THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller (33 page)

* * *

Decker lay on his old coach in the living room, reading the book Professor Hassan had given him that evening. He was particularly intrigued by a section on light and water. According to the book, the careful control of light in Islamic architecture had a mystical symbolism. Light was a symbol of divine unity. It also had two decorative functions. It modified other decorative elements, and it originated patterns. There was a subtle use of glossy floor and wall surfaces in Islamic architecture designed to catch light and throw it back over the facets of diamond-shaped ceilings which, in turn, reflected it again.
Muqarnas
– stalactite or honeycomb ornamentation, or vaulting made up of small concave segments – trapped light, refracted it. Ribbed domes appeared to rotate according to the time of day.

Decker suddenly remembered the postcard the FBI had confiscated from WKXY-TV reporter Seamus Gallagher, the one allegedly from El Aqrab himself. It had displayed
muqarnas
too, within the dome of the Shaykh Lutfallah mosque in Isfahan.

Facades, the book maintained, appeared to be lace-thin, and became transparent screens when light waves struck their stucco decorations. Mirrors, luster tiles, gilt wood, polished marble and water all shimmered, glimmered and reflected in the desert light. In this sense light – like water – contributed a dynamic quality to Islamic architectural decoration. It extended patterns, forms and designs into the fourth dimension. As the day progressed, the patterns changed, according to the angles of light and shade, like in some temporal kaleidoscope.

Decker lay the book down on the floor. He thought about waves of light and visualized Swenson sleeping only feet away, in his own bed, right through that wall, striped by the strident streetlight filtering in through his Venetian blinds – the color of her eyes, her lips, the soft shape of her breasts, the languorous curving of her hips, fecund as the plains of Iowa.

Before, when she had begged him for his help in finding Doris White, he would have given anything to have cried out, to have revealed the truth about the imminent disaster. The bomb. The Empire State. The Algerian mule – Ali Hammel! But he was under strict orders not to say or do anything that might cause a panic. It was bad enough Professor Hassan knew what he knew. “There’s nothing you can do here, Emily,” he’d said. “Frankly, I don’t know why you came.”

He could still smell her scent in the air. And it occurred to him that she was only partly right. He
had
joined the Bettendorf Police Force and the Bureau in some strange attempt to find a pattern, to solve his parents’ death. They had been wrenched from him and – his entire life – he’d always blamed himself, at least subconsciously. After all, if it hadn’t been for his track meet, they never would have been there on that road that night, in that precise place, as that drunk had swept across and crashed into their car. They would still be alive. And he never would have gone to live with Betsy in north Davenport, never slipped into that coma, never been crippled all those months, alone and helpless in that bed. None of it would have happened.

Perhaps that’s why he relished this assignment in the field, the danger, the risk of death. The guilt lay like a stone against his heart. But he knew that it was more than that. He hadn’t joined the Bureau just to decompose the randomness of his parent’s death. He had joined to build a wall around his heart, to insulate himself through work – especially this work, with its odd hours and insufferable realities, its intrinsic secrecy.

The life of a special agent required a man to set himself apart from the world, from emotion, to seal the heart. On some level he had joined the Bureau so he would never have to feel again.

He reached up and turned off the light. A blanket of darkness settled on the room, enshrouding him. Once more he was invisible. He sighed, turned on his side. It had been fifteen years since the accident and, despite appearances, he was still crippled. He still bore scars . . . and not just on his face. Perhaps he was too old to change. Perhaps he would never feel again.

As Decker fell asleep, he slipped into a dream. It began with Sampson dying once again, the white supremacist in Iowa. As Sampson choked, he turned into Bartolo, his ex-partner, spinning out of sight. Decker could see the faces of the Sloane twins, the two state troopers in their uniforms. Then, he saw the face of El Aqrab. He was looking up into the dome of a great mosque, like the dome of the Shaykh Lutfallah in Iran – the one on the postcard sent to Gallagher. Then it was Decker who was in the mosque.

He began to spin and fall against the geometric tiling until he was trapped within the pattern, half swallowed by the maelstrom. It was like quicksand, the net of a trapeze artist. And there was Betsy’s face again, his mother’s sister, above him as he lay there helplessly. There were her hands. Light waves reverberated. At first they shimmered through
muqarnas
, gold honeycombs of vaulting. And then the waves exploded into cavalcades of crimson, cobalt blue, light green and burnt sienna. The
muqarnas
turned to glass, became stained panels that seemed to oscillate and hum, that burned just like the fires of El Aqrab’s calligraphy, the leaden muntins casting shadows on his face like scars.

Wednesday, February 2 – 6:54 AM

New York City

Decker got up at his customary time to stretch, work out, and shower before heading off by subway to the office. He had left a note for Swenson on the dining table, letting her know that he had booked her on the ten o’clock shuttle back to Boston, with a connection to Hyannis near Woods Hole. He’d even reserved a car to take her from the airport to the Institute. It had cost him a small fortune but it had also given him great pleasure; more, frankly, than he’d anticipated, and this worried him.

Ever since falling asleep with Dr. Saad’s book in his head, Decker felt he knew the answer. When he arrived at the office, he brought the fourth wallpaper image up on his computer screen, and printed it out. Next, he removed an X-acto knife from his top drawer. He stared down at the printout. Very carefully, with the very tip of the blade, he began to cut out each of the black spaces in the wavelike arabesque around the words:
on the ocean like mountains
. When he had finished, he folded the edges together and fastened them with tape so that it looked like a kind of lampshade. He plucked two straws out of his desk and taped them at right angles across the top of the structure for support. Where they intersected, he made a small incision. Then he picked up a pencil and stuck it in the little hole; he balanced the structure on the tip. Next, he took his desk lamp and focused it inside the shade. The object cast a shadow on the desk. Decker held his breath. He began to spin the structure counter-clockwise. At first, given the fluorescents overhead, he couldn’t really see. The shadows were vague and indistinct. But then, as the wallpaper began to pick up speed, he saw the words begin to coalesce before him. Arabic text. No doubt about it. A full phrase, or a sentence. He began to translate the shadow script. Once again, it appeared to be a quote from the Qur’an.

That’s when Warhaftig suddenly appeared.

Decker turned off his desk light and slipped the structure back into his drawer. “What’s up?” he said, trying to look distracted. He spent a moment writing down the words he had translated.

Warhaftig dropped a stack of papers on his desk. “I believe you’re looking for these,” he answered flatly.

Decker scanned the documents. “What is all this?”

“What you asked for,” said Warhaftig. “You were right. Apparently, there has indeed been increased traffic through the Canary Islands by Arab nationals over the last few months. More break-ins too. A construction camp was robbed of two cases of dynamite last week. And I got you that list of prisoners Miller had contact with while working at Ansar II in Gaza.” Then he shook his head and said, “But, surely, John, after the confession of Al-Hakim in Egypt, after you found that picture of the Empire State Building behind the wallpaper, you gotta believe the target is New York.”

Decker gawked at the documents on his desk. “I don’t know what to say. Thanks, Otto.”

Warhaftig smiled. “One hand washes the other.”

“If you two lovebirds are finished,” SAC Johnson cut in. He was approaching them down the aisle. “I want you and Warhaftig to help Novak coordinate the field teams, and to–”

“Let me get this straight. You want to leave New York just as she faces her gravest threat? You’ve got to be kidding. We need you here.”

“But, sir–”

“That’s an order, Decker. You’re staying.” Then he softened and said, “Of course, if Warhaftig has a compulsion to share your theories with the CIA, he’s perfectly free to do so.” The SAC looked at Warhaftig and smiled. “That’s the whole point of Homeland Security. Everybody working together.”

Decker stood up. He gathered the papers Warhaftig had given him, as well as the translation of the shadow copy that he’d jotted down earlier. “Yes, sir. Is that all, sir?” he said.

“Yeah, that’s all. Now get your skinny little ass out on the street, and get me some results.” Johnson nodded toward Warhaftig. “You go with him,” he said. Then he spun about and stormed off to his office.

Warhaftig looked thunderstruck. “Great,” he said, staggering to his feet. “One minute I’m the untouchable CIA guy. Then I do you a favor, and I’m on the boss’s shit list. Good work,” he added ruefully.

Decker smiled. “No one told you to hitch your wagon to this mule. Why’s he got such a hard-on for me, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Warhaftig said. “I guess he blames you for what happened to Bartolo. I don’t,” he added quickly. “Probably because you were forced down his throat. According to Williams, when you joined the team, Johnson couldn’t promote someone else he’d promised to take care of.”

“Figures,” Decker said. “Come on, Pancho. Let’s roll.”

“Why do I have to be Pancho? Why can’t I be Don Quixote? I’ve got the Roman nose, the distinguished features.” Warhaftig displayed his profile.

“Perhaps I should call you
Pauncho
. Besides, you’re shorter.” Decker started toward the door.

“Well, this paunch has got to go. I’ll meet you by the elevators.”

When they had walked a couple of blocks from FBI headquarters, just as Warhaftig was lighting up a Camel, Decker got another message on his cell. It read:
Grand Central Terminal; Metro-North; New Haven Line; Gate 12
. He turned to Warhaftig and said, “I’ve got to make a stop. Grand Central Station.”

They got into Warhaftig’s car, a beefy Land Rover Discovery, and tore up the FDR to Twenty-third Street. Then they got off the highway and headed up Park Avenue. At Forty-second Street, Warhaftig suddenly swung right, cut down the ramp, and took a left cross-town. He skidded to a stop in front of Grand Central Station. Decker jumped out of the car and dodged into the terminal. He ran down the marble causeway, through another set of doors, and entered the massive central hall, with its majestic vaulted ceiling, pale green, outlined with constellations. The terminal was packed. He could hear footsteps echoing, reverberating through the hall. He noticed Orion, the hunter, far above, the bold sweep of his bow, like a great wave washing across the sky. He looked beyond the bold brass Information Booth. There it was. Gate twelve.

Decker dashed across the hall, weaving in and out of gray commuters. Hassan was standing by a shoeshine stand under a marble arch, reading a copy of
The New York Times
. As soon as Decker approached, Hassan climbed up onto the stand. Decker slipped into the seat beside him. Hassan plucked at his trousers, lifting the hems up so that the polish wouldn’t smudge his clothes. He continued to read his newspaper. Decker started to say something, but Hassan cut him off with a glance. “Sure, you can,” the Professor said. His voice was a trifle loud. “How about Arts?” He handed Decker a section of the paper.

“The source of the third quote:
Death will overtake you
. It’s from
An-Nisa
,
The Women
. The full quote is:
Wherever you are, death will overtake you, though you are in lofty towers, and if a benefit comes to them, they say: This is from Allah
. Let’s face it, Agent Decker – there aren’t too many towers loftier than the skyscrapers of New York.”

Decker shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it,” he replied.

Hassan looked hurt. “I checked it several times and–”

“No, I don’t mean you. I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t believe that whatever’s planned for New York is anything more than a ruse, a non-nuclear event, a diversion from the bombing at
0
. Why have a countdown if you’re going to set the bomb off prematurely? It doesn’t make sense. No. The fourth wallpaper. That’s the key. The grand finale. The crescendo. I figured it out this morning.”

“Picture a piece of graph paper,” Decker said. “The first wallpaper featured a single line, both literally and geometrically. One axis – X. One dimension. The second featured two intersecting lines. Two axes – X and Y. Two dimensions, where the words
Well
and
Seven
coincided. The third, I’ll bet, is three dimensional, either semantically or geometrically. Three axes – X, Y and Z. And the fourth, I know, is temporal. Three physical dimensions . . . over time. Just like light – the manner in which El Aqrab paints – and water – the Islamic purifying agent – contribute a dynamic quality to Islamic architectural decoration, extending forms and patterns into the fourth dimension. That’s what it said in ben Saad’s book, the one you loaned me.”