“What difference does that make?”
“It keeps the divorce lawyers busy.”
She laughed, not so much at the lame joke, but at Paul’s attempts to lift her spirits. In a flash she realized why he’d always been so popular. It wasn’t just because he was handsome, athletic, and from a prominent family. Rather, people gravitated to Paul because he cared. When he saw someone hurting, Paul’s instinct was to give comfort and cheer. Ava loved that about him.
“So, what’s your final answer?”
Leaning close, she whispered. “He should aim to hit both buttons.”
“Nice,” said Paul. “Most people don’t think of trying both at once.”
Ava froze. She recalled something Clarkson had said: “The two gods speak with one mouth.” An idea went through her mind. Invigorated, she surprised Paul with a peck on the cheek.
“Let’s go home. I want to check something.”
Simon landed the Comanche on a private helipad just outside Naples. They transferred to a waiting car, which then brought them deep into the city. Minutes later they were seated in the downstairs section of Pizzeria Brandi. A waiter appeared.
“Do you like Margherita?” Simon asked Nick.
“Sure. Just like Mama used to make.”
“Due, per favore, e vino.”
While they waited, Nick noticed that his companion’s mood had changed. “Is something wrong?”
Simon rubbed his temple. “Sorry. Today’s the anniversary of my mother’s death. She passed when I was six.”
“That must have been hard, but if it’s any consolation, I’m sure she’d be very proud of you.”
Simon lifted his head. “You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“I hope so. I know she’d want me to resist the coming evil. She’d urge me to fight until the bitter end. That really would make her proud.”
Before Nick could say something else, Simon lifted a hand for silence. Several boisterous customers were watching the television and applauding. Nick recognized their red armbands. The reporter spoke.
“Following this afternoon’s emergency session, a Gruppo Garibaldi spokesman blamed Islamic extremists for the terror attack. ‘This is mass murder,’ said Galeazzo Grandi, who himself survived a car bombing in 1995. ‘The time for negotiations has passed. More than half the victims were Italian citizens. What will those people do next?’
“Maltese Minister B. C. Pisani, who has repeatedly urged his government to hunt down the attackers, was pleased by the Italians’ support. ‘I agree that negotiation is undesirable and impossible with these assassins, who so many times have sown death,’ he said, reading from a prepared statement.
“In Washington, the State Department pledged solidarity: ‘The United States stands resolutely with our European allies in the fight against terrorism in all its forms. No political pretext can justify premeditated murder.’
“A confidential source close to the investigation has revealed that the bombers used titadine, a type of compressed dynamite. The Islamist group Hamas recently purchased eight tons of titadine, according to Spain’s El Mundo newspaper. Nevertheless, a U.S. intelligence official, speaking on condition of anonymity, questioned whether the bombers were Islamic terrorists. ‘It’s too early to tell who is responsible. We’re not ruling out anyone yet.’
“Deputy Grandi disagreed. ‘We all know who did this. As usual, liberal appeasers and fifth columnists oppose any appropriate response, insisting nothing be done until the investigation is complete, but we can’t afford the luxury of certitude. We must act now before the terrorists perpetrate an even greater tragedy.’”
Simon rose from his seat. “It’s time to go.”
Sheik Ahmed was not a real sheik; he’d appropriated the title, just as he had seized everything else he possessed. Ahmed’s parents, Arab peasants, had died in Egypt’s Six Day War against Israel. The penniless orphan was then “adopted” by a Cairo brothel catering to wealthy Europeans with perverted sexual tastes. Trapped in this hell, Ahmed learned the power of fear. As he fought to survive, he began to value strength and cunning above all other attributes.
A bright, attractive child, by his tenth birthday he’d perfected a means of enriching himself while avoiding degradation. After charming an intoxicated pedophile, Ahmed would slip narcotic powder into the john’s drink, preventing him from acting on his lust. The potent drug rendered a victim unconscious for several hours. During this period, Ahmed helped himself to currency from the slumbering European’s wallet or purse. He learned to pocket no more than a few bills, sums that would be overlooked in the morning stupor. He reinvested the stolen funds, purchasing ever bigger parcels of narcotics. Within two years the local dealer was complaining that little Ahmed had cut into his profits.
On a moonless night Ahmed ambushed and garroted his competitor, supplanting him as the brothel’s main supplier. This aggressive move brought Ahmed to the attention of the local Mafia, who dispatched a pitiless Italian thug nicknamed La Belva (the Beast) to untangle the situation.
La Belva captured the scrawny twelve-year-old brat who’d dared to commit murder and administered a savage beating, but when little Ahmed accepted the blows without a single tear or a whimper, the Beast smiled. Soon, Ahmed was his favored protégé. The hardened child followed his Italian master everywhere, absorbing innumerable lessons in cruelty and violence. Ahmed never blamed his idol for beating him senseless. Instead, he came to believe that he deserved it.
The Beast was fearless, bloodthirsty, and dynamic. Ahmed worshipped him. As the thin boy matured into a solid teen, he became the Italian’s trusted subordinate and most merciless enforcer. At twenty-five, Ahmed assumed full responsibility for the network’s operations in Egypt. By then the Beast, who’d become Don VeMeli, had branched into politics. Ahmed provided invaluable support. The rising capo was continually awed by his master’s ingenious schemes. Year by year their power, wealth, and influence grew. Consequently, Ahmed’s faith in Don VeMeli was limitless. He’d rather die than disappoint him.
Ahmed sat in the darkness and smoked. His very existence was proof that he’d never failed his master. He massaged the arm Don VeMeli had broken all those years ago. Unaware that he was speaking aloud, Ahmed promised: “I will kill them for you, master. We cannot fail. I will slice their privileged little throats. I will cut out their arrogant, disrespectful hearts.”
Paul and Ava rushed back to Simon’s villa. As they hustled through the back gate, Paul glanced around for Tomás. Curiously, he was nowhere in sight. Paul slowed, scanning the courtyard. Impatiently, Ava grabbed his hand and dragged him into the house and to the study. She turned on a computer. She located the memory stick containing the encrypted wave files Gabe had transmitted and began saving them to the hard drive. Meanwhile, she asked Paul to power up another laptop. Though he didn’t know her purpose, he complied. A few minutes later, both computers were operative.
“What now?”
Instead of answering, Ava uploaded the data onto the second computer. On the first, she opened the recording Gabe had captured from the artifact marked chi. On the second, she opened the file he’d derived from the rho disk.
“When I count to three, hit play,” she ordered. “Ready? One, two, three, play!”
They clicked the two buttons simultaneously. After a brief pause, the eerie noises began, just as before. Ava held her breath. Then the clamor changed. Instead of discordant noise, actual music emerged.
Ava shook her head. “Gabe guessed it right off the bat: mutually interdependent sequences.” The two recordings contained a common set of sounds but they were out of phase. Played sequentially, the disks produced jarring nonsense; played simultaneously, they harmonized. And when the libretto began, it wasn’t alien gibberish. Rather, it resembled a Gregorian chant. Paul watched Ava listen, enthralled by the otherworldly voices she’d discovered. Then she began to quiver.