The Omega Factor
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.
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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.