The God Machine by J. G. SANDOM Read Free Book Online Page A

Nick's been anxious to see you. Here, let me help you with that.”
    Mrs. Robinson grabbed his overnight bag and carried it into the foyer. She was a beautiful woman, always had been, with sparkling brown eyes, long brown hair and a regal yet unpretentious demeanor. She was wearing a white cotton blouse, tight-fitting black slacks and black Top-Siders. Her unassuming manner belied the fact that, like Nick, she had grown up in startling affluence, the sole progeny of Bill and Anne Huntington, of the Texas Huntingtons—oil and gas. Educated in Europe, like Koster, she had studied art and art history, and had even written a book on da Vinci. “You're looking well, Joseph,” she said, standing back and taking him in. “You've gained weight. You were too skinny before. No more dreams?”
    “Just occasionally.”
    Theresa Robinson smiled. “It's a pleasure to discover there are still some constants in the universe. You are, and always will be, a bad liar, Joseph,” she said.
    Koster began to stammer out a rebuttal when Macalister, Nick's man, appeared in the hallway at the far end of the foyer. “Mr. Koster,” he said. “Mr. Robinson's expecting you.”
    Theresa patted Koster on the arm. “I'll have your bagbrought to your room. You run ahead. You might want to freshen up before meeting the guests at the Club.”
    “The guests? What am I, then?”
    Theresa smiled. “Why, Joseph. You don't count.” She turned and hurried away down the hall, trailing the words, “You're practically family.”

Chapter 6

Present Day
Point O'Woods
Fire Island, New York

R OBERT M ACALISTER LED K OSTER UPSTAIRS, DOWN THE LONG narrow corridor—splashed with photos of sailing regattas—all the way to Robinson's study. It had once been a bedroom, but Robinson had transformed the guest suite into an office and gallery. Paintings were stacked up against the far wall, some by coveted artists, some unknown. Koster wondered if Robinson had a good security system in place to keep out intruders. The collection was worth a small fortune.
    Three bay windows looked out over the beach and the flint gray Atlantic beyond. A cherry wood desk, made by Nick Robinson's great-grandfather, stood beside the central window, its surface littered with books. Nick Robinson was nowhere to be seen. Koster circled the room, keeping a wary eye on Macalister. “Where's Nick?” he inquired.
    “Mr. Robinson will be here shortly.”
    Koster stopped behind Robinson's desk. The panels and drawers were inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Nick had placed a green leather mat with mauve blotting paperon the surface. An inkwell and quill stand stood off to one side, by a malachite letter opener and a leather-bound book. “What is it, Macalister?” Koster said. He could feel the man staring at him.
    “What's what, sir?”
    “Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “I'm waiting for Mr. Robinson.”
    “You don't trust me very much, do you?”
    Macalister smiled. “Not at all, sir,” he began to protest.
    Koster didn't know how to respond. He glanced down at the desk, at that book with the tan leather binding. It was open. The text was in English but the words didn't make any sense. The lines were clustered together in long sets of three. The door closed with a bang.
    Koster looked up. Macalister was gone. There was something weird about him, something creepy, thought Koster. He was always shadowing Nick, wherever they went.
    Koster stared back down at the volume. He ran a finger along the letters across the page. They made no sense until he reached the end of the twelfth line. Then Koster read the words: The Gospel of Judas. And right below, the same phrase in Hebrew and Greek.
    For a moment, Koster found himself back in the heart of the cathedral at Chartres. He was holding a cup in his hands made of gold. A woman lay at his feet. On her side. With that great bloody hole in her head.
    “Joseph!”
    Koster looked up with a start.
    It was Nick Robinson. “How the hell are