The man beside him merely grunted in a way that might have meant yes or might have meant no. Then there were swipe cards in security doors that shut off his last hopes of escape as they clicked shut. More carpeted corridors, then a brief halt before another door. One of his captors reached out to knock politely. After a long moment he knocked again.

"Gone off," said his companion.

"What do we do? The orders were to deliver him here."

"He's probably just been called to the conference suite. Do you have clearance to go in?" The man gestured toward the closed door.

"Level five," his companion nodded. "Should do it. But I'm not sure we-"

"Won't thank us for leaving him out here. You know the regs. See if your card works."

Em watched the man step forward and tentatively try his swipe card in the door lock. It flashed green at once.

The man gave a small grunt of satisfaction and turned to Em. "Inside," he said tersely. "Boss will be with you in a minute."

Em stepped through the doorway. He was expecting an office, but instead he was in a luxurious penthouse suite with abstract art on the walls, plush modern sofas, thick pile carpet, and a wall-mounted television screen twice as large as any Em had ever seen before. Off the living area was a small study with a polished desk, behind which was a whole bank of personal computers on their own countertop. Several of the screens were tuned to CCTV cameras throughout the building; or possibly some other building.

As the door closed, Em noticed that a swipe card was needed to get out of the office as well as get into it, meaning he was still effectively a prisoner. He wondered who the boss was who was coming to see him. His guess was Bederbeck Foundation's head of security or some other foundation executive. But a niggling, scary little voice in the back of his head kept asking if it might be the boss of the entire foundation.

Em realized his train of thought was going nowhere and took a cautious step farther into the room. The place reeked of money. Two of the abstract paintings on the wall looked like early Picassos, and Em would have bet anything that they were originals. He found himself wondering if the suite didn't belong to the CEO of the foundation but rather to the head of the Knights himself.

To take his mind off his increasing nervousness, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling curtains on one wall and drew them aside. As he suspected, the wall behind was entirely glass. Em looked out. The impression of a small town in the desert came through as strongly as ever. The sky to the east was lightening with the approach of dawn, and banks of streetlights were already beginning to wink out. Somehow it made Em feel even more afraid, as if the night had been a fiction but sunrise must bring his day of reckoning. He glanced straight down and experienced a wave of vertigo that drove him away from the window. Instead, he moved through to the study area and walked over to the computer screens. One had an internet connection and was displaying the familiar Google search page. On impulse Em typed in "Bederbeck Foundation." As he hit ENTER, he heard the sound of the office door opening behind him.

Em swung round, heart pounding, then stopped in sudden, absolute paralysis.

"Hello, Em," said the man in the doorway.

Em squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again before he believed what he was seeing. But even then he could not, did not actually believe it. His heartbeat rose until it almost filled the room. Waves of sudden darkness threatened to engulf him. His knees felt weak; but somehow he managed to speak, somehow he managed to gasp out one word. "Dad?"

Chapter 42.

It was like being ill with a fever. His heart was a jackhammer. He felt weak and shivering. But worst of all, nothing was real anymore. His world had the shifting quality of a dream, and there seemed to be snakes moving at the edges of his vision. "You're dead," Em said in a voice that echoed and reverberated through the empty recesses of his skull. "You died last month." He thought of using the word murdered.

"I'm not dead," said Edward Goverton. His voice was as it should be and infinitely familiar. It did not quaver or shake or wooo the way ghosts were supposed to. Em didn't believe in ghosts anyway. How could you see a ghost if you didn't believe in it?

"You were dead," Em insisted. "You were cold." He remembered the cold. The body had felt like meat.

His father took him gently by the arm and led him to one of the upholstered sofas, encouraged him with subtle pressures to sit down. His father sat beside him, and Em could feel the cushion move. Cushions didn't move when ghosts sat down. "I'm sorry," his father said. "I should have prepared you for this."

"You were cold and not breathing. I felt your wrist. There was no pulse." It was true. After he'd called for Mum, he'd gone all grown-up and efficient and tried to find a heartbeat. He'd held Dad's wrist the way nurses did on TV and used his fingertips to feel. There was no pulse at all.

"I'm sorry," his father said again in his nasal, slightly reedy professorial voice, and sounded genuinely sorry, although Em wasn't certain for what. "I deceived you. But let me explain, and you'll realize it was necessary. Terrible, but necessary."

"Explain," Em echoed vaguely. For some reason the word terrible didn't seem to have any meaning.

His father took it as an instruction to action. "Everything was arranged to make you think I was dead."

"I did think you were dead," Em told him. Behind the strangeness and all the other emotions, he caught a glimpse of anger. How dare Dad do this to him? How dare Dad pretend he was dead?

"An injection lowered my body temperature and respiration. The lack of pulse was an old stage magic trick. A billiard ball in the armpit. If you squeeze it, your pulse weakens, then disappears altogether. Crude but effective."

His father was talking about stage magic tricks as if they were discussing the entertainment at a party. It was too bizarre for words. "Why?" Em asked almost desperately. "Why did you want me to think you were dead?"

"They were closing in on me. Actually, they were very, very close to discovering everything," his father said. He had to mean the Knights of Themis. Em had most of that story already: the secret prophecy . . . the discovery of the plot that put his father in so much danger. "The symptoms of my illness were caused by poison."

"I thought your death was caused by poison. That's what Mum thought too."

His father dropped into a familiar lecture mode, his voice crisp and sharp. "You need to listen carefully, Em. This is a complicated story."

"I'm listening, Dad," Em said. Strangely, the lecture voice helped. It was like the old days when his dad decided to tell him something important. The familiarity made Em feel better.

"I thought they might be getting close, but I wasn't sure how much they knew. I certainly didn't anticipate an attempt on my life. They were very, very subtle. The toxin was very subtle. I assumed I'd just picked up a bug. Fortunately Alex-Dr. Hollis-was more suspicious and ran tests."

"Dr. Hollis helped section Mum!" Em told him, suddenly outraged.

"For her own protection," his father said patiently. "We didn't think they'd attack her-why should they?-but we couldn't take any chances. With her safe, we were free to act without having to worry."

Safe? Em thought. In a Knights of Themis clinic? But his father probably didn't realize how far the arm of the Knights reached, even after they'd poisoned him. He wouldn't have realized it was a Themis clinic. Em opened his mouth to tell him, but his father was talking again: "Once we'd confirmed that they'd poisoned me, it was obvious we needed to come up with a plan-and urgently. Clearly I couldn't continue as I had before. Actually, I needed to get out of the country and into hiding before they made another attempt on my life. I-"

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"We couldn't risk it," his father said soberly.

Seated on the sofa with his arms folded across his chest, his knees tight together, Em found that he was feeling sick but buried the sensation. "You say 'we'-who else . . . ?"

"Well, Dr. Hollis knew, of course. He had to sign the death certificate. And Tom. Tom was in on it."

"Tom Peterson?" Em gasped. "He didn't say anything to me!" He found himself wondering if Charlotte knew, but decided at once that she couldn't have. She'd never have kept anything that important from him.

Edward Goverton shook his head. "Well, he couldn't, could he? Basically the plan was that I had to die-appear to die anyway-and let those bastards think they'd succeeded in killing me. Then when I went into hiding, they wouldn't come looking. It was vital to make this believable. I couldn't tell your mother, and I couldn't tell you. One small slipup by either of you and the plan would be ruined. But if you believed I was dead, you couldn't slip up, could you? It was really the only way of being safe."

"Mum isn't safe."

"There's no need to worry," his father said without explanation. "Your mother knows what happened now, and she's on her way to join us. I made the arrangements as soon as I knew you were in Arizona."

"How's she getting here?" Em asked. There were more important things he needed to know-like how Dad had got her released from the clinic-but his mouth wouldn't do what it was told when it came to questions.

"Private jet."

Private jet? His father could scarcely afford a bicycle. Maybe when he died he claimed his life insurance. Em suppressed an urge to giggle, then realized he was becoming hysterical. He made a massive effort to pull himself together. The world around him seemed to solidify a little. He concentrated hard, trying to focus. Eventually he said, "Your message to me . . . about the prophecy and . . ." He shrugged helplessly. If his father was still alive and had proof of the Themis plot, why send Em on a wild-goose chase to find it? There were parts of the story that weren't making sense.

For the first time his father smiled, albeit grimly. "That was the clever part. Obviously once I was secure and had things properly set up, I wanted your mother and you to join me. But frankly, Em, I also wanted to strike back. The problem was, dealing with an enemy like that, you have to flush them out into the open. That's why I dangled the bait of the Themis vaccination plan. That's also why I involved you. This part of the plan had to be as believable as my death. Obviously I would never have entrusted something like this to anyone outside the family. Which only left you, young as you are." His father's smile broadened. "And as you can see, it worked to perfection."

Except it hadn't. As far as Em could see, it hadn't worked at all. They were both locked in a Bederbeck Foundation building, and the Bederbeck Foundation was a front for the Knights. Heck, the Bederbeck Foundation was manufacturing the very vaccine his father was trying to expose.

As he tried to piece together the more confusing elements of his father's story, Em was abruptly struck by a blinding revelation. Maybe Dad didn't know that the foundation and the Knights of Themis were one and the same. It was the only thing that made sense. Em had no idea how his father had managed to end up here. Obviously there was more to the story than he'd told yet; and just as obviously something had happened to fool him completely. Although Em still couldn't figure out the details, he found himself suspecting, with a sinking heart, that the Knights had played his father like a fish. "Dad," he said urgently, "we have to get out of here!"

His father looked at him blankly. "Why?"

"They'll kill you. They'll have to. Nothing's changed about your secret prophecy discovery, except now they know you're still alive." They would probably kill him as well, Em thought, since he also knew about the vaccination plot.

The blank look changed to one of confusion. "They don't know I'm still alive. How could they? We've taken all necessary precautions; and thanks to you, we have their best man under lock and key."

"Who's we, Dad: the Bederbeck Foundation?" Em demanded. He leaned toward his father with an air of urgency. "Dad, the Bederbeck Foundation is a front for the Knights of Themis. They're both the same thing!"

Professor Goverton blinked. "Yes, of course," he said.

"You know?"

"Of course I know. What do you think I've just been talking about?"

"The Knights of Themis!" Em exclaimed. "You've been talking about the Knights of Themis and how they tried to kill you and how you set them up using me and-"

"Em," His father interrupted gently. "I'm afraid you've misunderstood the situation completely. It was Section 7 who's been hunting me. I thought you must have realized that."

This time it was Em's turn to look blank. "Why would Section 7 want to kill you?"

"Because I am Grand Master of the Knights of Themis," his father told him.

Chapter 43.

His dad called the place a canteen, but it looked more like a five-star restaurant to Em. He picked up the breakfast menu with a feeling of disbelief. Eggs Benedict . . . eggs Mornay . . . beluga caviar . . . French charcuterie . . . venison sausage . . . plus a mind-blowing list of more familiar food, including American favorites such as waffles with maple syrup.

Despite everything, Em discovered he was ravenously hungry and put in an order for bacon, eggs, sausages, black and white pudding, fried mushrooms, grilled tomato, potato cake, baked beans, and a pot of coffee. His father stared at him with an expression of amazement, shook his head slightly, then told the waiter he would have fresh fruit salad followed by Darjeeling tea and brown toast.

The food appeared with miraculous speed. Em speared one of his sausages and asked, "What's going on, Dad?"

His father nodded. "You deserve to know the truth, Em. But I'm afraid it's a little complicated."

"You said that before," Em informed him. "If it makes things simpler, Victor told me about the Knights." He thought he might as well get it out in the open. He was still reeling from his dad's confession.

"I suppose he told you we were a supersecret, power-mad organization set on dominating the world and enslaving everybody in it?"

That was about the size of it, all right. "More or less," Em admitted. He bit the end off his sausage and discovered it was delicious, but was having difficulty concentrating on his food.

His father shook his head sadly. "Did you believe him?"

"More or less," Em repeated. But it occurred to him that he'd never questioned any element of Victor's story, never asked for proof, never tried to check it out. Now that he knew Dad was a member of the Knights of Themis-heck, a fairly high-up member, to judge from his title-it also occurred to him that he might have been less trusting. Nothing Dad was involved in could be all that sinister. "I mean, I did when he told me. Not now, of course. I mean, not . . . if you're in it." It was embarrassing, but he couldn't quite make the words sound confident.

His father smiled. "Our organization isn't quite like that."

"Okay," Em said, "what is it then?" It came out a little more belligerently than he intended, but he was feeling guilty about accepting everything Victor said so readily.

"Historically, it was a group founded in ancient Greece. But that isn't Themis as it exists today."

Em hastily swallowed a mouthful of egg. The Greek business tallied with what he'd already been told. It was his father's second comment that rang a different bell. "It isn't?"

"The original Knights were eventually broken up. But some Themis ideas lived on, and eventually the movement was reconstituted by a group of intelligent men as a Masonic-style organization in the Middle Ages. Its most important principle was-and is-the notion that our leaders aren't doing a very good job."

Em had never taken much of an interest in the Middle Ages, but he doubted there were many people who'd argue with that today. He was always hearing about how politicians ruined the country financially, then fiddled with their expenses while telling everybody else to tighten their belts. It wasn't much better in America, where their politicians got everybody into wars nobody wanted and legalized torture by calling it a different name. And that was before you got to the really nasty countries: dictatorships such as Burma and North Korea. But Victor had blamed that all on the Knights themselves, claiming they were basically antidemocratic. Suddenly Em decided to put his father to the test. "At least we have democracy," he said.

"I'm afraid some of us aren't as keen on democracy as we might be," his father said without a moment's hesitation. "What's called democracy today is a far cry from the original democracy of ancient Greece, and even that had its failings."

Em wasn't so much interested in ancient history as his father's take on democracy today. But his father had that look he sometimes got, and Em knew he was going to get the complete lecture anyway.

"When the Greek authorities wanted to do anything important-like change a law or go to war-they had to put it to a general vote," his father said. "The voters turned up at the forum and said yea or nay. If you didn't get a majority, you couldn't go ahead with your plan. That was something close to real democracy: the people decided all the important issues; and if you couldn't be bothered to turn up at the forum to vote, you couldn't very well complain about the outcome afterward."

"What's so different about today's democracy?" Em asked, intrigued despite himself. Everybody went on endlessly about democracy and the Free World, and he'd always more or less accepted that this was what he was living in. The way he accepted what Victor had told him about the Knights. Without thinking.

His father shrugged lightly. "In our Western system, we don't generally vote on any particular issue. We vote to elect leaders who decide all the issues for their term of office while we have no more say in the matter. That's how wars start. We vote in old men who send young men to their deaths because our old men get annoyed with other old men or want to extend their power. And even on the very few occasions when we do have a direct vote on some issue-a referendum, for example-the general public can be manipulated so easily by political lies and promises that the response is almost always entirely predictable."

Em recognized the light in his father's eye and realized he was in for a major political speech if he didn't head him off at the pass. "Yes, but what's all this got to do with the Knights of Themis?"

"The original Knights were intelligent men who looked at the messes their leaders were making throughout Europe and decided they could do better. Unfortunately, intelligence and power are not the same thing, so Themis really got under way as an intellectual movement, not a revolutionary one. But that changed. Around the turn of the last century a group of American intellectuals, all of them secret Knights of Themis, decided not only that current political systems were no longer serving humanity, but that something should be done about it. Their main concern was America itself, of course; but they quickly realized two things. One was that the rot was apparent in just about every other country of the world. The other was that the world was becoming more integrated, so that any reform could not be confined to America alone.

"These were concerned men, Em. They wanted a better world, a more equal world, a more peaceful world where national conflicts no longer slaughtered millions, where common problems were no longer ignored because of narrow political interests. But they knew intelligent analysis would never be enough. So they began to recruit powerful people to their cause. They concentrated first on the very wealthy: bankers, oil and rail magnates, industrialists-all individuals in positions of great power unencumbered by any need to answer to voters or lobbyists. Later they expanded their reach to senior civil servants, selected politicians, judges, newspaper and other media owners. The result was Themis as it exists today. As an organization, we are not hungry for power-most of our members already wield more than enough power to satisfy any rational man. Nor are we hungry for money. Collectively, we can call on resources greater than those of many sovereign nations. What we are is a wholly benevolent organization dedicated to the welfare of the human race."

Em looked at his father's familiar features. What he said had to be true. It fitted in with everything he knew about his father: the thoughtful, gentle, concerned professor so popular with both his colleagues and his students. All the same, Em heard his own voice ask brusquely, "What about the vaccination business?" Now that he realized his father was involved with the Knights of Themis, he knew the vaccination story couldn't possibly be true. He had already tucked it away as another of Victor's lies. But the fact remained that Victor had only interpreted the story: it was Em's own father who had created it as part of the coded message that brought Em here. There were still things his father needed to explain.

If his father was in any way perturbed by the question, he did not show it. "I think before we go into that I'd better tell you a little about Section 7. Have you heard the term before?"

Em nodded as he buttered the last piece of toast. "Victor said he was one of their agents."

"I'm surprised he mentioned it by name. Victor isn't just one of their agents, and Section 7 is arguably the most secret, most sinister, most dangerous, most evil organization on the planet."

Em glanced at his father in surprise. The old man wasn't usually given to exaggeration. "It's just part of the British Secret Service, isn't it?" He wasn't sure Victor had actually said that, but it was certainly the impression Em had been left with.

His father raised one eyebrow. "Is that what he told you?" He shook his head with an expression of disgust. "No, it's not just part of the British Secret Service, although Britain did have a hand in setting it up. The agency itself was set up in late 1946 as a joint venture between America, Britain, Australia, New Zealand, France, and, oddly enough, Finland. British India was briefly in as well, but withdrew after independence the following year. The code name for the agency was Watchman, but since it was the seventh Anglo-American agency to be set up at the end of World War II, those involved took to referring to it as Section 7."

"Sounds respectable enough to me," Em remarked.

"It was, until 1955. That was the year the Soviets formed the Warsaw Pact. By then the agency had stumbled onto the Knights and, frankly, became obsessed with our activities. By the middle fifties the obsession had turned to paranoia. Section 7 concluded that we were actually the ones behind the Warsaw Pact, that we had somehow manipulated the Soviets. Complete nonsense, of course. Even the American government didn't buy it. Apparently exchanges got a little heated. President Eisenhower consulted with his counterparts in Britain and the other countries involved, and made the decision to disband the agency. But when they failed to persuade Eisenhower to change his mind, the agency went rogue. They dropped out of sight-they were experts in concealment-ceased to report to the administration, and embarked on criminal activities to replace their official funding."