13th Apostle (25 page)

A few minutes later

It was a stupid decision, but he had no other choice. There was no way he was going to tell Maluka the truth. Screw the evidence, there was no way she had betrayed him. Or the scroll. It simply was not possible. And if she had, nothing else mattered anyway. He was going to bluff the bastard all the way or die trying.

Wrong choice of words.

The hours that followed were filled with the most creative line of bullshit Gil had ever manufactured. Fueled by what he pretended to be his fury at being duped, Gil recalled imaginary conversations about fictitious parties.

Gil had no difficulty keeping track of the lies. He simply assigned each imaginary person a method, means, and opportunity for a given outcome, then wove their actions into patterns that were easily remembered. More than one of Gil's previously apprehended suspects, complete with new names and motivations, made their way into his supposedly recalled conversations.

At first, Gil wasn't certain that his captor would buy his well-crafted lies but, as the hours passed, and Gil was able to keep his facts consistent and believable, it looked like he was going to pull it off.

Luck had been with Gil from the start. He had begun by prefacing his bogus report on information he had supposedly gleaned from Sarkami's conversation with Sabbie. It had been a particularly fortuitous premise. Like McCullum, Sarkami was a blind spot for Maluka. Sarkami's comings and goings, his connections, his dealings, were all unknown to Maluka. Gil's information, then, could neither be verified nor disproved.

Had Gil chosen Sabbie as his source, Maluka might have known instantly that he was lying. Assuming that Maluka was holding her captive as well, Gil had no desire to linger on what those consequences might have entailed. Or, for that matter, what might be waiting for him when he was no longer considered useful to Maluka.

No matter. He had no control over that. For now, he'd keep spinning his tales and hope that he didn't lose track of the dozens of threads he was weaving.

 

Maluka had been quizzing Gil on the details of Sarkami's information for at least four hours. Probably more. Gil closed his eyes. He needed rest. He needed it desperately.

The food he had been promised had never arrived.

“We're in the warehouse above my production office,” Maluka had explained. “You will be getting food shortly, as soon as the late shift retires for the evening.”

He wasn't certain how long he could keep his mind clear. Twice in the last half hour he had caught himself just before he contradicted himself on a previous lie. Maluka was quick, but he was quicker. At least for the moment.

Maluka checked over his notes. Gil waited for him to make his next move. It came not from Maluka, however, but from the sound of the door being slammed open.

Aijaz unceremoniously dumped the body before them like a rag doll. The man's hair was gray and greasy, his face was pale and slack. Aijaz smiled with childlike affection at Maluka, much like a cat that had delivered a tattered mouse to the feet of his owner.

“He don't know nothin',” the mountain of a man reported, then he waited for confirmation.

Maluka rose, walked over, and lightly kicked his semiconscious captive in his ribs. Satisfied that his victim was alive enough to groan, Maluka nodded.

“You want me to take him out 'til he comes around?” Aijaz asked.

“No,” Maluka answered. “But pick him up and prop him in a chair if you would.”

Maluka returned to his seat and faced Gil. “This unfortunate soul is Robert Peterson, former assistant to the now deceased Professor Arnold Ludlow. Mr. Peterson's condition is the result of his regrettable unwillingness to be forthcoming with the truth when first asked. I don't ask twice,” Maluka added, then returned to the stack of lies Gil had just dictated.

Maluka looked up from his notes. “There is one thing that puzzles me,” he said. “Why would Sarkami reveal all of this to you if he and Sabbie intended to walk out on you the following day?”

Gil frantically fought to come up with some logical answer to Maluka's question but, before he could speak, the door opened again.

Saved by the bell.

Aijaz stood in the door and pointed to the cell phone he held in his ham-hock hand. Maluka approached and Aijaz whispered in his ear.

Maluka turned to Gil. “Good news,” he announced, then left the room with Aijaz at his heels.

An hour later

The door didn't open again for quite a while. In all that time, Gil's fellow victim never stirred. Peterson lay in the chair into which Aijaz had dumped him, his head back, mouth open. At one point, Gil tried to rouse him, to offer him a bit of the remains of his water, to find out anything that might prove useful. Peterson awakened for a moment, sobbed, then slipped back into a merciful stupor. Gil returned to his filthy bed, feeling far more anxious than he thought possible.

Aijaz returned, bearing yet another semi-lifeless form.

What's he got, a factory back there?

The newest addition bore a striking, though decidedly unkempt, resemblance to the person Gil once knew as DeVris. Aijaz pulled the Director of Acquisitions to his feet and smacked him lightly on both cheeks.

“Wake up, you piece of shit,” Aijaz said with a laugh, then attempted to heave DeVris across the room. The Director balanced precariously for a moment, then collapsed against Aijaz's ample chest, clinging to the large man for support.

“Get off me,” Aijaz snarled. He flung DeVris' limp body headfirst onto the bed and Gil.

Gil struggled to get DeVris' dead weight off of him.

Aijaz watched in amusement for a moment, then drew up a box from the opposite corner and settled down on it. He pulled out a package of bubble gum from his pocket and stuffed five pieces into his mouth. Smiling with pride at the greatness of this feat, he grunted and chewed at the wad while Gil quietly waited for the next episode in his bizarre nightmare.

Unsatisfied with the entertainment level of massive gum chewing, the hulk left the room and returned with a portable DVD player that blared the antics of the Three Stooges.

Perfect. Just perfect.

DeVris roused himself quietly, apparently not so insensible as he had been pretending to be. He eyed their guard and spoke to Gil in a loud whisper.

“They call this one Aijaz. He barely speaks English. You can say anything you want in front of him.”

At the mention of his name, Aijaz flashed his best semi-toothless smile. Having mastered the art of gum chewing, he removed the wad and unceremoniously plastered it onto the side of the box on which he sat. He seemed to rethink the matter, most likely reviewing Maluka's response to such untidiness, then meticulously unstuck the gum with a tissue and deposited it in the trash basket.

All of this Aijaz did with the pride of a prima ballerina, aware that every move was being watched by those who held great interest in his actions. He licked the sticky residue off each of his sausage fingers, then returned to the box and involved himself in the intricate task of peeling a large orange, a fruit that from Gil's estimate was likely to have an IQ greater than the man who now consumed it.

“You give me trouble, I peel you, too!” Aijaz said. Apparently enjoying his witticism, Aijaz repeated the joke in his native tongue for his own amusement and turned back to his DVD player.

Gil rolled on his side and faced DeVris.

“Where's Sabbie?” Gil demanded, then glanced to see if Aijaz had heard him.

“I told you he can't understand us,” DeVris repeated.

Eyes fixed on Aijaz, Gil remained silent.

To demonstrate, DeVris called to Aijaz and, in English, told the Muslim that he should eat his juicy mother in the same way as he did the orange.

The big man recognized only his name and the word “orange” and laughed. He apparently assumed that DeVris wanted some of his much-coveted fruit and, shaking his head, he teasingly held up the bit of remaining fruit before popping it into his mouth.

DeVris nodded toward the third captive, still lifeless in the chair.

“That's Peterson, Ludlow's assistant,” DeVris said in a voice loud enough for the unconscious Peterson to hear. “Maluka's reward for cooperation, ehh, Robert?”

Gil pressed his thumb into the hollow of DeVris' neck, just below the adam's apple, and stared meaningfully into his captive's eyes.

“Enough. Do you understand?” Gil asked.

DeVris nodded, almost imperceptively. Gil let go his hold, clearly ready to resume it as needed. “Now, I'll ask you once again. What's happened to Sabbie?”

“How should I know? They say you staged her kidnapping,” DeVris answered.

“Why the hell would I do that?”

DeVris shrugged. “It's academic now. If they don't have her yet, they will soon.”

Gil grabbed DeVris on either side of his head and pushed his face close to the Director's. The desire to crush his skull was overwhelming.

“You don't know that!” Gil shouted into DeVris' face.

“Cut it out!” DeVris wailed. “All I'm saying is that it's just a matter of time.”

Aijaz apparently enjoyed the show and joined in with a shout of encouragement. Gil let go of DeVris, fought the urge to take on Aijaz, and dropped his face into his hands. It was the only bit of privacy left.

“Look, you're fighting a losing battle,” DeVris said. “I mean, you can hold out hope if you want but, if you think they're not going to find Sabbie one way or another, and the scroll as well, you'd better keep one thing in mind.”

“And what's that?” Gil asked mechanically.

DeVris flashed a sardonic smile. “They found both of us, didn't they?”

Day Fourteen, morning
Muslims for World Truth (MWT)
Video Production Studios
London

Gil looked across the Thanksgiving table at Sabbie. She smiled and offered him more turkey. He couldn't eat another bite, he said. Well, maybe just a little. It was a wonderful dream.

George was there, too. When he had left the room for a moment and they were sure George was out of earshot, he and Sabbie had a good laugh over the huge portions that the big guy had eaten.

Sabbie disappeared into the next room to get dessert. As she returned, apple pie in hand, she transformed into George. As she laughed at Gil's astonishment, she stuffed great handfuls of pie into her mouth in anticipation of the final delicacy—Gil himself.

Gil awakened and faced another predator, this one real and barreling toward him. Aijaz's enormous hand seized Gil by the back of his collar and dragged him from the filthy mattress on which DeVris still slept. Without explanation, Aijaz hauled Gil from the room and down the hallway.

Maluka said Aijaz didn't like to have his TV shows interrupted.

Aijaz slammed open the last door in the hall and unceremoniously deposited his charge into another room and onto an even filthier bed. In broken English, Aijaz informed Gil that he would be returning in a minute and that, in the event Gil made any trouble…Aijaz finished his warning with an index finger that pantomimed a horizontal slice across his own neck accompanied by a hissing “tzzt” sound.

If it were possible to compare chambers in hell, the new room seemed somewhat less horrendous than the last. It was larger and, though the sun filtered through a wide filthy window, the room was cool.

Three card tables had been set up, end to end, forming a serving area or workspace along the windowed wall. Each table was covered in clean white fabric that stood in sharp contrast to the shabby surroundings. A stack of papers and a plastic drinking glass that contained felt markers had been placed on one corner of the center table. The beauty of so civilized a setting made Gil ache with longing and plunged him into a deeper depression than any threat of violence could have done.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to walk through the door and find Sabbie there, well and happy, telling him everything was okay, that she had just gone along ahead to surprise him.

Though he risked Aijaz's wrath, Gil slipped off the bed and headed toward the window. His eyes drank up the color and movement. Buildings, streets filled with people, cars, the city landscape, all of it spread before him in a wonderful buffet of civilization and normality.

Yesterday, the panorama might have exemplified man's disregard for his fellow man and unconcern for his planet. Today, Gil couldn't have cared less about pollution, the deterioration of the work ethic, or the meaninglessness of superficial pursuits. The world outside the muddy Plexiglas windows was his world. He loved it and longed desperately to be part of it again.

Lost in thought, Gil never heard the footsteps that approached from behind. “We're in the middle of London but we might as well be on another planet,” she said. Gil turned.

For a moment, he didn't recognize her. She was bloody and bruised. Her right eye was swollen shut, and the cut on her left temple, caked with dried blood, gaped open in need of stitches. Her clothes were filthy and wet and her hair was matted with mud and blood. But she was alive. Alive! And there she stood.

He surrounded her with his arms and pressed her to him, almost fearful that it was another dream. She cringed in pain, and he released her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She cocked her head to one side as if trying to understand the unabashed show of affection. “Yes. I'm okay, just some pain.”

Gil opened his mouth to ask her what happened but she interrupted with a warm smile that lasted a total of about two seconds. Then she was all business once again.

“Don't say anything,” she cautioned. “I've got to talk fast. It all went perfectly but now we'll have to hurry and get our stories coordinated,” she said.

“What went perfectly?”

Without responding, she picked up the familiar blanket-wrapped box that he had not seen behind her on the floor.

Gil placed his hands on the box to receive its warmth. None came.

Aijaz slammed the door open and entered. Unconcerned with their conversation, the hulk settled himself on the floor in the far corner and raised the volume on his DVD to best block out their apparently useless chatter.

“We'll talk as we work. Now, help me,” Sabbie said. She had been struggling to remove a fine silken cloth from the lumpy mounds it covered. The cloth, spotted with red-brown stains, caught and snagged the many thin strips that lay below it.

“Is that blood?” Gil asked.

A dozen cuts on her fingers, some jagged, oozed.

“If you cut a scroll into strips, you've got to expect to draw some blood,” Sabbie explained with a shrug.

“One would have expected to see less gore on Sarkami,” she added, “but he uses diamond-cutting tools, a dissecting microscope, and precision instruments.

“These are the kinds of cuts you get from an old pair of manicuring scissors and tweezers,” she continued.

“You'll need a tetanus shot,” Gil said. He gently cradled her ravaged hands.

She laughed, apparently at his concern, and continued to lay out the bands of copper.

The strips that had once made up the scroll, lay neatly flattened in piles, each with its own numbered tag. It was like seeing a cadaver where a beautiful body had just been in soft slumber. Perhaps that was why the scroll no longer held the power that had once filled him with such warmth and joy.

Gil's stomach seized with a sudden realization. “So you
did
stage the kidnapping,” he said. “Complete with the sweater. It was all fake.”

Sabbie held up her battered fingers. “The blood part of it was real enough,” she said with a wry smile.

She laid out the last of the strips in earnest. “We've got to talk fast. Maluka thinks we're in here translating. He has no idea as to what we have discovered and, assuming you haven't told him anything, we can fudge it for a while.” She waited for confirmation.

Gil nodded, thankful he had not trusted Maluka's depiction of Sabbie's betrayal.

“Good. I'll go through the motions of setting these strips up for translation and you make some marks on the paper that look like you're trying to figure it all out. While you do that, I'll fill you in,” Sabbie said.

Gil wrote some random numbers and words on the paper.

“There was no way we could keep ahead of them forever,” she continued. “One way or another, either McCullum's WATSC boys or Maluka's men were going to find us. It was just a matter of who would get to us first. I needed time to figure out what the rest of the scroll said. That way I'd know who had the most to gain by getting hold of it. Or by destroying it,” she added.

She carefully arranged each strip of copper on the white covered tables in numerical order from right to left.

Gil's gaze fell on the strips once more. The scroll had been perfect, complete, a monument to human communication and ingenuity that had survived two millennia. And she had cut it up with manicuring scissors!

Sabbie continued to explain her sudden departure. While Gil was sleeping that last morning in the hotel, she had seen a news flash on TV about the discovery of Hassan's body at the Monastery. Their photographs had been aired along with their names. Though she knew it had been a distinct possibility, seeing their photos on the news catapulted her into action. The newscaster announced that they were bound for London and added that Scotland Yard was asking for the public's help in apprehending them.

“The Yard couldn't have it put all this together that fast,” Sabbie said. “Not only did they air our passport photos, they had pictures of me that I've never seen. They also had your correct name. If it had been the Yard investigating without outside help, given your passport info, they would have identified you as Arnold Ludlow, not Gil Pearson. Somebody else had to be feeding them the info.”

“McCullum or Maluka? Why would they want the Yard in on this?” Gil asked. “It makes no sense.”

“Hounds for the hunt,” she said. “Whoever gave them the info wanted Scotland Yard and the good people of London to point the way. Flush us out, if possible. That way, they could swoop in and pick us off. Which means either McCullum or Maluka has a source within the Yard,” she added thoughtfully.

She knew she couldn't fight them all, she explained, so she faked her kidnapping. At first, she planned on bloodying her own sweater to make whoever was tracking them think that someone else had already succeeded in capturing her and the scroll.

“You didn't do a very good job,” Gil said. “Everyone knew it was staged, including the Yard.”

“I know. I said that it was my
first
plan. When I realized I didn't have time to make it look convincing, I decided to use the obvious lack of authenticity to my advantage. I made it look totally amateurish, so they'd figure Sarkami and I had staged it so we could run off with the scroll.”

“And leave me holding the bag.” Gil said.

“I couldn't tell you. I didn't know what Maluka would do when he caught you. If you didn't know anything…”

“You
knew
he would catch me? For Christ's sake, you might have warned me,” Gil shouted.

Aijaz looked up, put his index finger to his lips, made a “shhh” sound and, before going back to his entertainment, frowned to show his displeasure.

Sabbie lowered her voice. “It wouldn't have mattered. There were too many people after you…I mean, us. This way at least I had a chance to save the scroll…”

“I thought you were dead,” Gil interrupted.

“…and come back for you. Which I did,” she concluded.

“I thought you were dead,” Gil repeated.

“I didn't know you cared,” she said flippantly.

He locked her in his gaze. “Well, you were wrong.”

She looked away. “I figured without me or the scroll, they wouldn't have much need for you. Besides, I told you, it was the only way I could buy time to find out what the rest of the scroll said.”

Gil waited.

Suddenly she smiled at him as she had smiled at Sarkami. “Don't you want to know what it said?” she asked.

Gil nodded and held his breath.

“The last piece proves that the scroll is everything Ludlow hoped it might be—and more. It's a doorway to history like none other before.