Dust from the road on the other side of the ditch began to clear.
He heard the growl of an engine.
Coming closer.
The ties, about four inches thick, were arranged two together, four feet apart, just enough width to accommodate tires on either side of a chassis. He ran onto the bridge and dislodged one long pair from their rails, shoving them down into the ditch.
Then the other pair.
His muscles creaked under the strain.
He retreated to his side of the bank and slid two more from their perch.
Twenty feet of air now separated him from Simon.
Dust on the other side cleared.
He saw the car.
———
SIMON KEPT A CLOSE WATCH AHEAD.
Rócha was speeding down the lane between the trees as fast as they could go thanks to the limited visibility. But luckily, it appeared the fog was dissipating.
Then he saw.
Tom Sagan stood on a far bank before a wide ditch. A bare post rose from its center. Rócha had seen it, too, slamming the brakes, tires grabbing the earth. The car slid to a stop, his seat belt holding him in place.
Rócha cursed.
He stared out the windshield.
“Shut off the engine.”
———
TOM RETREATED TO HIS CAR AND FOUND THE GUN. HE KEPT THE driver’s-side door open, both it and the car between him and Simon. Sure, one of them could wade across the ditch, but he’d shoot them dead before they made it to the other side.
Standoff.
Just what he wanted.
A warm breeze flayed his skin, raising gooseflesh across his neck and chest.
“All right,” Simon called out to him. “What do you want?”
“My daughter.”
He stayed low, staring out through the open window frame.
“I realize you have your gun, and you chose your place to take a stand with care. We will not challenge you.”
The other man stood beside Simon and never moved.
“I should shoot your friend,” Tom yelled. “He touched my daughter.”
Neither of them moved.
“He was doing his job,” Simon said. “What I pay him to do. My lawyer failed to do hers.”
“I want Alle, then you can have what I have.”
“She’s not here.”
“How did that son of a bitch you pay get here?”
“He flew all last night.”
He was listening.
“She is in Vienna. If you want her, that is where you will have to go.”
Austria?
“That is where I live. But maybe you already know that. After all, you were a reporter.”
“Go screw yourself.”
Simon chuckled. “I assure you, I can still cause your daughter immeasurable pain. And I might just do that, simply for the trouble you have put me to.”
This guy was bluffing and where yesterday Tom might have hesitated, not today. He was Tom Sagan, Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative journalist, no matter what anybody said.
“Then you can kiss what I have goodbye.”
Silence from the other side.
“What do you propose?” Simon finally asked.
“We trade.”
More silence, then Simon said, “I cannot bring her here.”
“How did you plan to release her—if you planned to do it at all?”
“I was hoping electronically would work, with a video of it happening, perhaps a tearful reunion afterward on your own time.”
“That won’t work.”
“Obviously not. What do you propose?”
“We trade in Vienna.”
———
HAD ZACHARIAH HEARD RIGHT?
“You are coming there?” he called out.
“And you, too.”
This might work out. He had a serious problem, considering that Alle Becket was dead. But he might be able to accomplish his objective after all.
“All right. When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, 5:00. St. Stephen’s Cathedral.”
———
TOM MADE HIS CHOICE CAREFULLY. HE’D VISITED VIENNA SEVERAL times, staying there once for nearly a month while covering the war in Sarajevo. He was familiar with the place. He knew the Gothic cathedral, which sat at the heart of the city. Public. Lots of people. A good locale for a switch. He should be safe there. The only trick would be getting away before Simon could make a move.
But he’d figure that out later.
“Five o’clock tomorrow,” he yelled.
“I will be there.”
Simon and the other man retreated to their car and left, a swirl of dust obscuring the view.
He stepped from behind the door and lowered the gun. Great patches of sweat soaked his shirt. His insides boiled like lava and air fled his lungs in harsh gasps. For the first time he noticed the scent of orange blossoms, the trees all around him dotted with white blossoms.
A smell familiar from his childhood.
Such a long time ago.
He raked a hand across the three-day stubble on his face.
None of his misgivings had vanished, but for a guy who was supposed to be dead he felt awfully alive.
———
SIMON WAS PLEASED.
“Find a way out of here,” he told Rócha. “Then straight to the airport.”
He’d call ahead and have his jet ready. He’d come here on a private charter and would return to Austria the same way. He should be leaving with the Levite’s secret, but he’d have it soon enough.
Sagan probably thought himself clever picking St. Stephen’s. True, a public locale should assure both sides an equal footing. Not a bad place to trade a daughter for a packet.
Unless.
He grinned with triumph as his mind played with an idea and the strength of his plan dawned on him.
Tom Sagan had just made a fatal mistake.
And the fact that Alle Becket was dead would not matter.
Her father would soon be joining her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TOM FOUND HIS WAY OUT OF THE ORCHARD THEN ONTO INTERSTATE 4 and west toward Orlando. The weariness that had once made his head heavy and his thoughts sluggish had vanished. Unfortunately, as the adrenaline faded, all he could visualize was the decayed mass that had once been Abiram Sagan. Children should never see their parents that way. He’d been a bull of a man. Tough. Unrelenting. Respected in his community. Honored by his temple. Loved by his granddaughter—
And his son?
He wasn’t ready to go there yet.
Too much had passed between them.
And all because of religion.
Why had it mattered if he wanted to be a Jew or not? Why had that decision led to a disowning? He’d many times wondered about the answers to both questions. Maybe they were lying to his right in the sealed packet?
He wasn’t going to wait any longer.
He exited the highway, found a gas station, and parked. He grabbed the packet and plunged the car key into its exterior, ripping the thick plastic enough that he could peel it away.
Air rushed inside.
Three things were there.
A small plastic envelope sealed with packing tape, a map, and a black leather bag about eight inches tall.
He massaged its exterior.
Whatever lay inside was light, thin, and metallic.
He loosened the straps and removed the object.
A key.
About six inches long, one end decorated with three joined Stars of David. A skeleton key. Named, he knew, for reduction to only its essential parts—mainly a few notches at its end which would operate tumblers for a corresponding lock. You didn’t see many of these anymore. From his childhood he recalled a similar one used to ceremonially open the synagogue. That key had been made of iron. This one was brass. Not a speck of tarnish marred its patina.
He turned his attention to the envelope, opening the car door for some air. Stiff fingers worked the clear tape until he pried an end loose.
Inside lay a tri-folded piece of paper. Typed. Single-spaced.