"I dug through the university archives and found your obituary photo in an old copy of the Chicago Herald. Holding it next to the photo of your son, I realized it was more than an uncanny resemblance-it had to be the same person. But without undeniable proof, I chalked it up to being so desperate for answers that I was grasping at ghosts. Then when your grandson passed away in 1960, once again I found myself staring at a familiar face. My gut told me I may have found what I had sought for so long."

"I regretted ever having my picture taken at all," Groves said. "I knew each time I did, I was leaving evidence-a trail somebody could eventually follow. But in those early days, I also never realized I'd have to fake my death and assume the identity of my own son, much less my grandson. I kept out of the way of photographers for over fifty years. But, I knew this day would eventually come." Groves leaned back in the plush executive chair as he felt the plane course correct. "I still find it hard to believe you put this all together based on a few old photographs."

Scarrow laughed out loud. "Oh, no, William, it was way more than that. In 1960, I was a senior research analyst for the Smithsonian Institute. My specialty, as you know from my business card, is Mexican culture and antiquity. I had unrestricted access to the Institute's research and records facilities along with those of other government agencies. My superiors believed I was working on a side project-an unauthorized biography of the industrialist William Groves. That's how I was able to amass a detailed, sometimes day-by-day record of a certain Arizona Territory cowboy named Billy Groves. I must tell you, William, your amazing rise from a penniless cowboy who showed up in a dusty border town with some Spanish gold pieces to become one of the richest men in the world makes quite a story. You undoubtedly have a natural knack as a business visionary. It's well documented how you've found mere germs of ideas and managed to grow them into international success stories. My compliments to your amazing ability to make money. So to answer your question, no, it was more than the photographs. It took me years, actually decades, to put it all together. But I did, and here I am, your new partner."

"Excuse me!" Groves sat up with a start. "What the hell do you mean, partner? I offered to let you on my airplane so I could hear your story. I was fascinated, nothing more. But we have no partnership. As a matter of fact, we have no relationship at all. I admit, your story is intriguing and I sympathize that you share the same condition as I do. But that doesn't prove anything. Once this plane lands in Phoenix, we'll part paths, Mr. Scarrow. I'll go to my winter home in the desert, and you'll go to wherever you came from. And I can promise you that we will never meet again."

"It's interesting that we are going to Phoenix." Scarrow paused to finish his tea. "Are you familiar with the legend of the mythical phoenix firebird?"

Groves was annoyed that Scarrow seemed to ignore his rebuff. He had never met a man so in control, so calm, so focused. "Somewhat. What does it have to do with anything?"

"According to Egyptian and Greek mythologies, the phoenix was a bird with a tail of gold and red plumage. It lived for about five hundred years. At the end of its life, it would build a nest of twigs. Then it would set fire to the nest and become consumed by the flames. Soon after, a new phoenix bird would rise from the ashes to begin the next five-hundred-year life-cycle."

"That's all well and good. But I don't get why you're telling me this fairytale."

"Let's just say that I'm the phoenix about to end my life-cycle. I need to build my nest and rise from the ashes."

"And what's that got to do with me?"

"You have the means for me to complete my life and begin again. You have what I need to rise from the ashes."

"Which is?"

"Veronica's veil."

As DR. JOSEF MENGELE stood inside the west portal of the Cathedral of the Archangel, he removed his fake mustache, bushy wig, and thick-rimmed glasses, revealing the perfect likeness to the man Scarrow had the plastic surgeons create. He slipped his disguise into the side pocket of his crisp gray suit coat. Mengele glanced at the faded fresco overhead depicting the mass baptism of the Russian people during the reign of Prince Vladimir the Great. It was hard to see since the only lighting came from scattered security lights-the giant chandeliers were shut down hours ago once the last of the tourists left. The Italian Renaissanceinspired, onion-domed church was among the many cathedrals, palaces, and government buildings nestled inside the Kremlin.

Taking an extra moment to adjust his tie and straighten the lapel pin bearing the flag of the Russian Federation, he nodded to the phoenix disciples flanking his sides. Dressed in black suits and bearing the small Presidential Security Service emblem on their lapels, the two men acknowledged that they were ready.

In unison, with Dr. Mengele trailing slightly, the trio started across the echoing marble floor of the five-hundred-year-old church toward the expansive, floor-to-ceiling iconostasis that stretched across the back wall. They passed numerous sarcophagi of Russia's rulers, from Grand Duke Ivan I to Mikhail Romanov, the founder of the Romanov dynasty. As they approached the wall of icons, a soldier on solitary guard duty saw them and rushed to intercept.

"Halt! The cathedral is closed." He pulled a flashlight from his belt with one hand while he removed his pistol from its holster with the other. He glanced at the Security Service emblem on their jackets. "Present your identification, please."

The trio paused.

Shining his light into the faces of the three men, he stopped on Mengele. He took a step forward, his jaw dropping as his eyes grew large. "Mr. President? I-" The hand holding his gun sunk slowly to his side. "I don't understand. What are you ..."

"Get the light out of my face!" Mengele spoke just above a whisper. The Engage wireless electrode implanted in his brain was programmed with several languages including English and Russian. It had translated the guard's words into Mengele's native German and allowed him to answer in Russian.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. President. I never expected to see-"

"I'm here on a matter of state security and I need your assistance." Dr. Mengele took a step forward and placed his hand on the guard's shoulder. "What is your name, son?"

"Dmitry, sir." The young guard's voice was filled with uncertainty. "Corporal Dmitry Sabonis."

"Are you related to our glorious Soviet gold medalist?"

The soldier nodded. "A distant cousin, Mr. President."

"Something to take pride in, corporal." He leaned in close.

"Can I trust you to keep my mission in strictest confidence?"

"Of course, sir." The guard snapped to attention. "I am here to serve at the pleasure of the President of the Russian Federation."

"Good. Then take us behind the iconostasis to the private I need to see the tomb of the Grand Prince of Moscow, the first Tsar of all Russia, Ivan the Terrible."

As the last notes of Tchaikovsky performed by the Moscow Symphony Orchestra faded into the night and the stage went dark, a single spotlight shown on the figure of Javier Scarrow. He stood in the center of the sweeping glass and chrome stage. Clothed in a bright orange and blue robe, he gazed upon sprawling Red Square just outside the walls of the Kremlin. In the far distance, banks of floodlights illuminated St. Basil's Cathedral, making it appear like a nighttime attraction in a Disney theme park. Between the cathedral and the Phoenix Ministry pavilion, a crowd of half a million devoted followers hung on every word Scarrow said as his voice, along with that of the Russian translator, boomed through the thundering speaker system and his face appeared on rows of giant TV screens lining the Square.

"Welcome." Scarrow reached out his arms as if to embrace the throng. "Tonight, I bring you a message of hope, of peace, of joy, of balance and harmony, because we are all of one world, one universe, and one spirit. Many years ago a great leader, Tecumseh, Chief of the Shawnee nation of Native Americans spoke these words. 'Brothers, we all belong to one family; we are all children of the Great Spirit; we walk in the same path; slake our thirst at the same spring; and now affairs of the greatest concern lead us to smoke the pipe around the same council fire.

"'Brothers, we are friends; we must assist each other to bear our burdens."' Scarrow paused to let the translation catch up to him and to give the audience a dramatic moment to reflect.

"Tecumseh's words hold true to this day. When I quote his words, express his vision, and speak of the Great Spirit, I speak to you of the collective deities of Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Christianity, Animism, Hinduism, and Zoroastrianism, and other great religions, there is a common theme that connects us all. For the Hindus, there is the belief in Brahman, the underlying universal life force, and dharma, that there are three paths for maintaining world order, balance, and harmony.

"In Animism, there is belief in a spiritual realm which humans share with the universe. In Zoroastrianism, there is a supreme creator of the universe.

"I could continue on and on with each, but you, beloved brothers and sisters, already see the pattern. We are one in the universe. We use different words, but we say the same thing. And always there is the cosmic dualism, the struggle for balance, the struggle between what we perceive as good and evil."

Scarrow paused again and reached his arms forward to the crowd. "One world, one universe, one spirit. We are one!"

Applause rang out across the square and the crowd repeated, "We are one! We are one! We are one!"

"In our blindness and greed as humans, we have separated ourselves, drawn profound lines between groups, not divisions that the universe created, but that we humans saw fit to define ourselves as one better than another. We have not honored the universe, the deities that we all say we worship. We've given them all different names and say they belong only to our group. My group of Hindus. My group of Christians. My group of Jews. And now we pay the price." His voice rose. "The recent disasters are evidence of our universe convulsing. The massive earthquakes in China and Chile, the tsunami in Hawaii, the volcano in Yellowstone National Park in the United States, the horrendous flood in the Czech Republic. Do you believe these are just normal, that these disasters are a natural course of events? Not so, my brothers and sisters. These recent calamities have been of proportions of greater magnitude than we have experienced before."

Scarrow drew a deep, chest-inflating breath. His voice came softly and forlornly. "We have damaged our world ... our universe ... and it is in the throes of agony. We have abused our resources, scarred the very earth with our mining and deforestation, raped our flora and fauna to extinction. Mother Earth is in great pain." The pitch of his voice dropped even lower, plaintiff and melancholy. "And we have gravely wounded one another."

Scarrow punched up the tone. "But we do not have to continue along this path. We can mend the wounds, heal the scars. Find peace and joy, and bring harmony and balance back to the universe. We can know one another, see beyond the shallowness of the color of our skin, the shape of our eyes, and recognize ourselves as brothers and sisters. We have the same beliefs and messages. We are of one world, one universe, and one spirit. We are one. Extend your hand to the brother or sister next to you. Grasp hands in a renewal of peace and harmony, a promise to the universe that we are remorseful for our ways, and we praise what it has provided. We will move forward, rising from the ashes of the destruction we have brought on, rising from the ashes of our despair just as the phoenix bird rose from his ashes. Extend your hand and with it your love for one another. Our Phoenix Ministry is the promise of a bountiful future and at last, peace and harmony and balance in the universe, and it is incumbent upon us to make great sacrifices to that end. And we will, because we are one!"

The crowd responded with cries of affirmation, repeating again and again, "We are one!"

Patiently, he waited for the crowd to calm. Then his voice became melodic as he brought back Tecumseh's words. "'Brothers, we all belong to one family; we are all children of the Great Spirit; we walk in the same path; slake our thirst at the same spring; and now affairs of the greatest concern lead us to smoke the pipe around the same council fire.

"'Brothers, we are friends; we must assist each other to bear our burdens."'

After a short pause, Scarrow said, "I will show you the way. I will show you the truth. I will show you the path." Slowly, he began the chant, "One world, one universe, one spirit. We are one!"

Red Square resounded with the voices of the frenzied mass, some shouting, some weeping, some with arms waving in the air, others falling to their knees. A flush of warmth filled Scarrow's chest. He had them. This was the beginning.

THE BUTTRESSES OF THE red mangrove prop roots made it appear as if the trees were walking in the water on spindly, tangled spider legs. There wasn't much solid ground to the island that Seneca could make out in the darkness, mostly mud and mangroves.

She searched for any sign of the helicopter, but saw nothing overhead except a vast spray of stars. Turning toward the bay, she called for Matt again. No response. She swallowed hard, imagining he was seriously injured ... or worse.

Struggling to free her feet from the suction of the mud, she worked her way toward the protective cover of the mangrove trees. Maybe the creek bottom was sandier with less mud, she thought, and headed in its direction.

The water deepened to thigh high as she reached the mouth of the creek and the leading edge of the mangrove forest. As she took a step, the side of her foot slid against something sharp. "Damn it." She yelped as the salt water seeped into the fresh cut.

Seneca felt the top of a knot of roots for any unsavory critter that might be using the spot for a resting place.

No snake or lizard or crab. No anything, thank God.

Using the slippery scaffold of barnacled roots she climbed up to where she could sit clear of the water, but not without receiving tiny slits in her soles.

Jesus, what had happened? Who was shooting at them? And what was that black helicopter that seemed to be straight out of a James Bond movie? Who were they trying to kill? She certainly had no enemies that would go to this extreme. Maybe it was the religious whackos Matt told her about? The ones who objected to his books and called him a heretic. But they sounded like random screwball radicals, not a group that had access to a high-tech helicopter with large caliber weapons.

The cut on the side of her foot burned. Unable to see in the dark, her fingertip probing revealed the ragged edge of broken skin and her warm sticky blood slowly dripping into the creek. She thought of that bump against her thigh she felt while swimming to the island. If it was a shark, at least she was safely out of the water and not sending a bloody invitation to dinner.

A sudden forceful yank on her leg sent her splashing into the shallow creek. Seneca scrambled to right herself, wiping the water from her face.

"Quiet," Matt whispered. His powerful hands pulled her down into the water beside him.

Stunned, Seneca stared at his shadowy face as they crouched in the creek. "Matt! What's going-"

He put his finger to her lips, then pointed to an opening in the mangrove canopy.

"Is it them?"

Matt glared at the sky.

Seneca trained her eyes on his line of sight and listened. Above the breeze through the mangroves and the gentle gurgle of the creek, she heard it-the faint sound of rotor blades.

"How will they see us without a spotlight?"

"Infrared sensors. They don't penetrate the water effectively. Keep your body submerged. Move along the creek until we get near where the raccoons were feeding. Swim zigzag and stay under as long as you can. When you get near the raccoons, ball up under the mangrove roots. Understand?"

Seneca nodded, and Matt signaled for her to go. She could only guess how far the animals were from them and wasn't sure how long it would take to swim the distance. She didn't understand why he wanted her to do this, but he must have a reason.

After swimming for over a minute, she figured she had reached the right spot, and raised her head out of the water. Her rough calculation had been good. Just a couple of yards away she saw the eyes of the raccoons and their silhouettes when they moved. They didn't dart away, so her presence hadn't seemed to startle them.

Matt emerged beside her. He took her hand and pulled her from the middle of the creek closer to the mass of roots where the raccoons were. "Squeeze under the roots, they'll break our outline," he whispered. "Whoever is watching the images may mistake us for just more raccoons.

When they were under the cage of mangrove roots, he wrapped his arms around her and held her still, their faces just barely above the waterline.

A muted rotor sound caused her to look up. Through a break in the trees she saw a portion of the stars disappear as the black machine passed overhead.

The eeriness of the shadows, the sound of water coursing through the maze of roots, the thought of her wound sending a trickle of blood to the open water, worsened her already unnerved state. She remained as still as possible, praying the raccoons didn't flee.

Seneca strained to detect the sound of the rotors but heard nothing other than the ripple of the water and the wind. Then, in the distance came the high-pitched hum of a boat engine. As the moments passed, it grew closer. At least the creek was so narrow where they hid, almost nothing short of a kayak or canoe could get to them.

She wondered if they should attempt to get to the mouth of the creek again and hail the passing boat, even though the chances of them being heard or seen in the darkness were remote. But she quickly reassessed that option. What if it was the same bunch that attacked the Whaler? No. She and Matt would wait. Once the sun came up, waving at a passing fisherman would be the best bet. But not now, not with the black helicopter so close.

The sound of the boat grew stronger, and Seneca was certain it cruised as close as it could get without running aground.

She glanced at Matt. But before she could say anything, the engine slowed to an idle.

Suddenly, a brilliant beam of light penetrated the tangled mangrove island scattering the raccoons and blinding her.

THE CONVERSATION.

1981, SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDWEST.

GROVES SAT ALONE IN his office aboard the private 727. His per- sonal assistant had informed him that a call was coming in from his Asian regional director, and Groves had asked Scarrow to excuse him while he took the call. He watched the tall Mexican stand and leave, and wondered what would happen once they landed. How would this awkward meeting come to an end? It was obvious Scarrow had an agenda in mind-although he hadn't defined what he meant by being partners. Groves was sure the man would show his cards before they parted ways. He supposed it would come down to a simple case of blackmail or extortion. That kind of threat was manageable-usually with the blackmailer meeting an untimely demise.

After finishing the call, he sat staring out the window at the tops of the moonlit clouds thirty-eight thousand feet above the sleeping countryside. What started as a miracle in the Apache trea sure cave had, over the years, transformed into a curse. It haunted him every waking hour and crept right into his dark dreams.

It's one thing to want to live forever; it's another to have no choice.

Immortality had come with a heavy toll of loneliness, isolation, fear, paranoia, and a hundred other demons.

Although Groves was rarely seen by anyone, including his support staff, he kept them well compensated so they would resist being enticed or bribed to reveal insider info on their reclusive boss. His closest business associates lived lives of opulence exceeding what it would take to betray Groves.

In allowing Javier Scarrow to approach him, Groves realized he had taken a huge risk and began to think it immensely foolish. He never should have let Scarrow on board the flight, but there had been no time to linger in Washington and hear the man out. He certainly couldn't ignore the stranger, not after the shock of the man's handwritten note revealing the knowledge of his secret.

Groves consoled himself in the fact that at dawn they would land in Phoenix where he would wish Scarrow farewell then be whisked away to his Arizona desert retreat. With any luck, he would never see the man again. It was just a matter of a few more hours.

Groves left his office and wandered through the forward compartments to the lounge. He found Scarrow sitting on a velour couch, reading a copy of Time-a giant dollar sign on the cover representing the economy with the headline, "Reagan's Biggest Challenge."

"I hope your call went well." Scarrow closed the magazine and laid it aside.

"All problems stem from money, and money is the solution to all problems." Groves went to a well-stocked bar and poured himself a whiskey over ice. "Want a drink, Mr. Scarrow?"

"I'd hoped you would call me Javier. And I'll have what you're having."

Groves handed Scarrow a drink, then sat opposite him on a matching couch. He was fascinated with the fact that someone else shared his secret. If nothing else, he was eager to hear what it was like for this man to have lived for almost five hundred years. "So you were some kind of king?"

Emperor Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin, ruler of Tenochtitlan."

"In English, please."

"Modern history refers to me as Emperor Montezuma II, ninth ruler of the Aztec nation."

Groves nodded as he tried to recall his basic Mexican history. "You lost a war with the Spanish-a conquistador named Cortes did in your people, right?"

"Yes."

"Now here's what I don't understand." He took a sip of his whiskey. "There were a lot of you people, a helluva lot more than Cortes could have brought along on his ships. So how'd you manage to get your ass kicked by a few hundred men?"

"It was a complex situation. We suffered from historical and physical issues that accelerated the Conquest."

"Like what?"

Scarrow held up his fingers as he recited a list. "A raging smallpox epidemic, thanks to the Spanish. Our own religious belief that our defeat was foretold by eight omens that came before the arrival of the Spanish. Our mistaken belief that Cortes was Quetzalcoatl, our god-king who was prophesied to return and reclaim his city. And of course our goal in battle was different-in war we took prisoners rather than killing the enemy. And not least of all, our weaponry was good, but no match for armor, guns, and cannons."

"Back up there a minute. I don't get it. Why would you want to take prisoners instead of killing your enemy?"

"Our captives were used to satisfy our gods. It is nobler to die by sacrifice to the gods than in battle. Once captured, they go willingly."

"Sounds like you still believe in that plan-that you're still at war.