The Omega Factor Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Steve Berry

  Cover design and illustration by Eric Fuentecilla

  Cover copyright © 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

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  First edition: June 2022

  Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Berry, Steve, 1955– author.

  Title: The omega factor / Steve Berry.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Grand Central Publishing, 2022.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021053692 | ISBN 9781538720943 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781538720967 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3602.E764 O44 2022 | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20211104

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021053692

  ISBNs: 9781538720943 (hardcover), 9781538720967 (ebook)

  E3-20220318-DA-NF-ORI

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Present Day Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Writer’s Note

  Discover More

  About the Author

  Previous works by Steve Berry

  Acknowledgments

  This is my first book with the Hachette Book Group. My sincere thanks to Ben Sevier, senior vice president and publisher of Grand Central, for taking a chance on an old guy like me. To Wes Miller, my editor, whom I’ve greatly enjoyed getting to know and working with. He’s a man of remarkable insight. This book became much better thanks to him. Then to Tiffany Porcelli for her marketing expertise; Staci Burt, who handled publicity; and all those who created the cover and made the interior of the book shine. A grateful nod also goes to Sales and Production who made sure there was a book and that it was widely available. Thank you, one and all.

  A deep bow goes to Simon Lipskar, my agent and friend, who made this book possible.

  A few extra mentions: Jessica Johns and Esther Garver, who continue to keep Steve Berry Enterprises running smoothly. Nathalie Dumon, who showed Elizabeth and me around Ghent and provided some early research materials. Noah Charney, the expert on all things relative to the Ghent Altarpiece. And Christophe Masiero for helping out with my French.

  As always, to my wife, Elizabeth, who remains the most special—and most intuitive—of all.

  One other sad point. During the writing of this book, the man who pushed me to learn the craft of writing passed away. Frank Green lived a long and productive life. Many writers, myself included, owe him a great deal. He was a tough taskmaster, generous with his time, and if you kept your mouth shut and ears open you could learn a great deal. Previously, I’ve dedicated two books to Frank, but it seemed only right to thank him one last time. He will be greatly missed.

  The dedication for this book is a bit unusual. Novelists deal in the world of imagination. A novel is, by definition, not real. Sure, there are facts and people and things that might be real, but the plot, the conflicts, crucibles, and conclusions are only a story, designed simply to entertain the reader.

  Walt and Roy Disney also dealt in the world of imagination. Walt was the dreamer, a visionary. Roy was more grounded, practical, the financier. Neither could have flourished, though, without the other. Dreams languish unless somebody can find a way to transfer them into reality.

  That was what Roy did for Walt.

  Together they were an amazing creative team who produced some of the most enduring characters, places, and stories in human history.

  Their relationship was a close one, but not perfect. They disagreed and fought, as brothers do, but, in the end, they always came back together. Both seemed to realize that neither was complete without the other. Proof of that came after Walt died in 1966. The dream of a second theme park on the East Coast was just that, a dream. Its creator gone. But Roy made it his mission to see to it that the “Florida project” came to fruition. On October 1, 1971, that happened when Roy formally dedicated, not Disney World, but what he renamed as Walt Disney World.

  Seventy-nine days later Roy died.

  So this book is for the two Disneys, Walter Elias and Roy Oliver, imagineers extraordinaire, creators of the incredible, two men who continue to spark wonder, produce joy, and touch the world.

  Every day.

  For Walt and Roy Disney, who left an extraordinary legacy of inspiration and imagination

 
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  Like a dog that returns to its vomit,

  is a fool who reverts to his folly.

  Proverbs 26:11

  Prologue

  Pyrénées Mountains

  Late Spring 1428

  His pursuers were gaining, so Jan van Eyck prodded the horse with a jab from his boots. The animal seemed to sense their quandary and increased his speed, blasting out each breath of the cool mountain air in a torrid wheeze.

  Jan was alone, being chased in terrain that was both unfamiliar and hostile. When he’d first spotted the Moors, before midday, he’d counted nine on horseback. Two more had joined the chase since. The task he’d been sent to achieve was vital to his benefactor, capture was not an option, so he urged the steed forward with a snap of the reins.

  He knew his ride well. A good horse, with quickness and intelligence, could, and had, succored him many times. When ill, a horse was cared for with more wisdom than was vouchsafed to most Christian denizens. Horses were the means whereby kingdoms flourished, and the coursers, the palfreys, and especially the destriers responded to affection with an unmatched loyalty. He knew of one knight who returned home from war and was not recognized by his betrothed but was instantly embraced by his faithful stallion.

  He stared ahead.

  Jagged, snow-topped mountains rose all around him. To the west, like a sphinx on the desert plain, a svelte peak stood detached, its upper folds sheathed in silvery white, another spur of the pointed Pyrénées shadowed far behind it. He did not need to stop and listen to know that hooves were beating across the meadow behind him. He’d wanted to make his way north unnoticed. It was a mere two-day ride from Tormé, on the Spanish side of the mountains, to Las Illas on the French side. The refurbishing of the ancient town into a new fortress had only recently been completed, and he knew its presence, so close to the border, was a source of friction to the Moors.

  Though Navarre and Aragon both were in Christian hands, Moors still freely roamed northern Spain. Slowly, the reconquista was driving the Arabs southward. Castles and towns were being regained every year. Eventually, surely, the Moors would be forced to board ships and return to Africa, ending six hundred years of occupation. But, in the meantime, they continued to spoil churches, sack convents, and waylay travelers, especially those who ventured too far south and dared to cross the Pyrénées.

  His mind flashed to the warriors behind him.

  Moor meant simply “dark,” and the deep olive of their skin stood in stark contrast with the loose-fitting white tunics, the colorful turbans, and the scarfs that draped their necks in a kaleidoscope of silken thread. They were a brutal lot, a clear menace, and he did not want to face their crescent-shaped scimitars or their mounted archers. He’d been expecting follies of arrows, but the pursuit so far had been through thick stands of fir and pine, so clear shots had been unobtainable. He hated archers. A true warrior should only come to battle with an ax and sword in hand. What had the poet said? Coward was he who was the first archer.

  He allowed his attention to switch from the ground to the route ahead, relying on his horse to make sure the footing was true. A blast of crisp wind swept through a nearby cleft and slowed his progress. The trees around him began to change, the firs diminishing, towering pines now dominating. Each trunk reached audaciously toward heaven, many twisted as if in pain, most bereft of limbs.

  He winced.

  There would now be more opportunities for the archers.

  The horse slowed and twisted a path through the pines, avoiding granite boulders and leaving a clear trail across dainty edelweiss. A stillness wrapped the dusky forest. The musty scent of twigs and boughs filled his nostrils. Above, the sun was warm, the clouds low, which meant rain might eventually become his ally. But, for now, any storm was too far away to be of assistance.

  He stopped the horse and risked a look behind him.

  No one was in sight.

  He tried to listen for some sound that might betray the Moors’ presence, but the clicking of grasshoppers interfered. He emerged from the trees and found a path leading eastward.

  A signed paper in his saddlebag certified that he was the duly authorized representative of Philip the Good, the reigning Duke of Burgundy. By trade, he was an artist. Philip’s court painter. But by service he was a spy, in the employ of the duke. His current mission had taken him into Spain on a reconnoiter of local roads and territories. His attention to depth and detail, his skill and accuracy with pen and brush, was what distinguished his art. The duke liked to say that his visual cunning was unmatched. But unlike his paintings, where the real world only inspired what he represented, when on a covert mission what he produced had to be an exact match. On this trip he’d sketched valuable maps that led to important mountain passes, all vital to any army in the future.

  Jan was broad-shouldered and solid in limb. His brown hair had grown out, stubby like a brush—his beard long and ragged, which made his pallid face look even paler. Normally, he’d be clean-shaven, but he’d intentionally not shaved the past few weeks, the facial hair adding a measure of welcome disguise. His head was lean, large, and some said square, with a high brow and a fine straight nose. It helped that he spoke Spanish and understood the local customs. All of which made him the perfect spy.

  Another breeze brushed past and he savored a quiet moment. His skin was wet and hot, his legs achy. Beneath the mantle he was clad in heavy mail. A weighty aventail bit into his neck and chin. He’d dressed for battle, ready for whatever might come his way, and eleven Moor horsemen had accepted his challenge. He wondered if someone in the last village had given him away. It was a Christian community but, as he’d been warned, the Moors had eyes and ears everywhere.

  He reached down and stroked the horse. The animal flattened his ears and accepted the affection. The twitter of a finch came from an adjacent tree. He half expected the clash of an ax or the buzz of a saw, but there was no sign that anyone else loomed nearby. Before him, another pass opened and beyond spread the brilliance of an emerald-breasted valley. A clearly defined trail wound a path ahead through a thick stand of beech. He urged the horse forward and sat up in the high saddle, thinking perhaps he’d lost his pursuers. He’d be glad when he could remove his ponderous metal clothing and enjoy the comfort of night. He should make Las Illas before sundown.

  Ahead, on one of the trees, something caught his attention.

  He approached and stopped.

  Carved into the trunk of an enormous beech was the image of a bird. Great care had been taken with its representation. The plumage and beak distinct, its mighty wings held close and tight, ready for flight.

  He recognized the vulture.

  The Spanish called it quebrantahuesos. Bone smasher.

  And he knew why.

  He’d watched in awe many times while the great raptor had dropped its prey from the air onto rocks, breaking the bones and making it easier to get at the rich marrow. Strange that someone had taken the time to so beautifully depict such a predator here. Below the bird were letters. Not of a language he knew, though he recognized the Arabic symbols. Around him the rock crannies groaned from the wind. He was deciding on what next to do when the stillness was disturbed by a low swoosh that quickly grew in intensity.

  He knew the sound well.

  Arrows piercing the air.

  In the next instant three tips sucked into the earth just ahead of him.

  His head whirled around.

  The Moors had rounded a bend in the trail and were fast approaching. He urged his horse forward. Their first shot had been off, but they would be more accurate with the next folly. He allowed his right hand to drift from the reins to make sure that his battle-ax was still held by its leather strap to the saddle. He might soon need the weapon.

  He entered the mountain pass.

  To his left rose glaring white cliffs. Box brush clung to every crevice. An inky-black forest loomed
to his right. He almost diverted the horse into the trees, but his lead on the Moors was good and he thought he might be able to outrun them. He had to be either over or near the border, and he doubted the Moors would follow him into French territory.

  He rounded a bend in the trail and ducked beneath an outstretched limb. His horse was in full gallop, the hooves skimming across the hard ground. He saw another of the carved vultures in a trunk ahead, along with more Arabic symbols. Just as he passed the tree the horse’s front legs found a soft patch of shale and together they plummeted toward the ground. He knew what was coming, so he leaped as the animal pounded the earth and hoped his suit of mail would protect him from the worst of the fall.

  He slammed into the hardpan next to the horse. While he rolled left, the horse tumbled on, a sickening whelp signaling that the animal was in pain. He somersaulted several times. Chain mail dug into his sheepskin shirt. He brought his arms to his head and shielded his face from rocks as he careened off the trail. He continued to tumble until finally coming to rest against the gnarly roots of one of the beeches.

  He sat still for a moment and assessed the damage. There was pain, a multitude of cuts and scrapes, but nothing excruciating. He tested his arms and legs. Nothing seemed broken. He moved his head from side to side. His neck was unaffected. Jesus, almighty God. He’d been lucky. The smell of mold and moss filled his nostrils. He immediately listened for sounds of the Moors.

  But there was nothing.

  The thought of his pursuers roused him to his feet.

  He pushed back the coif and allowed the hood to droop onto the nape of his sweaty neck. He swiped blood from his brow, then staggered back to the trail. The horse was on its feet, ready.

  What a tough stallion.

  He looked to the right.

  The Moors were farther down the trail, still atop their mounts, simply watching him. Thankfully, they were far enough away that their bows would be useless. He waited for them to charge. He would be easy prey since both his sword and ax were with the horse. Good thing. He might not have survived the fall with those strapped to his waist. He stared at his enemy and decided that if they advanced, he would flee into the woods and take his chances. Perhaps he could disarm one of them and gain a weapon.