Nick awoke, staring at streams of water pouring in through cracks in the MG’s windshield. His chest ached, a consequence of having it slammed into the seat belt when they hit the water. Gravity pulled him forward. The MG was vertical, heading for the bottom of the river. To his right, Rami was struggling with his seat belt.
Strong hands shook Nick by the shoulders. “Nick! Wake up!”
“I’m awake. Help Rami,” he said to Drake, his voice weak at first, but gaining strength.
While Nick fought with his own seat belt, he felt the jarring impact of the MG hitting the bottom of the Thames — twenty, maybe twenty-five feet down. The winter current carried the tail of the car sideways and it hung at a steep angle, dragging its crushed nose slowly through the silt.
Thanks to gravity, the murky brown water filled the front of the car first. It had already reached Nick’s chest. “Rami, I need your revolver,” said Nick.
“No, you don’t,” countered Drake. He held up the bobby’s baton. “Whenever you’re ready, boss.”
Nick’s seat belt finally came free. “Go,” he ordered. “I’ve got the professor.”
Drake smashed the butt of the baton into the window and the river took care of the rest, caving the whole thing into the backseat and gushing into the car. As the water passed his neck, Nick fished out the Hashashin knife. He pushed Rami’s hands away from the belt and cut him free. “Come on!”
“One moment!” countered the Egyptian, his face up against the roof. To Nick’s astonishment, the professor ducked down beneath the seat, hunting for something on the floorboards. He came up hugging a thick text, blinking in the murky water. The car was completely full.
Drake was already gone, and Nick pushed Rami out next. The professor’s tenured academic midsection barely fit through, but he made it. Once outside the car, Nick could see blue and yellow police lights flashing above, their colors muted by the green-brown water. He held on to Rami’s jacket from below, keeping the professor from surfacing, letting the current carry them away from the police. When the professor batted desperately at his hand, indicating that he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, Nick counted another ten seconds and then let him go.
They surfaced near a small dock on the southeast side of the river, a good bit south of the flashing lights on the opposite shore. Nick tried to grab Rami under the arms and pull him toward the dock, but the Egyptian pushed him away. “I am not an invalid, Nicholas,” he sputtered. “I can manage.”
They found Drake lying on the dock in a prone position, his arms over the side ready to catch them. He pulled the professor up onto the composite planks first and then helped Nick. All the while, Rami held on to his prize. Dripping, he lay on his back, hugging the book to his chest.
“Must be a really good story,” said Drake.
“You will be glad I brought it. For now though, we need shelter and warmth. And I know just the place.” The Egyptian struggled to his feet and ran to the end of the dock, crouching like a professional operator.
Nick and Drake exchanged a look. Nick shrugged. “I guess we follow him.”
Rami led them several blocks away from the river until they came to a nondescript glass-and-aluminum door in a row of joined office buildings — distinguished from the other doors in the row only by the small bronze plaque beside it. One-inch block lettering read COPTIC CHURCH OF SOUTH LONDON.
Rami reached out with a shivering hand and pressed a white button below the plaque. “Our resident priest Youssef is a heavy sleeper. I hope he hears the bell.”
A half hour later, Nick peeled back a yellowed shower curtain in the church bathroom and found a stack of clothes on the counter next to his towel — worn khaki slacks, a blue button-down shirt, boxers and socks, even a pair of Adidas. When he finished dressing, he stepped out into a narrow hallway lit with the warm wash of yellow incandescent fixtures. Drake was seated on a folding chair outside the door, wearing a blue and white Hawaiian shirt and tweed slacks.
“The church has a clothing-and-food mission for the poor,” he said. “Rami and Youssef raided the shelves to find clothes for us.” He kicked his feet out from under the chair, displaying a pair of shiny, patent leather shoes.
“Those are nice,” said Nick.
“They had a little trouble finding something in my size.”
“We can’t stay here. We have to get home. If CJ is taking over this chase, she’s going to need our help behind the scenes.”
“And where will you go at one o’clock in the morning?” asked Rami, stepping out from a doorframe a short distance down the hall. “The police are at every corner, and they will be for the rest of the night.” He handed each of them a steaming bowl of soup. It looked like porridge, but it smelled divine.
“Eat. Sleep. Regroup. You have chased the Hashashin nonstop for three days, and they are always two steps ahead. Perhaps you need to slow down in order to get out in front.”
Nick was too exhausted to argue with his old professor. He could play along now and get moving again once he checked in with Romeo Seven.
The two operatives followed Rami to a room with several cots and sat down to eat their soup while the Egyptian disappeared to talk to Youssef. The soup tasted as good as it smelled — lentil bean with rosemary and thyme, and something sweet Nick could not identify.
While they ate, they let thoughts of Kattan and the bioweapon rest. They caught each other up on the events of the night, recalling the better parts of their fights and chases as if they were already faded memories.
By the time his bowl was empty, Nick no longer had the desire to race back out into the cold. He wanted sleep and nothing else. He laid out a pad on his cot, and the moment his head hit the vinyl cushion, the room faded into darkness.
CHAPTER 54
When Nick awoke, he found Rami and Drake in the room next door, poring over the professor’s old book, still wet from its dunk in the river. He leaned against the doorframe and yawned. “How long have I been out?”
“Five hours,” said Drake, glancing at the screen of his smartphone. “It’s seven A.M.”
Nick’s eyes widened. He had intended to sleep for an hour, ninety minutes at the most.
Rami removed his spectacles and gave him a knowing smile. “How do you feel? Rested?”
“Woozy. What did you put in that soup besides beans?”
The professor waved his glasses in the air. “Oh, this and that. A few spices, some poppy-seed oil.”
“Poppy seed. You drugged us?”
“I helped you get the rest you needed. I gave you the same soup I eat to help with my insomnia. Poppy-seed oil is a common ingredient in Egyptian culinary arts.”
“Opium?” Drake looked from Nick to the professor and back again. He pointed at his teammate. “If Walker has us do a urine test in the next two weeks, remind me to borrow a bottle of Molly’s.”
Nick closed his eyes and shook his head. “What are you two doing with that old book?”
The professor put his glasses back on and folded his hands together, tilting his knuckles toward his former student. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Nicholas, but you have approached your entire mission the wrong way.”
“Oh, here we go,” said Nick, stepping deeper into the room. “Always grading my work. You and my father.”
Rami shrugged. “What good is a teacher who doesn’t teach or a father who doesn’t parent?” He opened his hands and smiled. “You are dealing with the Hashashin, not al-Qaeda. The two organizations have overlapping ideology, but they are separated by nearly a millennium.”
“So?”
“So you are an expert at combating modern terrorists. You depend on a decade of experience and success, but in reality you have never faced, much less defeated, a threat like the Hashashin.” Rami patted the soggy pages of the text in front of him. “I propose that you consult the one man who has.”