“No kidding.”
He snorted. “How many is that?”
“Faxes? About a hundred.”
“Hell! All alike?”
“Basically. Each hails from a different phone number, but they contain the same warning.”
“Terrorists are attacking Cambridge?”
“Yep. With machine guns. It’s got to be a hoax.”
“Who’d send a hundred faxes as a hoax?”
“Stupid college kids. Some are still angry about the Lite-Brite deal, some just love to prank the police. Did you know they put a squad car on top of MIT’s Great Dome? Here, look at this.” He opened the departmental e-mail. “In the last quarter hour, we’ve received scores of messages with the same subject line. Plus one crazy nine-one-one call.”
“What do we do?”
“I still say it’s a hoax, but we can’t take chances. Call the sergeant detective. If she says roll, we roll.”
The second he knew Ava was safe, Paul ran to help their fallen comrade. He knelt, cradled Sinan’s head in his hands, and tried to administer some aid. Ava watched and then the silent helicopter landed just behind them. A door snapped open. Nick leaped out to assist Paul. Moments later, Simon emerged. Weeping and wailing, Mellania ran to embrace him. Ignoring her, DeMaj hurried to check on Ava. His face livid with concern, he took her hand and asked, “Are you hurt? Did they touch you?”
She shook her head, then pointed at Mellania. “She betrayed us.”
Simon’s jaw clenched. He threw an arctic glance at the Slovakian, his expression revealing infinite contempt. Terrified, Mellania fell back, turned, and tried to run off, but Barakah was on her instantly. He twisted her wrist, lowered his sobbing prisoner to the ground, and secured her arms behind her back.
Once Barakah had her under control, DeMaj directed his attention to Sinan. “How bad is it, Paul?”
“Critical. Call an ambulance!”
Simon was already dialing. He connected with the A.S.L. Anacarpi via a private number and advised them to prep for an emergency patient. Gore flowed from numerous wounds. His ruptured femoral vein and artery fed a bloody pool so deep that it reflected scarlet-tainted moonlight. Paul removed his shirt and began ripping it into strips. He used some cotton to stanch the bleeding and wrapped an improvised tourniquet around Sinan’s leg. Then, using a branch Nick had broken from a sapling, Paul twisted it tight.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Boy Scouts.”
Just then Sinan coughed blood. Wheezing, he drew a shallow breath. His eyelids fluttered open. Catching sight of Paul, he whispered, “Ahmed?”
“Dead.”
Despite the pain, the Arab smiled. Whispering mektoub, he relaxed his muscles and let his eyes slip shut.
Nick went white. “Is he gone?”
Paul checked Sinan’s vitals. “Just unconscious, but his pulse is very weak. I wouldn’t expect—”
Nick shook his head. “Don’t say it.”
Rather than wait for an ambulance, Simon ordered his chauffeur to bring the Maybach, and they then loaded Sinan into its plush backseat. Nick insisted on riding along, blaming himself for the Arab’s involvement. After impressing the circumstances’ urgency upon his driver, DeMaj passed Nick a roll of five-hundred-euro notes to ensure that the doctors gave Sinan their undivided attention. Wishing the passengers good luck and Godspeed, he watched the car disappear down the road.
With all her might Jess struggled to pull her injured friend upright. “Gabe, please!” she begged. “Try to walk! Help me!”
His reply was a howl. Shards of pink bone protruded from his shin. Jess gagged and fought the urge to vomit. Succumbing to panic, she shivered. Stupid! If only she’d grabbed a phone! In her mind’s eye she envisioned her mobile resting uselessly on the bed table. Then taking a deep breath, Jess cleared her mind of doubt and steeled her will to the task at hand.
“Get up right now, Gabriel,” she ordered. “I will not tolerate this display of weakness. On your feet!” To her surprise, he obeyed. Moaning, Gabe pushed up from the blood-soaked ground, balanced on his good leg, and tried to walk. Seizing the opportunity, Jess wedged herself under his meaty arm, letting him use her body as a crutch.
“Come on now, Gabriel, move! One, two, step! One, two, step! One, two, step!”
It worked. They eased from the slippery ground and onto the pavement. With each stride Jess shouted, insulted, harassed, and cajoled Gabe into going farther. She intuited that if he rested, even for a second, he’d pass out. One, two, step! Her goal was in sight: a tall hedgerow. He could flop down behind it, concealed from view, while she ran for help. It was only twenty feet. If they could reach it before—
Someone yelled. Jess understood enough Arabic to know that she’d been ordered to halt. She turned her head. A bearded man stood on her balcony, aiming an automatic rifle.
Having received Simon’s permission to interrogate Mellania privately, Barakah handcuffed her and led her into the main house. After they were gone, Ava asked, “Is that wise?”
“The lieutenant promised to share any information he obtains,” DeMaj said.
“And you’re sure he’ll keep his word?”
“Why? You suspect Barakah’s a triple agent?”
Squeezing in next to Paul on the loveseat, Ava thought about the question. “No, I trust him. He saved our lives, but Mellania might be able to manipulate him. Ahmed indicated that Barakah has a certain… sensitivity toward women. The interrogation might be more effective if we all participate.”
DeMaj shrugged. “Question her if you want, but I’ll never speak to her again. Besides, she won’t know anything useful.”
“Why not?”
Simon crossed the room to adjust a wall-mounted shoji board autographed by Habu. Once it was level, he said, “Because she’s a traitor. Our adversary would never reveal plans to a traitor, no matter how lovely her exterior. I’d wager that only Ahmed and the master knew the details. The former is gone and I doubt,” he said, gazing at Ava, “that the latter has a weakness for women.”
For Jess, the decision was clear: She wouldn’t cooperate. If a machine gun was fired in the middle of Cambridge, it would summon the police faster than any phone call. Ignoring the man’s orders, she forced Gabe to continue, step by bloody, agonizing step, toward the relative safety of the hedge. Gritting her teeth, Jess cringed, expecting gunshots. None came.
Her spirit soared. “Come on, Gabe. Don’t quit now. Keep moving. One, two, step!” Stealing a glance behind her, she observed the gunman. Instead of aiming his rifle, he was waving furiously. For a moment, Jess was confused. Then something dreadful dawned. He was signaling an accomplice. Her peripheral vision detected movement. Rounding the building’s far corner, a second gunman approached.
Standing behind the wet bar, DeMaj set up three glasses and opened a leaded-crystal ship’s decanter. While Simon poured each of them a double brandy, Paul called Nick. Sinan’s prognosis was bleak; the doctors gave him little chance of survival.
Dispirited, Paul let the telephone drop. Simon gave him a glass and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Chin up, Paul. If he’s meant to live, he’ll live. If not, mektoub. It was God’s will.”
Ava frowned. Noting her reaction, Simon said, “Ms. Fischer, have you contemplated the sacred jars’ true significance?”
“Of course. Historically, their importance was immense.”
“No, I’m speaking of their theological significance. Why was the prophecy placed in these artifacts?”
She began to think. A powerful notion entered her mind. Before it crystalized, Simon spoke again.