“Ahead are five stones,” Rócha called out. “They are numbered 9, 35, 72, 3, 24.”
Zachariah nearly smiled. He was right. “The one with the three is safe,” he called out.
He watched as Rócha tested the stone and saw that he’d chosen correctly.
Now he knew.
Another series of blanks, then a second cluster of numbered stones. The one with 74, as he thought, proved solid. Two more times, and 5 and 86 offered safe passage. Rócha was now about twenty meters from the far ledge, calling out the next sequence of numbered stones. Zachariah told him 19 was the safe play.
And he was right.
Except that Rócha was still not at the ledge.
Ten meters of water remained.
“There’s a final sequence of stones,” Rócha called out. “Twenty of them numbered. The others are blank, but there’s no way to reach them.”
A final sequence?
But the message only provided five numbers.
“Can you make it to the ledge?” he called out.
Rócha shook his head. “No way. Too far.”
He glanced over at Tom Sagan, who apprised him with a cool glare. He’d said nothing about being the Levite when Clarke spoke up, allowing only Alle to challenge him. The son of a bitch. There was something more, something Sagan had not allowed his daughter to learn. And he’d stayed silent to see if he was right.
Rócha had no idea that the next choice would be a guess. Only Sagan would know that, and the former reporter surely could not care less if Rócha died. In fact, he was probably counting on it.
“Tell me the numbers you see,” he yelled across the water.
Rócha rattled off twenty.
“Thirty-four,” he said.
Rócha did not hesitate. Why would he? Every other choice had been right.
His man stepped toward the stone, planted one foot, then the next. And began to sink.
Panic immediately grabbed hold. Arms went into the air searching for balance. He tried to leap away and find another stone, but the mud around his feet was too strong.
Rócha began to sink.
As the others realized what they were watching, Zachariah elbowed Frank Clarke in the gut.
The older man reeled forward, the breath leaving his lungs.
Rowe surged his way.
But Zachariah wrenched the gun from Clarke’s grasp and aimed it straight at his adversary.
“Back off, Béne,” he ordered. “I will shoot you dead.”
Rowe stopped his advance.
He motioned with the gun for Sagan and Alle to join Rowe and for all of them to step back. Clarke, too. He wanted them where he could see them.
“Mr. Simon, help me,” Rócha screamed. “Send one of them. They can get this far and pull me out.”
But he could not risk it. Not now. He had the situation under control and planned to keep it that way. Besides, he had a better way to get across.
Rócha sank fast, nothing to stop him, the mud now chest-high.
Clarke straightened himself up.
“Mr. Simon, help me,” Rócha screamed.
“You just going to let him die?” Sagan asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“You really are a monster,” Alle said.
“A warrior. On a mission. Something you could not possibly understand.”
“Somebody. Please,” Rócha yelled.
“Stay still,” Sagan called out.
But that was surely easier said than done.
Too late.
Rócha disappeared.
Ripples disturbed the mirrored surface, which quickly receded, leaving no trace that anyone had ever been there. Everything assumed a strange quality of unreality.
“You are clearly not the Levite,” Clarke said.
Zachariah aimed the gun at Sagan. “You know the sixth number.”
No response.
“And you would never tell me. So your daughter will make the next trip across.”
“Like hell I will,” Alle said.
He cocked the gun, aimed, and fired.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
TOM CRINGED AS THE SHOT EXPLODED.
But Simon had readjusted his aim and fired at Alle’s feet, the bullet careening off the rock.
She’d leaped away in terror.
“The next bullet will not miss,” Simon said.
And Tom had no reason to doubt that. None of them meant a damn thing to him. Only what was on the other side of the lake. That’s what mattered and he’d do whatever was necessary to get there.
“Go,” Simon ordered Alle. “Into the water.”
She shook her head.
“I’ll go,” Tom said. “I’ll do it. You’re right, I know the way.”
Simon chuckled. “Which is exactly why she is going. I haven’t forgotten how we met. For all I know, you will go out there and finish what I interrupted at your father’s house. No. To be sure you will tell the truth, she will go.”
“I’ll do it—”
“She goes,” Simon yelled, “or I kill her and Béne can take her place.”
Tom stared at his daughter and, with no choice, said, “Do it.”
Her questioning look challenged the wisdom of that move.
“You’re going to have to trust me,” he said.
He spied no anger or resentment in her eyes.
Only fear.
And it tore his heart.
He stepped close to her. “The first stone is number 3.”
She did not move.
“We can do this. Together.”
She steeled herself and faced the challenge. Then she nodded, acknowledging the futility in arguing. He watched as she entered the water, only about a foot deep, on blank stones, settling her feet. He could see the first assemblage of numbered stones and was pleased when she found the one marked 3.
Which supported her, as it had Rócha.
Simon stepped back, keeping the gun ready to deal with anyone who made a move on him. He caught Rowe’s gaze and read what his dark eyes telegraphed. Simon could not shoot all three of them before one of them got to him. But he shook his head and threw him a look that said, Not yet. Neither Rowe nor the other man, Clarke, knew what he’d been privy to. His grandfather had left a specific message. Time to see if it he was interpreting it correctly. The five numbers had led to the sixth, through the astrolabe. But that did not mean the sixth number, which had located this cave on the map, also provided safe passage across. A safety valve could have been built in. Like when different passwords were used for different accounts.
But something told him he was right.
Or at least he hoped so.
His daughter’s life depended on it.
———
ALLE’S LEGS SHOOK WITH FEAR.
She’d been afraid before, but never like this.
Her father called off the five numbers and she worked her way across the shallow pond, toward the far ledge. Rócha had paved the way this far. Now she stood on the stone labeled 19, where Rócha had waited for the sixth number.
Her breathing went shallow.
A good twenty feet of mud was between her and solid ground. She glanced down and counted nineteen stones with numbers affixed to them, another ten or so blank. The twentieth, once labeled 34, was gone, taking Rócha into the mud with it.
Not that his death bothered her.
It was her own that mattered.
“Call out the numbers you see,” her father said.
———
TOM LISTENED AS ALLE PROVIDED A LIST.
As she did, he glanced at Rowe and saw that the Jamaican understood.
Be ready.
Soon.
———
BÉNE WONDERED IF SAGAN ACTUALLY KNEW THE SIXTH NUMBER. He’d clearly encouraged his daughter to go. But what choice had he been given? Simon would have killed her. Frank Clarke stood beside him, saying nothing. Simon was watching both them and the woman on the lake. If she made it across, Simon would shoot them all. That was a given. He’d know everything at that point.
Then why not act now?
Frank seemed to read his mind.
“Not yet,” the colonel whispered.
———