"How are you feeling, William?"

"Someone is trying to poison me."

"Why do you say that?"

"Have you tasted the food?"

"It's the same food we've been serving you since we moved here. No one is trying to poison you."

"I think it's the fucking Apaches. They want to punish me."

"There are no Apaches, at least not in the Bahamas."

"Has anyone been around asking about the gold?"

"No."

we can't let them know about it."

"The gold is long gone, William." He walked over to Groves, reached out and felt his pulse.

"I don't like it here. I want to move back to my ranch in Arizona. Even that place in Greece or the island in Thailand was better than this."

"The ranch was sold thirty years ago." Scarrow released Groves's wrist. "Are you taking all your medications?"

"I don't like them."

"They keep you calm and level-headed. Lowers your anxiety. You need to take them. You know how depressed you can get."

"What happened to the gold?"

"You know exactly what happened to it."

"Where's the veil? It's not in the vault. What have you done with it?"

"It's somewhere safe. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Why is it so hot in here?"

"It's freezing, William. I need to wear a parka when I come in here."

He stared with compassion at William "Billy" Groves who had allowed his 170 years to intrude on his sanity. Yet he himself had managed for nearly 500 years without such consequences. But Scarrow understood the difference. Unlike Groves's, his immortality came with purpose. And at last, it was coming to completion.

"They're not boiling my water long enough." Groves glanced around nervously as if expecting others to appear out of the shadows. Then he looked directly at Scarrow. "I want to know where the veil is. And what are you doing with those people?"

"What people?"

"The ones you're digging up?"

TOO LATE 2012, MIAMI.

SENECA'S BREATH DAMMED up for a moment before she composed herself. It was probably just a coincidence, and she scolded herself for entertaining the idea that this Mercedes was the same one that followed her last night. She pulled into a nearby visitor's spot and waited, unable to tell if there was anyone inside the car or not because of the dark-tinted windows. Weren't windows that dark against the law? After several minutes she seized her courage, got out, and approached the SUV. It sure looked like the same car that had spooked her the previous night. But there were plenty of Mercedes SUVs on the roads in South Florida.

Standing beside the driver's door she tapped on the window. Getting no response, she put her hand to the glass and peered inside. The car was empty. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Shaking off the twinge of worry, Seneca returned to her car and collected her things. She entered the building and climbed the steps to her apartment, keys jangling at her side. At her door, she inserted the key in the deadbolt, but found it already unlocked, causing her to back away. Maybe she wasn't paranoid. Should she call 911? What if she simply forgot to lock the deadbolt? She couldn't remember if she had or not. If she called the police wouldn't she look stupid if she just hadn't locked the door? Seneca reached for the knob and turned it, then thrust the door open.

A man sat on her couch, and she was sure she recognized the face from pictures-the face that belonged to the voice on her answer machine. She took what felt like a scalding gulp of air.

The man stood. He was well over six feet and beneath his starched shirt and pleated trousers appeared to be a trim body in good shape-especially for his age. Silver salted his close-cropped dark hair, particularly heavy at the temples. Few lines creased the olive skin of his face.

"Hello, Seneca. I hope I didn't startle you. I'm your-"

Seneca clenched her teeth, then blew a puff of breath. "I know exactly who you are. What do you want?"

"I anticipated this would be awkward, but I was hoping for the best. I understand why you feel the way you do, but I am your father."

Seneca tossed her keys and purse on a table by the door. "No, to me that word implies parenting."

Alberto Palermo rolled his eyes. "You prefer your mother's terms? Sperm donor? Gamete giver?"

"I don't prefer anything. I never had a father."

Al's eyes closed and opened in a slow, painful-looking blink. "No, I suppose you think not. That was your mother's choice. You know that you were never off my mind. How many letters, how many cards did I send? Did I ever forget a birthday? I was never even sure your mother passed those things along to you as I asked her to. I hoped she would."

A tiny pang of guilt plunged through Seneca, but it only lasted a second. Her mother had passed his communications along, and Seneca kept every one of his letters, now stored away in the box in her closet. But he'd never called. Many of his last letters had asked to see her, but he had left that option up to her. She declined by not responding.

"How's your mother doing?"

"Why don't you pay her a visit? Mom's here in town, only a few minutes away. I'll give you her address and you can pull a surprise visit just like this one." She felt the heat rise in her face.

Al held up both hands, palms toward her. "Can you dump the hostility for a minute?"

She gave out a snide laugh. "Just like that? You've never been a part of my life-ever-then out of the blue I get a message that you are coming to see me, and you didn't even have the decency to wait for my reply or invitation. You break into my apartment and then have the audacity to ask me to drop the hostility?" Seneca flipped her hair back with a toss of her head. "Big brass ones, that's what you've got."

"Seneca, I've tried and tried to talk to you for years. But your mother preferred that I didn't. I know I'm going against her wishes, but I'm not getting any younger. I knew you wouldn't invite me in if I knocked on your door. You've made that clear by never answering my letters. I was willing to take the risk, knowing you'd be angry. So I-"

"Broke in. Since you obviously know how I feel, why don't you just leave before I call the police and have you arrested for breaking and entering?"

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"Oh, I know exactly why. You feel guilt for abandoning me. Now, after so many years, you want to, what, hang out together? Do some father-daughter stuff? That should make up for everything. Am I close?"

"I do want to make things right with us. That much is correct. But I know what you've just been through. I thought you might need a little help-a friend. Not only that, but I want to make sure your mother is properly cared for before she-"

"Dies? My mother died a year ago when she finally got to the point that she couldn't remember who I was. On that day, I became an orphan." Seneca felt as if a kink had knotted in her throat. But she'd be damned if she'd choke up or cry in front of this man.

Al glanced down before returning his gaze to her. "I just want to help."

"I don't need your help."

"A lot has happened since I last saw your mother. But I've thought of her-and of you-every day. Seneca, there's a great deal you don't know." He paused a moment, looking at her before continuing. "I remember the day you were born. I was there. Did she tell you that?"

She didn't answer. Her mother had never mentioned one way or the other.

"You are right about one thing. I want to try to start over, to be your father, to get to know my daughter. I can never get those years back, only the days to come."

"Are you dying or something? Need one of my kidneys?"

Al laughed. "God, you're just like Brenda. Quick on the uptake and cynical. No, I'm not dying, and I don't need you to donate an organ. I've always wanted to be a part of your life, it's just that-"

"Then you should have been. And if you haven't heard the saying, cynics are only wounded romantics."

"Like I said, that was always your mother's choice."

Knowing Brenda, Seneca didn't doubt him. The only revelations her mother had shared about Al Palermo were that the two had met at Woodstock in 1969, had a hell of a weekend together and the sex was fantastic. Why her mother would want to share the part about the sex, she couldn't understand. But that was the way her mother was-brash and bold, and open, holding nothing back. Then her mother and Al had met again at the Democratic National Convention seven years later. They had a serious affair that lasted for over a year and left Brenda pregnant with Seneca. After that, the stories her mother told of Al disappeared from Brenda's shared memories as if he ceased to exist. The only thing she would say was that Al had betrayed her. No other details.

"If you had really wanted to stay in my life, you could have found a way. You could've done better than letters, photos, and birthday cards. Did you think I was supposed to treasure them? They were from someone I didn't even know, someone I'd never met. They didn't mean jack shit. Just paper. There were lots of avenues you could have pursued. There weren't any legal issues to stop you that I know of."

"No." He shook his head. "None. Just your mother's wishes. She was so independent. Bra-burning Brenda, I used to tease her. She didn't need me-or any man."

Seneca bit back the emotions that came surging up. She had treasured all his letters, and that's what gave her so much pain. Through those letters he became real to her, someone she could miss, even long for. But he didn't deserve knowing that. No way was she going to let this man into her life. Not after this long. She had done just fine without him up until now, and didn't dare allow herself to be hurt. If her father swooped into her life now and tomorrow suddenly disappeared ... No, she wasn't going to allow herself to be vulnerable.

"You say I should have tried other avenues. That's what I'm doing showing up here."

"It's too late. Just get out."

"You're wrong. You don't know the whole story."

THE FIRST DEAL.

1881, NOGALES, ARIZONA TERRITORY.

"GENTLEMEN, THIS IS CHARLIE Pykes, my partner and general manager of Calabazas Land and Mining Company."

Groves stood under a vibrant yellow-blooming Palo Verde tree inside the fortified walls that surrounded his ranch house. The structure was a ten-room adobe with twenty-five-inch-thick walls. It sat on a hill commanding panoramic views in all directions. Located near the junction of Potrero Creek and the Santa Cruz River, it presented an imposing form to anyone who ventured near. And if they did, they were usually met by one of Groves's fifty vaqueros-men known to be as good with a gun as with a lariat. His vaqueros were responsible for protecting Groves and his five thousand head of cattle from rustlers and random skirmishes with the Apaches. Unknown to the vaqueros, they also protected the ranch house's large basement that was filled with the treasures from the Apache cave. With the help of Charlie Pykes, the assayer Groves first met when he cashed in the original Spanish gold coins, he had exchanged much of the gold and silver taken from the mountain trove and deposited funds in bank accounts in San Francisco, St. Louis, and Chicago. With a portion, he bought up hundreds of thousands of acres throughout the southern Arizona territory. On more than one occasion, Pykes had declared that Billy Groves was a natural at investments.

Groves watched as Pykes stepped forward and shook the hands of LeLand Simpson and Matthew Hopkins.

"Pleased to meet you." Pykes gave each man a courteous nod.

Simpson and Hopkins were entrepreneurs helping to finance the Southern Pacific Railroad. Simpson was the railroad's general manager and Hopkins served as legal counsel for Southern Pacific.

As they sat in wooden chairs beneath the yellow tree a Mexican servant brought them lemonade. While he watched each man take a glass, a moment of insecurity flickered through Groves. These two men were some of the richest in the region, bankrolling the railroad as it made its way across Arizona. He was about to make them a crazy offer that could bring him a great deal of money over the long term. And as each day came and went, and he stared in the mirror, Groves had a nagging feeling that he would need longterm investments.

"Your proposition is a bit out of the ordinary, Mr. Groves." Simpson took a sip of his lemonade.

"I think my offer will save your railroad a great deal of money and still bring in a nice little profit for me and my homestead."

"A little profit is exactly what it will be," Hopkins said. "First, you want to lease us the easement through your land at half the cost of what your fellow ranchers are asking. And you're only ask ing us to pay ten cents for every railroad car that passes over your land?"

"Mr. Groves is not a greedy man," Pykes said. "You should take advantage of it."

"Some folks would say we're robbing you, Mr. Groves." Simpson drained his glass. "Seems to me you'd have to live another fifty years or more to see a sizeable return."

Groves smiled. "The only stipulation is that I don't want no time limit on our deal. What did you call it, Charlie?"

"A perpetual royalty, Mr. Groves."

"That's it. A royalty that won't never end. That way my children and their children will have something to count on."

"Well, sir," Simpson said, "if that's what you want, then we're prepared to sign the papers right here and now. Mr. Hopkins has been kind enough to draw them up in advance. Would you care to have your legal counsel review them?"

"Are you an honest man, Mr. Simpson?" Groves looked him in the eye.

"I like to think so."

Hopkins pulled the documents from his inside coat pocket.

"Then there's no need to bring in a lawyer." Groves took the papers and reached out to Pykes, who handed him a fountain pen. "You understand gentlemen that I'm just learning to read and write. So right now, my mark will have to suffice. My partner will witness.

"That's good enough for me." Simpson grinned broadly.

Groves placed an X on the dotted line. "Then it's a deal."

THE PROCEDURE 2012, BAHAMAS.

SCARROW WATCHED THE FEED from the genetics lab appearing on the large plasma monitor. The image was of Dr. Raymond Blakely and his team as they stood in ghostly white sterile lab suits opening the box containing specimen 1080. Even with their faces hidden behind hoods and surgical masks, he knew each one. Three years ago Scarrow had supervised their recruitment from top universities and research centers, giving each expert a chance to perform controversial experiments considered illegal in their home countries. Blakely was the former director of stem cell research at the Freeman Institute in La Jolla. Beside him stood experts in plastic and reconstructive surgery, genetics, accelerated tissue regeneration, and molecular biology. There was also the former CEO of the electronics firm that invented Engage, the first brain-implanted wireless processor programmed to allow the patient to think in his native language and instantly speak in another. The implanted electrode recorded pulses from the surrounding speech-generating neurons and instantly translated the thoughts into English. And it acted as a gateway interpreter, translating incoming speech into the patient's native tongue.

Each one of the specialists retired or took a leave of absence to come and live inside the Azteca compound. They were given luxurious apartments and state-of-the-art-equipped laboratories. Their bank accounts were filled with more money than they could earn in multiple lifetimes, all secretly funded by the Phoenix Ministry.

Once the doctors and scientists completed their tasks, they would return to their countries, bringing with them the knowledge acquired while working without constraints at Azteca. Scarrow assured them that they would undoubtedly be the future recipients of enormous grants and positions of prestige in the science and medical communities, possibly even considered for the Nobel Prizes in Medicine, Physiology, and Chemistry. Their task was to perfect methods to restore the bodies and give life to the remains of twelve specific specimens. Whatever resources were needed, he supplied his team without question.

The completed project result would be the creation of his twelve Phoenix apostles, the recipients of new lives, new bodies, even new faces. Once trained, the chosen twelve would be sent to their original homelands to perform the human sacrifices needed in bringing the universe back into alignment. And when the day of reckoning passed and his gods were appeased, he would grant his twelve the ultimate reward.

Scarrow sat in a large leather chair in his private observation theater. Sitting beside him, Coyotl spoke quietly on his cell phone with the senior managing director of the Phoenix Ministry in Moscow. He closed the phone.

"There are a few hang-ups securing the final permits to hold the Ministry in Red Square. It will cost us roughly ten percent more than the estimated budget. They have come up with yet another list of city officials who need to be paid off."

"The cost of doing business."

"And for some good news. Your Ministry in Brazil has generated over twenty-five million dollars just since you flew back. They certainly loved you in Sao Paulo."

"They loved the message."

"And the messenger."

Scarrow never took his eyes off the plasma monitor as the skull of specimen 1080-Josef Mengele, the infamous Nazi concentration camp doctor known as the Angel of Death-was removed from the box. He felt a shudder of excitement when the empty, black sockets seemed for an instant to stare right at him. He wondered what the doctors' reaction would be if they knew whose remains they were handling; a number of the scientists were Jews. He watched as each bone was removed from the box and laid out on a large stainless-steel table under intense surgical lights-every step documented by multiple high-definition cameras and digital recorders.