From the other side of the room, he could see the ocean. The two views were the most attractive part. The rest of the chamber consisted of a double bed and a few pine pieces. Against one wail was an iron staircase that, Levanto guessed, led those who wished to enjoy the sun in privacy of the flat roof.
Less than a kilometer to the church. Child's play. The only difficulty was the breeze from the water: it tended to shift abruptly. Even the slightest change in direction or velocity could affect accuracy. Fortunately, the distance from the upstairs window to the church's entrance was so short a slight variation in wind would present far less of a variable than a much longer shot.
A man would come to this church in the next few days, a man who could be recognized from several photographs showing him on a street, getting out of a cab, talking to a tall blonde woman. Levanto guessed the man had been unaware the snapshots were being taken.
Once the job was complete, Levanto was to simply walk out of the house to where a tethered horse would be already harnessed to a wagon. He would leave the rifle. It was both untraceable and replaceable. He was left alone to set the rifle's bipod and adjust the telescopic sight. There was nothing more to do than wait and Levanto was a master at waiting.
XVI.
Sea of Marmara
Two Hours Later
The earphones did only a modest job of filtering out the noise of the Sikorsky H-60K's rotors. Lang was uncertain if the helicopter was in its Black Hawk or Seahawk configuration, but he recognized the aircraft as the US military's workhorse medium transport chopper of the 1970s through the '90s. Its age showed. The metal bench seats that ran down both sides had been polished to a gloss by generations of rear ends. Although not a pilot, Lang recognized the avionics up front were long outdated. He didn't want to think about the hours on airframe, engine or rotor vanes. All in all, the craft exemplified the Marine Corps' frequent complaint that the equipment it received was that no longer wanted by the army or navy.
Below, the water was a cerulean blue, its surface marred only by creamy arrows, wakes of ferries shuttling between mainland and islands. Lang had trouble relaxing enough to sleep on airplanes. Helicopters frightened him. Things that flew were supposed to have wings, right? No one could convince him that the rotor blades served both as wing and propeller. It just wasn't natural.
His anxiety abated slightly as good, solid terra firma slipped beneath the aircraft.
Across from him, Gurt hardly noticed the slight turbulence caused by the difference in temperatures between land and sea. She didn't even look up from the week-old copy of USA Today she had found somewhere. Lang didn't need the cautionary instructions to fasten his seat belt that came through the headset that made onboard communications possible without screaming. He had never removed it. As the craft settled to the round, Lang was trying to squelch his envy. How could she be so serene in the face of the total disregard for the laws of nature shown by helicopters?
The crew were equally indifferent. The pilot and copilot, wearing visored helmets, had obviously become inured to this breach of the law of gravity. The courier, a marine sergeant with webbed gun belt and a battered briefcase chained to his arm, looked bored as did the similarly armed escort beside him.
The world's statesmen thought with Descartes-like logic: I am a diplomat; therefore my communications are important. Important enough to require four marines and a helicopter that probably gobbled a thousand or so dollars an hour of taxpayer money, all to deliver documents that likely had the same security needs as yesterday's comic pages.
And decidedly less amusement value.
Slightly less than a kilometer away, Levanto slipped behind the stationary rifle mounted on a table just inside the window. He could see the markings on the helicopter easily, but he peered through the scope to make sure.
United States Marines?
Nobody had mentioned a helicopter to him, much less one of a military nature. He had no intent of reneging on a deal made; it would be the end of his business. But he certainly would have increased his price had he known the job involved shooting at US Marines. He could only hope the first bullet would be the only one necessary and he would have time to escape amid the ensuing confusion.
He began to inhale deeply in preparation for that long instant during which he would hold his, breath, the moment he squeezed the big Walther's trigger.
Then he stopped in midbreath.
The helicopter was discharging its passenger or passengers, if that was what it was doing, from the side facing the church.
The side he couldn't see!
Raising his face from the scope, he looked around the church for some place of concealment from which he could fire. Years of practice made him calm. There was always an alternate possibility and only amateurs acted in haste. He had not survived in this business by letting changing circumstance lead to panic. It would take him at least five minutes or so to set up and stabilize his weapon and reset the telescopic sight even if he could find a suitably level surface. Any such location toward the church would increase the distance to where the horse and wagon were supposedly waiting. No matter: a contract was a contract and his reputation for fulfilling each would be irreparably damaged if he didn't perform this one.
But he couldn't shoot through the damnable aircraft even if he could see his target. And there were no topographically acceptable places to shoot from without time for serious readjustment of the sight. Even then, he had no guarantee his designated target was on board. He might well be risking exposing himself for nothing.
The rotors began to spool down. The helicopter was going to remain on the ground. At least for a few minutes.
That gave Levanto an idea.
Ducking by reflex to avoid the breeze created by the slowing blades, Lang and Gurt stepped to the door of the monastery, where a group of openmouthed monks stared as though they were watching a spaceship land. Behind them, Lang could see the patriarch.
"I welcome you to our home," the prelate said, raising his voice above the dying engine whine, "though I never expected such a, er, sensational arrival. If you will come with me…"
They walked in the shadows seeping across the cloister and entered the building on the far side. Again, the whiff of roses. The patriarch opened an elaborately carved wooden
door and ushered them inside. They were standing in an office that could have been anywhere, another anachronism considering where they were.
The patriarch stepped behind a battered desk and handed Lang two sheaves of paper. "If you have a moment, I would like to explain."
"Please."
The churchman extended one of the packets. "There are two books of James. The first, of which parts of several copies exist, is called the Protoevangelium. It closely follows the gospels of Matthew and Luke. I suspect the early church fathers discarded it when they were compiling the New Testament simply because it added little beside the fact its author showed a surprising ignorance of Palestinian geography and Jewish customs. It is likely the creation of someone who was neither an eyewitness nor had access to reliable tradition. That is not what you gave me to translate."
Lang waited, trying not to show his impatience.
"The other, what you have, is known as the Apocryphon of James, a postresurrection conversation between Our Lord, James and Peter. It also exists in various fragments in several languages. Since at least the first part was supposedly written by James, the original would have been in Aramaic, later translated into Greek with perhaps a Hebrew version in between. The one you have is the first complete copy, certainly the only one I know of that contains formerly missing lines. I took the freedom, er, liberty of noting those for you." He handed over the second bunch of papers. "I fear there are those who might cause you trouble for what those lines contain."