The Record Keeper (Murphy Shepherd, #3)

by Charles Martin

“Apart from art, Frank grew more addicted to video games, drugs, and porn, and Frank as I knew him faded. As did the light behind his eyes.

Monaco was the convergence of wealth and power. A perfect place for a church that cared nothing for God.

the powers that be listened to and recorded every conversation, every interaction. Including video. Those in power were gathering more power, and what better way than to record the sins of others. Then leverage it.

Somewhere in there, Frank and I learned the power of both fear and shame. Turns out our”—Bones again made signs with his fingers—“method of communicating became invaluable. Saved us, really. They were oblivious.”

“Our worlds changed dramatically. Since we were no longer desirable from a physical standpoint, they put us to work.

“On the surface, the group in Italy were the most pious. Reverent. And seemingly holy. They were also without a doubt the most emotionally manipulative bunch of miscreants we’d ever encountered.

The older kids—like us—they busied with tasks that created what would be perceived as a holy atmosphere in this epicenter of hell. When we weren’t working, they required we kneel at the altar. Create an impression of the devout.

“Others, who knew what went on behind the curtains, would pay for that information. The church was a revolving door. Confession was made. Absolution given. Transcription sold to the highest bidder.

Whoever sat atop this food chain was more devious than anyone we’d encountered. He, or they, knew man’s greatest need is forgiveness while his greatest desire is power. To obtain the first he confesses his sin. Where do a lot of people do that? The confessional.

They needed more certainty. They needed the assistance of someone who would intentionally guide the confessor through specific questions to tell the whole truth and nothing but. To unearth the totality of the sin. Complete absolution came under the guise of complete truthfulness. All while under the protection and forgiveness of the church itself.

to start with, you’d need the cooperation of the priests, who by definition are idealists. In theory they work for no man. They work for God. And they hold the sanctity of the confessional above everything else. How do you upend that? How do you convince them to betray their God and their sacred vows?” I interrupted him. “Shame.”

To lessen the sting of getting caught literally with their pants down, they were encouraged to recruit their own. Which they did with much enthusiasm. Hence, the circle expanded organically. And exponentially. “The goal was information. Secrets. Whatever miscreant ran the show was a psychological master at obtaining it, using it, and then convincing you to do the same. Deceive someone else in order to obtain their secrets.

the most genius pyramid scheme in the history of pyramid schemes.

The goal was control. Of people. Get them to do what you want them to do. Not only now, but forever.

“The problem with a system like this is that it inherently breeds distrust. It has to. It’s built upon it. And distrust is a shaky foundation. Sooner or later, the walls will come crumbling down. “Their problem was that nobody trusted anybody. At all. Everyone was afraid of everyone else.

“By this point, Frank and I were done. Done with this place and these sick people. We didn’t care if we lived or died. So what do two boys do who don’t want to join the fun?”

We had every intention of just dying in the fire, but a propane tank blew a hole in the wall and we walked out free men. Staring at a line of fancy Mercedes. So we picked the nicest one and drove it empty. Then started walking. White-capped mountains. Switzerland. Somewhere in a snowstorm, a farmer and his wife took us in. Which was surprising given our visible condition. They fed us. Clothed us. Didn’t ask us too many questions and nursed us back to health. That man and his wife were reminders that the intent of man’s heart was not always evil. Until then, I’d forgotten.

More times than I could count, I saw him leave the safety of the flock to go find the one dumb sheep that got itself lost. And when he found it, he’d feed it, care for its wounds, and return it to the flock—teaching me more about life in three months than any human before or since.

Bones paused, sipped, and nodded, his complexion changing. “That was the moment. When Frank became who he’d become.

Bones paused. “Most of the time, when I think back, I wish the story ended there. Happily ever after. A wife. Couple of kids. Cul-de-sac. Volvo. Wine cellar. White picket fence.” He sucked through his teeth. “But it didn’t and we didn’t.”

One moment, we had been imprisoned in hell. The next we were sipping espresso, wealthy beyond our dreams. Answerable to no one. Truth was, neither of us could answer our own question, having never had the freedom to ask it. ‘Just what do we do now?’

When we’d meet, Frank kept repeating his list of names. Like a nervous twitch. He wasn’t even conscious he was doing it. But as I listened to him, I realized I was not the only one carrying anger, and neither of us could let it go.

While I could pass for competent and even excel, Frank was a natural in all things warfare.

Jiu Jitsu,

Krav...

weapons training, intel, and countersurvei...

weapons craft. Mainly explosives.”

I discovered that each measured revenge only served to deepen my emptiness. Each of these men had done unspeakable things to us, things that should never be done to another human—and they did so with smug and cavalier indifference—yet I gained no satisfaction from hurting them.

“One of the trademarks of all of our training was submission. To inflict such severe pain that our subject would submit, tap out. Beg for mercy. I tested this theory with one priest who, on more than one occasion, had been particularly evil in his treatment of me in the dungeon. To refresh his memory I dislocated every joint he possessed. Arms, shoulders, ankles, all of them. It was a long time before he would walk, go to the bathroom, or feed himself. I mangled the arms and hands that had abused me and left him forever dependent upon the mercy of another to accomplish even menial tasks.

I took a look at the hole in my chest. Vengeance had not filled me. Onl...

I was becoming as dark inside as those we hunted. Frank had no such response. He drank from it like a cup, never getting his fill.

“What I didn’t realize was that, for both of us, our deepest wound—inflicted at birth and reinforced every day since—was rejection. And in that moment, I was adding to his. I don’t blame him. And I don’t blame me. It is what it is. Frank’s primary question in life had become, ‘What is my name? Who am I?’

Frank was obsessed with holding his birth certificate. To him the most priceless work of art in the entire world was the piece of paper that spoke his name.

what if I could offer you a chance to stop bad men from doing bad things to people who can’t defend themselves?’

he flew me to DC, walked me below the city streets, and showed me what few had ever seen. An organization with no name. No official designation. Immune from government bureaucracy. Handpicked staff. All with one goal: making bad men pay for their sins. As a unit, they targeted specific people. Not countries. Not regimes. Not factions or movements. But individuals. Primarily individuals who enslaved others.

‘We have one goal: to find the snake and cut off its head.’ I signed up right there.

quite a ride. A hundred and fifty plus countries. Millions of miles on planes—all of which I learned to fly—and hundre...

I returned to my work and tried to forget my past. The farther I traveled and the more I rescued others, the more I buried the parts of me that hurt.

decade in, I knew I was burning out and needed to replicate myself. My body wouldn’t let me do this much longer at the current pace, but the work was necessary. So I began thinking I needed to find another me. Train up somebody to do what I did. But how? There were very few of us who had my skill and thought like me. How do I find another me? Then I bumped into you on that riverboat.”

best I could piece together, Frank continued checking names off his list until the head of the snake tracked him down and offered him the world.” “The demented guy who ran the weird pyramid scheme and filmed videos of the world’s elite?” “The very same.” “Why?” “Not sure.

all I can guess is that the offer included something Frank couldn’t buy. Frank loves nothing and no one, so you can’t leverage what he loves against him. And little tempts him because no one has what he needs. Save one thing. In many ways, Frank is still the scared boy who won’t let himself sleep for fear of what will happen if he does. Every time he closes his eyes, the memories return.

And memories are the one thing he can’t kill, outrun, bribe, or lock up. They control him. The only way he can rest, much less sleep, is if he controls every aspect of his world. And the only way to do that is to own your enemies. So he became the very thing he hunted—working for the puppeteer who’d created him.” I sat dumbstruck.

He never sleeps in the same place two nights in a row, and much of the time he sleeps on a plane because it’s only there he can ensure that he’s alone and safe and no one can get to him.

Frank’s every decision is predicated on his own safety, exit, and control.

Random is his friend. The only thing predictable about him is that he is unpredictable.

He’s the most unhuman human I’ve ever met.

By some accounts, Frank is thought to enslave several hundred thousand people, and yet he touches no one.

he collects art. Mostly black market. Has a thing for Rembrandt and Monet.

“Mutiny is easier to prevent if all the sailors never sail on the same ship at the same time.

The keys to Frank’s kingdom are a better-kept secret than the Coca-Cola recipe.