The Judas Strain (31 page)

“Out!” he yelled to Seichan and Vigor.

They flew past him as more gunshots pursued them, ringing off the steel bars and chewing through wood.

Gray followed them out, perched on an encircling ledge.

The afternoon sun blazed.

Istanbul spread below them in all its jumbled beauty, its chaotic mix of ancient and modern. The Sea of Marmara glowed a sapphire blue. Farther out, the suspended length of the Bosporus Bridge was visible, spanning the strait that led up to the Black Sea.

But it wasn’t that bit of engineering that held Gray’s attention.

He pointed to the church’s southern facade, to where the exterior scaffolding clutched that side of Hagia Sophia, under repairs.

“Down there!”

Obeying, Vigor led the way around the dome, sidling along the narrow ledge. Once even with the scaffolding, Gray leaped off the ledge and onto the sloped lower roof. He slid on his backside down to the scaffolding, holding his rifle high.

He banged into the bracings and turned around. Seichan was already coming, keeping on her feet, half running, half skiing, heedless of the risk. Vigor was more cautious, on his backside, scooting in spurts and starts.

Seichan came to a steady stop, arms out to grab a strut.

She had her cell phone out, yelling into it.

Gray caught Vigor and helped the monsignor under the railing and over to the scaffolding stairs. They fled down. Luckily there was no guard on this side. The commotion must have drawn him off.

Reaching the ground, Seichan led the way across a small greenbelt to a side street. A yellow taxicab skidded in a wishbone around the far corner, spun its tires, and sped straight at them. Seichan backed away, with a wide-eyed look of confusion.

The beat-up taxi sideswiped at the last moment and braked to a squealing stop.

The driver leaned toward the open passenger windows. “What the hell are you all waiting for? Get your asses in here!”

Kowalski.

Gray climbed in front. Seichan and Vigor in back. Doors slammed.

Kowalski took off, smoking the tires and tearing away.

Seichan fought the acceleration enough to lean forward. “This isn’t the car I left you with!”

“That piece of Japanese crap! This is a Peugeot 405 Mi16. Early nineties. Sweet for speed.”

Proving it, Kowalski revved the engine’s rpms, downshifted for the next corner, twisted the wheel, throwing them all to the left, then planted back on the power and shot out of the turn like a rocket.

Seichan hauled back up, red-faced. “Where—?”

Sirens erupted behind them, streaking around the same corner.

“You stole it,” Gray said.

Leaning forward, nose by the wheel, Kowalski shrugged. “You say carjacking, I say
borrowing
.”

Gray twisted around. The blazing police car was fading back, outgunned by their engine.

Kowalski sped around the next corner, throwing them all in the other direction, dictating the features of the car. “It’s got a perfect weight-to-horsepower ratio, power steering stiffens at higher speeds…oh! And it’s got a sunroof.” He lifted his hand off the gearshift to point up. “Nice, huh?”

Gray leaned back.

Kowalski lost the police in another two turns. They found themselves a minute later, puttering with the busy traffic headed out of Istanbul’s old district, lost in a sea of taxis.

Gray finally calmed enough to turn back to Seichan. “Five hours,” he said. “We need to get over to Hormuz.”

“The island of Hormuz,” Vigor elaborated. “At the mouth of the Persian Gulf.”

Seichan held a hand against her side. The exertion must be taking its toll on her. She looked pale, but she nodded.

“I know the place. Lots of smugglers and gunrunners use the island, crossing from Oman to Iran. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“How long?”

“Three hours. By private jet and seaplane. I know a man.”

Gray checked his watch. That would leave them only two hours to find the last key and use it and the others to unlock the obelisk’s riddle. His heart began beating harder again. The excitement had stemmed his fear for his parents. But now…

He held out his hand to Seichan. “I need your cell phone.”

“To call Sigma command?”

“I have to update them on what’s happened.”

Gray read her expression. She knew he was sidestepping the real reason. Still, she gave him her phone.

He sat back. In another few moments, he had Director Crowe on the line. He did update Painter on all the recent events, from the discovery of the second key through their escape.

“So it was the Vatican that had been infiltrated by a Guild mole,” Painter said, his words dropping in and out a bit. “But, Gray, I don’t think there’s much I can do for you at the island. It’s Iranian territory. Especially in such a short span. Not without alerting intelligence agencies throughout the Middle East.”

“I don’t want you to intervene,” Gray said. “Just…please…my parents…”

“I know, Gray…I get it. We’ll find them.”

Despite the promise, Gray heard the hesitation in the director’s voice, the unspoken words.

If your parents are still alive
.

8:02
A.M.

Arlington, Virginia

T
HEY WERE BEING
moved again.

Harriet balanced a glass of water against her husband’s lips. Dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, he was tied to a chair. “Jack, you need to drink. Swallow.”

He fought.

“Get that pill down,” the woman barked, “or I’ll shove it up his ass.”

Harriet’s hands shook. “Please, Jack. Drink.”

Annishen was losing patience. The woman, dressed in black leather, had taken a call a few minutes ago and had called in the other guards, even those on the street. Harriet had been dragged out of the old walk-in freezer where she had been locked up all night. It was a frightening place. A single bare bulb shone upon a double row of meat hooks, hung along tracks in the ceiling. Fresh bloodstains had streaked the floor, only haphazardly washed toward the freezer’s center drain.

Then the call.

Harriet had been hauled out to attend her husband. Jack had been kept apart from her. They wouldn’t let her stay with him. She had spent the entire night fearing for his life. He had been barely conscious after being struck by the Taser in the hotel room. She was horrified to find him bound and gagged in the chair, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

He had thrashed against his ropes when he first saw her again. But he didn’t really recognize her, not fully. He remained in a disassociative state, brought on by all the stress, the near electrocution, waking bound and gagged.

“Forget it,” Annishen finally said, grabbing Harriet’s shoulder. “The pills you gave him earlier didn’t do anything.”

“He was already agitated,” she said, begging. “It takes time…and consistency of dosage. He needs this pill.”

Annishen waved to her. “One more try.”

Harriet leaned against her husband’s cheek, holding his head with one hand, the glass in the other. He jerked back, but she held tight. “Jack, I love you. Please drink. For me.”

She dribbled water over his mouth. His lips finally parted, an animal reflex. He must be thirsty. He finally drank, gulping the offered water. It even seemed to calm him. He sagged in his bonds.

Harriet sighed in relief.

“Did he take it?” Annishen asked.

“It should calm him in about an hour.”

“We don’t have an hour.”

“I understand…but…”

Harriet knew someone must be looking for them. The longer they stayed in one place, the greater the chance they might be tracked. The more moves, the trail would grow colder.

“Get him up!” Annishen said.

The woman grabbed Harriet by the scruff of her shirt collar and hauled her to her feet. She was strong. She shoved Harriet toward the back exit. Her goons untied Jack. Her husband was slung between the two gorilla-size men, Armenian, heavy eyebrows. One held a pistol in a jacket pocket, against her husband’s back.

Annishen gripped Harriet’s elbow.

Jack howled as they began to move him, struggling. “Noooo.”

“Maybe we zap him again,” the guard said in a thick accent.

“Please don’t,” Harriet pleaded. “I can keep him calm.”

The guard ignored her.

Annishen seemed to be weighing this choice.

“It’s daylight,” Harriet said. “If you carried him out unconscious…”

“There are taverns,” one guard said. “On the street. I pour vodka on his shirt. No one think twice.”

Annishen soured at the idea. Harriet imagined it was mostly because it wasn’t her own. She pushed Harriet toward Jack.

“Keep him quiet or I’ll Tase him into a drooling baby.”

Harriet rushed to her husband’s side. She took the place of one of the guards, an arm around Jack’s waist. She rubbed his chest with her other hand.

“It’s okay, Jack. It’s okay. We have to go.”

He looked suspiciously at her, but the angry set to his eyes and lips softened. “I want…to go home.”

“That’s where we’re going…c’mon now, no fussing.”

He allowed them to lead him to the back exit and out to a narrow alley, barely large enough for the overflowing trash bin. The sunlight stung her eyes.

They were marched out to the street.

They had been in a boarded-up butcher’s shop, one of a row of closed businesses on the block. Harriet searched around for landmarks. They were somewhere in Arlington. Harriet knew they had crossed the Potomac after being kidnapped.

But where?

A black Dodge van was parked half a block away.

Morning traffic was already picking up. A few homeless men and women were gathered in an alcove of a Laundromat. A shopping cart stood by them, piled high with stuffed plastic bags.

Annishen ignored the homeless and led her group to the van. She unlocked it with her remote and the rear side door slid open on its own.

Jack walked in a leaden daze, barely noting his surroundings.

Harriet waited until they were even with the men gathered around the shopping cart. Her right hand still rested on Jack’s belly.

I’m sorry.

She pinched his skin through his shirt and twisted.

Jack jerked straight, snapping out of his passivity.

“Noooo!”

He fought the guard.

“I don’t know you people!” he hollered. “Get away from me!”

Harriet tugged at him. “Jack…Jack…Jack. Calm down.”

He swatted at her, striking her hard on the shoulder.

“Hey!” one of the homeless men called out. He was skeletally thin with a ragged beard. He clutched a bottle, snugged in a paper sack. “What are you doing to that guy?”

Some faces inside the Laundromat lifted to stare out the steamy, streaked windows.

Annishen stepped back toward Harriet. She wore a thin smile, staring straight at Harriet. One hand rested in the pocket of her light hooded sweater, the threat plain.

Harriet rubbed Jack’s belly and faced the bearded stranger. “He’s my husband. He has Alzheimer’s. We’re…we’re taking him to the hospital.”

Her words soothed the wary cast to the man’s face. He nodded. “Sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

Harriet led Jack into the van. They were soon settled in, and the doors closed. Annishen sat in the front passenger seat. As they pulled away, she turned to Harriet.

“Those pills had better kick in,” she said. “Or next time, we’ll leave him hanging from one of those butcher’s hooks.”

Harriet nodded.

Annishen turned back around.

One of the men reached from the backseat and pulled a black hood over her head. She heard a moan of protest from Jack as the same was done to him. She reached a hand over and gripped her husband’s hand. His fingers gripped hers back, if only in a reflex of love.

I’m sorry, Jack…

Harriet’s other hand slipped into the pocket of her sweater. Her fingertips nudged the pile of pills—the pills she had only
pretended
to give her husband. Before and now. She needed to keep Jack agitated, confused enough to act out.

To be seen…to be remembered.

She closed her eyes, despairing.

Forgive me, Lord
.

J
ULY
6, 4:44
P.M.

Strait of Hormuz

T
HE
R
USSIAN SEAPLANE,
a Beriev 103, coasted up from Qeshm Island International Airport and sailed out over the aquamarine waters of the Strait of Hormuz.

Gray was impressed with the short turnaround at the airport. Their jet from Istanbul had touched down only ten minutes ago. The amphibious plane had been waiting: fueled, engine warmed, its twin propellers slowly turning. The seaplane sat only six people, including the pilot, three sets of paired seats, lined one behind the other.

But it was swift.

The sea crossing to the island of Hormuz would take no more than twenty minutes. They had made good time. Still, it would leave them only two hours to find the last key and use it and the others to decipher the angelic script on the obelisk.

Gray had used the time aboard the private jet, provided via Seichan’s black-market connections, to study the obelisk’s complicated code. Even on such a short flight as this, every minute counted. Seated in the back row by himself, he pulled out his notebook again, scribbled with notes and possibilities. He had already tried converting all the obelisk’s scripts into letters, like Vigor had done with the Vatican’s angelic script, which spelled out
HAGIA
. But he had made no real headway.

Even with Vigor’s help.

Back on the jet, the two of them had poured over the cryptogram. Vigor was better with ancient languages. But it proved no use. Decoding was made especially difficult because they didn’t know which of the four surfaces of the obelisk was the starting point, and in which direction it should be read, clockwise or counterclockwise.

That created eight possibilities.

Vigor had finally rubbed his eyes, admitting defeat. “Without the third key, we’ll never figure this out.”

Gray refused to believe that. The two had even gotten into a brief argument. They mutually decided to take some time apart, to quit banging their heads together over the riddle. Gray knew much of the shortness of his temper was tied to the knot in his stomach.

Even now he felt like vomiting. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured his mother’s face. He saw the blame in his father’s eyes.

So Gray stopped closing his eyes and continued to work.

It was all he could do.

Gray stared again at one of the letter-substitution pages.

Seven more possibilities covered the next pages.

Which was right? Where to even begin?

Ahead, a loud snort drew his attention forward. Kowalski had already fallen asleep. Probably before the wheels even left the tarmac.

Vigor shared the neighboring seat, poring over the silk diary yet again. It was surely a dead end. The monsignor scowled at Kowalski’s racket and undid his belt. He slid back to join Gray and collapsed in the next seat. He held the scroll in his hands.

A moment of awkward silence stretched.

Gray closed his notebook. “Back there…earlier…”

“I know.” Vigor reached out and gently patted his hand. “We’re all worried. But I wanted to run something by you. Get your thoughts.”

Gray straightened. “Sure.”

“I know you want to solve the obelisk’s code. But since we’re about to land, maybe now’s a good time to figure out where on Hormuz Island the third key might be.”

“I thought we already knew where to search,” Gray said.

Unable to resist he reopened the notebook and tapped the angelic symbol found on the back of the third gold
paitzu
.

They had compared it to a map of the island and discovered that the blackened circle marked the location of the ruins of an old Portuguese castle, built about a century before the keys were hidden. In its prime, it had been a prominent stronghold. Built on an isthmus and separated by a moat, it had overlooked the town of Hormuz and the best anchorage ports. To those Vatican mystics looking to hide a key for the ages, the castle would have appeared to be a good place.

They were headed to its ruins now.

Vigor nodded. “Yes, the Portuguese castle. But what I meant was
why
are we searching there. If we knew that, we might figure out
what
to look for inside the castle ruins.”

“Okay, so where do we begin?”

Vigor pointed out Gray’s porthole window. The island could be seen ahead. “
Hormuz
was a major trading port, trafficking in jewels, spices, and slaves. Important enough that the Portuguese invaded during the sixteenth century and built their castle. But during Marco’s time, it was also important enough for Kublai Khan to send a young woman of his household here to be married off.”

“Kokejin, the Blue Princess.”

“It was purely a commercial arrangement. In fact, the Persian king to whom she was betrothed died while Marco and Kokejin were en route. She ended up marrying the man’s son. But again it was a marriage of convenience. She ended up dying only three years later. Some say at her own hand, some say because she was pining for another love.”

Gray turned. “You don’t mean—”

“Even Marco did not marry until after Kokejin was dead. And when Marco did die, he had two treasures in his room. The gold
paitzu
that Kublai Khan had given to him. But also a golden headpiece, encrusted with jewels.” Vigor stared pointedly at him. “A
princess’s
headpiece.”

Gray straightened, imagining Marco’s long two-year voyage, traveling and exploring exotic lands. Marco was still relatively young when he left Kublai Khan’s palace, in his midthirties. Kokejin was seventeen when she left China, nineteen when she reached Persia. It was not impossible to imagine them falling in love, a love that could never last beyond Hormuz.

Gray rubbed at the headache he’d been fighting. He remembered the brick back at Hagia Sophia, the interior glazed in royal blue, a secret hidden in stone. But could the brick also represent Marco’s heart, symbolic of his secret love for Kokejin?

“Then we’ve forgotten another clue left to us,” Vigor continued. He lifted the scroll. “The story was embroidered on silk. Why silk?”

Gray shrugged. “It’s a material from the Far East, where Marco had traveled.”

“Yes, but could it signify something more?”

Gray remembered Vigor bent over the scripture, even examining it with a loupe. “What did you discover?” he asked.

The monsignor lifted the scroll. “This silk was not new when it was embroidered with the text. The silk was worn thin and uneven. I found oils and old stains.”

“So it was a used piece of silk.”

“But what was it
used
for?” Vigor asked. “One of the most common uses for silk—due to its expense and rarity—was as shrouds, burial shrouds of royalty.”

Vigor waited, staring at Gray. He slowly understood, picturing a hollow blue brick. Amazement crept into his voice. “You think it might be
Kokejin’s
burial shroud.”

“Possibly. But if I’m right, then I know what we must search for within that old castle.”

Gray knew, too. “Kokejin’s tomb.”

4:56
P.M.

S
EATED IN THE
copilot’s seat, Seichan had an expansive view of the island as the seaplane dove toward a sheltered bay. It was not a large island, no more than four miles across. Its center was rocky and hilly, with sparse veins of green. Most of its coastlines were cliffs and isolated jagged bays, home to many smugglers’ coves. But to the north, the higher slopes fell more gently toward the sea. Here, the land turned greener with date palms and tilled fields, nestling a small township of thatched huts.

From the air, evidence of an older, more extensive city could be spotted: massive foundations, the stones quarried from the island’s rock-salt hills; a few crumbled homes, looking more like rubble piles; and a single tall minaret, once used as a lighthouse by the Portuguese.

But none of this was their destination.

The seaplane tipped on a wing and banked over the isthmus that extended north from the old city. Upon the spit of land rested the remains of the old castle. It had once been separated from the ancient city by a wide moat, but it was now silted up, marked only by a sunken line drawn from east to west.

As the plane crossed over the ruins, Seichan studied their target. The massive fort was surrounded by tall seawalls, but the western side had long ago lost its battle with those seas, undermined and toppled by battering waves. The eastern side, sheltered by a gentle bay, had fared better.

The plane angled for a landing in this bay, diving low, then skimming the water. Seichan caught a glimpse of rusty iron cannons on the roof of the fort, and six more on the beach of the bay, now used as mooring ties for boats. In fact, a small tin boat was tied up to one. A small brown figure, naked except for a long pair of shorts, waved an arm at their approach.

Seichan expected that the young man was the guide she had ordered up from the village. With only two hours to spare, they needed someone who knew the castle grounds.

The seaplane coasted down to the water, spraying a fierce wash behind as the flying boat settled to the sheltered waters. Seichan was shoved forward in her seat belt, earning a twinge of complaint from her wounded side. She had checked the injury earlier, in the airport’s bathroom. The bandages were damp with some leakage, but more pink than red.

She’d survive.

The pilot guided his ship around as the tin boat sped at them, bouncing through the plane’s wake. Their guide sat in the rear, a hand on the rudder.

A few moments later, the hatches were opened, and the party climbed from plane to skiff. Their guide ended up being a boy of twelve or thirteen, all rib bones and smiles. And plainly he wanted to practice his English, as fractured as it might be.

“Good chaps, fine lady, welcoming to Hormuz! I am named Fee’az!”

Gray helped Seichan into the boat, cocking one eyebrow. “This is your experienced guide?”

“Unless you’re willing to melt down one of those gold passports, that’s the best money can buy here.”

And she had already spent top dollar to get them here so quickly.

She watched Gray settle to a seat. His eyes were already studying the castle. She noted the worry in the hunch of his shoulders. In profile, his features were hard, all angles, from chin to cheekbones. But he was mortally torn, broken and weakened.

Over his mother and father.

With a slight dismissive shake of her head, Seichan turned away. She could not even remember her parents. Only one memory existed: of a woman being dragged through a door, weeping, reaching for her, then gone. She wasn’t even sure it was her mother.

Fee’az whined up the small outboard and sputtered toward the palm-lined beach and the towering ruins of the castle. Kowalski trailed a hand in the water, yawning. Vigor stared over toward the village. Some celebration was under way, with music wafting over.

Gray glanced back at her. He wore a familiar expression, both eyebrows high, that asked,
Are you ready
?

She nodded.

As Gray turned back, he shook out of his light jacket. The sunlight blazed down. He wore only a khaki T-shirt. She noted a flash of sunlight at his collar. His right hand absently tucked back the bright bit of silver under his shirt.

A dragon charm.

She had given it to him mostly as a teasing joke from a past cooperation. But Gray had kept it and still wore it. Why? It made her feel inexplicably warm—not so much from affection as a mix of confusion and embarrassment. Did Gray think she had given the charm as some token, some sign of attraction? She should have been amused, but for some reason it just irritated her.

The boat’s bow scraped against the sand, jarring her back.

They’d reached the shore and began unloading.