“I did not.”
“It’s true,” said Al-Hassani, with a long-dormant passion rising in his voice. “His son, George V, was the new king of England. One of his daughters was the queen of Norway. His nephew Wilhelm II was the kaiser of the rising German empire. His nephew Nicholas II was the czar of Russia. One of his nieces was the czarina of Russia. Another niece was the queen of Spain, and yet another niece would soon become the queen of Romania.”
Al-Hassani looked up from his book and removed his reading glasses. “The secret of success is successors, Khalid. It is not enough merely to rule an empire. You must raise up future emperors who will expand and enlarge your borders long after you have rested with your fathers.”
“I concur, Your Excellency, but was it not shortly after King Edward’s death that the sun began to set on the British Empire and on the whole of Europe?”
“It was, Khalid,” said Al-Hassani. “Mistakes we shall not revisit. To paraphrase Santayana, we must learn from history, particularly the history of Europe, lest we be doomed to repeat it.”
“Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I have Viggo Mariano on the line. I passed on your message, but he would still like to talk with you personally.”
“Is the call secure?” Al-Hassani asked instinctively.
“It is, Your Excellency. We ran a trace. It’s clean.”
“Where is he calling from?”
“Rome.”
“Very well,” said Al-Hassani. He waved Tariq out of the room and waited for him to transfer the call.
Viggo Mariano was a killer for hire.
And to Mustafa Al-Hassani, the Sicilian would be worth every penny—$2 million up front, $3 million upon completion, and half the treasure, if it was ever recovered — if he could actually deliver what he promised on time.
The youngest son of one of the founding members of the Red Brigades that had struck fear in the hearts of Europeans throughout the 1970s and 1980s, Mariano, now forty-six, had cut his teeth in the world of international terror. Living in the shadows, off the grid, always on offense, had simply become part of his DNA in his earliest years. If everything Al-Hassani had heard from friends and associates was true, no one in the underworld had a better track record of success.
It was said that Mariano and his small team of associates had personally been involved in the assassinations of twenty-three of the thirty-seven highest-profile CEOs and parliamentarians killed in Europe and the Middle East over the past decade. They were wanted by police in every country in Europe — and by different names in each country.
Al-Hassani had first met Mariano as Bernardo Carlucci, operating under the cover of a cell-phone dealer in Palermo. They had been introduced by Tariq on a trip to Sicily almost a year before. Mariano and Tariq had been roommates during their undergraduate studies in Milan, but few who knew them at the time would have ever imagined the partnership they had forged more than twenty-five years later or the role they would play in Al-Hassani’s rise to power.
“I just heard from my team,” said Mariano when the call was patched through to the Iraqi president. “Mordechai is dead.”
“Good,” said Al-Hassani. “That makes four?”
“Correct. Operation Black Box is proceeding as planned and on schedule.”
“What about number five?”
“You should hear something tomorrow. Thursday at the latest.”
“And the other matters?”
“My team is working on the location of the treasure as we speak.”
“How much longer?”
“There are no guarantees,” said Mariano. “We still don’t know for sure if it even exists or if the information we have is accurate.”
“You assured me it was.”
“No. I said if it was accurate, we would find it.”
“Don’t play games with me, Viggo. I don’t have the luxury of time.”
“I’m not playing games, Your Excellency. I just want to be clear about our agreement. I cannot deliver what doesn’t exist.”
“It exists, all right. You told me yourself that Murray and Jaspers were sure of it. So was Mordechai.”
“Then perhaps we should have let them live a little longer, until they led us to it.”
“No,” said Al-Hassani, his patience growing thin. “We discussed that. It was too risky. We can’t risk the treasure falling into the hands of the Jews. I cannot stress that enough.”
“Then with all due respect, Your Excellency, I am not sure what more I can do but update you on our progress as often as I can.”
“Push your men harder.”
“I cannot push them any harder than I already am.”
“Yes, you can, Viggo,” Al-Hassani demanded. “And you will.”
19
Bennett found his wife resting in a lounge off the ICU.
She was quiet now and eager to get back to the King David to rest and deal with everything that had just happened, and so was he. He thanked Costello for keeping an eye on her and promised to call him the next day. Then he briefed Erin on his conversation with the prime minister, conceding that for now, all he had were questions, not answers. Had Mordechai been killed for his faith or because of Doron’s assignment? Who was Yossi Barak? Another target? A coconspirator? What in the world was the Copper Scroll, and how did it relate to any of this?
“So what do you want to do?” asked Erin when he’d laid it all out.
“Take you back to Ronda and pretend this never happened.”
She tried to smile through weary eyes, and he took her in his arms. Every fiber of his being screamed run. He had already seen so much violence and so much evil, and the last thing he wanted to do was face any of it again.
He had nearly lost Erin to terrorists in Moscow, and neither of them could bear the thought of going through that again. Why couldn’t they just live a quiet, peaceful life with a house in the country, maybe have a few dogs to run with, kids they could take fishing and hiking in the mountains? He had never signed up for any of this. He’d been dragged into it by a president who had betrayed him, and he wanted out. For good. Yet even now, months after his resignation, he still couldn’t seem to break free.
“But I have a hard time saying no to a man’s dying request,” he continued at last.
“Me too,” she said. “I think we’d dishonor his memory — and his sacrifice for us — if we walked away now.”
“So you think we should stay here?” Bennett asked, just to be sure.
Erin nodded slowly. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
Bennett pulled her closer to him and silently thanked God for her. He didn’t deserve this woman, but for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine living without her.
He pulled out his BlackBerry and the slip of paper Doron had given him and dialed Barak’s private number.
After three rings, a young woman picked up. “Hello?”
“Uh, yeah, my name is Jon Bennett. I am looking for a Yossi Barak.”
“Hi, Mr. Bennett, my name is Natasha. Dr. Barak is my grandfather. He just spoke to the prime minister. We were expecting your call. But let me say I am so sorry for your loss. Dr. Mordechai was a dear friend of both of ours.”
“That’s very kind,” said Bennett. “It’s a hard moment for all of us.”
“It is indeed,” said the woman.
“And, I’m sorry,” Bennett added, eager to change the subject, “is this Dr. Barak’s home, or… ”
“No, no, this is his Hebrew University office at Mount Scopus.”
“And you work there as well?”
“I do. I’m an associate professor of Near East archeology. Normally there’s a secretary here, but she’s already gone home for the day. That’s how you got me.”