourish the great war god, Huitzilopochtli, and to Tonatuih, the god of the sun?"

The young man shook his head as he tried to pull away from the grip of the apostles. His muffled pleas could be heard through the gag as he struggled.

Scarrow signaled for the man's bindings to be cut. With two additional apostles assisting, they grasped the man's arms and legs, forcing him to lie back onto the slab, its shape causing his chest to thrust upward.

His breathing became rapid and shallow, his head darting about in terror. Scarrow pulled the blindfold away. The man jerked his head to each side, staring with wild eyes at the audience around him, then back at Scarrow. The apostles pinned his arms and legs.

The man raised his head to speak. But before he could utter a word, Scarrow stabbed the knife into the victim's abdomen, sliced upwards and thrust his hand inside the wet, red wound. He reached up, beneath the diaphragm, and a second later the victim's head collapsed, hanging over the back of the slab. Scarrow withdrew his hand and raised it, gripping the still-beating heart with its ropes of blood vessels and tissue trailing. "His spirit is with the sun.

He spread blood on the victim's lips, then paraded the glistening organ before everyone. Next, he turned to tread a few steps to a stone carving of Tonatuih, the Aztec sun god. The god's fixed eyes stared out menacingly as if searching for his next meal, mouth open wide, tongue in the shape of the sacrificial knife, protruding through bared teeth, ready to savor the next offering. Carved on either side of his head were claws grasping a human heart. Scarrow shoved the still-quivering organ into the stone mouth, mashing and grinding it into the opening until all that remained was a smear of crimson blending into the scarlet-painted face.

He returned to the sacrificial stone slab. "Soon, you will choose your own honored xochimiqui to give up their tonalli spirits in order to preserve and renew our world. That time draws near as you prepare to go forth to your homelands and make ready for the final days of the old world and the new beginning." He smiled at each one. "When we are done here tonight, we will feast upon what is left of this flesh and celebrate what the xochimiqui have given us."

Memories flooded back to him of almost five hundred years ago when he stood atop the ancient Templo Mayor watching his priests perform this sacred ritual so many times. Tonight, he was not a priest, but he was the teacher of those he called his apostles-his new priests. He had deliberately chosen the final number to be twelve, imitating the Christian faith. After all, was this not the same as the Christian communion-the sacrifice of body and blood? There were still three more apostles to resurrect, but all were within his timeline. He was the new messiah and would prove it beyond any doubt. In addition to his apostles, the Azteca disciples-not his chosen twelve, but still his devout staff of followers-would help prepare the way for him and his Phoenix apostles. He knew the time was approaching when the fulfillment of human sacrifice would return, and the gods would find favor with him and all his work. This was why they had chosen him to receive the special gift of immortality.

"Let us continue the lesson," he said.

A moment later, the next xochimiqui was led from the antechamber to the altar stone-this time a young female. As she tried to struggle and fight, Scarrow watched the apostles cut the straps that bound her hands behind her back. Then they stretched her across the slab.

Standing over the xochimiqui, Scarrow took the still-dripping knife and offered the blade to his apostles.

"Who will be first?"

MANGROVES 2012, FLORIDA BAY.

BLACKNESS ENGULFED SENECA. THE impact of the water drove the air from her lungs and she took a choking gulp of saltwater. With arms thrashing and reaching, she broke the surface and sucked in a breath.

"This way!" Matt was yelling. "Get away from the boat!"

As she tried to find her bearings, she glanced over her shoulder. The long black object they'd seen moving against the stars hung in the sky nearby, its rotors almost perfectly silent.

How can that be? Where is the noise?

She could plainly see it was a small black helicopter, maybe twenty feet long or less. No windows or lights.

Where is the pilot?

And yet, even though she saw the spinning rotors, they made only a muffled whopping sound.

A quick burst of flame erupted from underneath its body as more projectiles slammed into the mortally wounded Boston Whaler. Flames burst from the boat's cabin, sending orange and red fireworks shooting out over the chop.

"Swim to the island!"

A beam of light flicked on from a round pod mounted under the nose of the machine and lit up the boat.

"They think we're still onboard," she said.

"Dive underwater!"

Seneca dropped beneath the surface, breast stroking, coming up only briefly when her lungs burned so fiercely that she had no choice. Her long skirt strangled her legs, making it impossible to swim-her sandals had already slipped away. To escape, she had to lose the skirt. Grabbing the elastic waistband, she yanked down and kicked it off.

She surfaced to snatch a quick breath and locate the dark mass of the island. The beam of light swept across the water behind her as if sniffing for a trail. As she went under again she heard another volley of shots impact the boat and felt the concussion of an explosion-the fuel tanks must have ignited.

Seneca struggled, her legs thundering under the surface, her arms taking wide, forceful arcs, using up her precious oxygen.

Then a bump against her thigh.

Sweet Jesus.

A shark? It had to be. It felt big. She knew how abundant they were in these waters this time of year and their need to prowl the shallows for baitfish, especially at night. She and her mother had hooked ten-foot-long, two-hundred-pound lemon sharks and bull sharks in no more than three feet of water not far from here. The water was warm, and sharks were plentiful.

Oh God, oh God. She swam hard.

Maybe it was just a piece of driftwood or the dolphin she heard earlier taking a breath. She tried convincing herself it was the friendly Flipper in a lame effort to lock down the terror. Her heart hammered against her chest as if it might explode with the next beat causing her arteries to rupture from the force of blood pulsing in her head.

Kicking and sweeping the water back with her arms, she kept below the surface until she felt her feet snag the sand. At this point she had no choice but to expose herself to the helicopter attack and run for the island. She shot up and staggered forward. Looking back, she could no longer see the helicopter. With its black form and stealth rotors, it could be coming around for another assault and she wouldn't know it until the bullets tore into her.

The flames ate at the twenty-six-foot Boston Whaler-she smelled the caustic smoke as the synthetic materials burned.

Reaching ankle-deep water, Seneca dropped onto her hands and knees. When she looked up she saw that just to her right a narrow creek ran through the island like a watery tunnel. In the bare light she caught a glimpse of several pairs of eyes staring back at her. Raccoons, she supposed. Finally, she was able to stand on wobbly legs-her muscles cramping from the frantic swim.

Seneca wished she still had her shoes as she crossed the stubble of mangrove sprouts before reaching a muddy spot on the edge of the island where the suction swallowed her feet. She knew her bare soles would be no match for the hidden edges of coral and shell lurking in the dark.

A swarm of mosquitoes rushed to attack, invading her hair, her nostrils, her eyes. She swatted and spat as she scanned the blackness for Matt. There wasn't enough light from the claw of moon to see more than a few feet. The smoldering mass of burning boat in the distance was no help.

Seneca bent forward and put her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

"Matt?"

No answer.

FIREBIRD 1981, SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDWEST.

"How DID YOU FIND me?" Groves and Scarrow sat in the woodpaneled office compartment inside the private Boeing 727 as it streaked westward across the heartland of America.

"I became mildly suspicious in 1937 when I saw the news of the death of your son in the papers." Scarrow took a sip of tea from the bone china cup displaying the gold Groves Consortium logo on the side. "I was living in Spain at the time teaching Latin American history at Universidad de Barcelona. You know, it's ironic that they never knew I was teaching from firsthand experience. Anyway, you see, William, I have a photographic memory, and I recalled reading the news of your death back in 1919. Because of your stature in the world as a leading industrialist-I believe the press referred to you as the Invisible Titan-I remember feeling regret that I never had the opportunity to meet you. So when I saw the picture of your departed son, something caught my attention. It wasn't the amazing resemblance so much as the way the face stared out at me-the look of mistrust in the eyes, the glare of reluctance at having to be exposed to the public. It was the same expression looking back at me in the mirror every day of my life.