The day was a hot one at the Göbekli Tepe dig site and the air a brownish hue after a sandstorm had swept in from the west. Normally, sunsets held the appealing afterglow in rainbow arrays of light. But tonight the sky appeared unclean, the tempest driving in hard from the west with the sand as biting as bee stings.
It had been almost a week since her father disappeared. And despite Noah doing his best to fill the void, he was not her father in so many ways. “A penny for your thoughts,” said Noah in his English clip, as he sidled up next to her.
Alyssa was sitting on a carved stone, one of many positioned in a ring believed to be a part of the Göbekli Tepe amphitheater, with a thousand-mile stare. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?” She continued to maintain that faraway look.
“Not so,” he said, taking the seat beside her.
Now they were both looking at the bas-relief of lizard, each waiting for the other to open up. And then: “Are you all right, Ms. Alyssa?”
She nodded. “I’m getting there,” she told him. “Losing a parent is a way of life. But it’s never easy, is it?”
Noah concurred with a nod of his head. “No,” he answered, “it’s not. But you learn how to live with it over time. Your father was my best friend and has been for more than thirty years. It’s kind of like losing a brother, if you know what I mean.”
She leaned into him and he corralled her in with a sweep of his arm. She still kept that faraway look.
“I just wanted to tell you that everything’s in motion,” he said. “I have a team on its way so protection won’t be an issue. The Turkish Minister of Cultural Antiquities has given a thumbs-up for a second attempt as soon as their two members arrive from the Istanbul Institute. The team’s assembled. The gear, food and bedding — we’re ready.”
She sighed, and then closed her eyes. “This is it,” she said softly.
Noah looked skyward, at the direction of what appeared to be another tempest brewing from the southwest. There was no doubt a storm was approaching. “Yes,” he said. “This is it.”
Butcher Boy, Aussie, Red and his brother, who preferred the moniker Magnum since it sounded far more machismo compared to his real name of Carroll, were sitting at a table with Obsidian Hall on the upper deck that overlooked the bull sharks.
“Gentlemen, you’re now two million dollars richer.” The commandos whooped and hollered, high fiving one another. Obsidian smiled, bringing the glass of cognac to his lips for a quick taste, then turned his attention to Butcher Boy. “Tell me,” he began, “why the name Butcher Boy?”
Butcher Boy stared for a long moment, making Obsidian wonder if he’d ventured too far with this simple line of questioning. “Does it matter?”
Obsidian smiled. “Should I tell you then, Mr. Michael Donnatelli?” He faced him with that annoying smile of amusement, that of man knowing he held the upper hand. “It is Michael Donnatelli, correct?” Obsidian leaned forward in his chair. “Do you honestly think I would hire you — any of you — without doing extensive research into your backgrounds?” He then beckoned to his valet by raising his glass, indicating a much needed refill. The little Hindu man complied by pouring from a crystal decanter. When he left Obsidian’s side, Hall no longer carried a smile but had the look of a man spoiling for an argument. “Four years ago,” he began evenly, “you were in charge of a unit in Afghanistan which went into a village after raping — what, a sixteen-year-old girl in front of her family before ordering their massacre? — you absconded from service and left your team to suffer the consequences, with most of them receiving the death penalty.” He slowly fell back into his seat. “You’ve been on the run ever since,” he added. “The name Butcher Boy was derived from that single, horrific act of inhumanity, wasn’t it?”
Butcher Boy worked the muscles in the back of his jaw.
“Aussie. Or should I say Mark Gordon?” he directed to the Australian with the downturned eye. “You’re not much of a prize either, are you? Being a man who peddled the flesh of young girls in the Philippines, killing anyone who contested your trade until an outfit bested your team. And in return you impressively killed off your adversary, his team, and the six innocent children he was peddling.”
“I saved them from a life of misery,” he defended.
“That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? Saving them from a life that was once your trade?”
Aussie’s face was turning crimson.
“And the two brothers,” he said, facing them. “Two brothers who nailed their souls to the devil’s altar the moment they became a working team of hit-men with more than a dozen kills to their names. Quite impressive, to say the least.”
Everyone at the table appeared confused. “Is there a reason why you’re bringing this up, mate?” asked Aussie.
“Absolutely,” he said calmly, sensing that he had lit a fuse around him. “But I also want you to know that these are also the reasons why I hired you, the reasons that will make you all very rich men.” He lifted his glass in toast. “I wanted the absolute best in the game. And I have it in you: ex-military from elite forces with elite skills and no conscience. There’s an odd feeling of comfort knowing that I’m surrounded by some of the deadliest men in the world.”
Obsidian could see their chests swell with pride. He had purposely taken a volatile situation and defused it for the sake of seeing how quickly he could manage this team by playing on their emotions, self-value and pride — a psychological tool that would benefit him later in Eden, when he ordered them to slaughter everyone not in his employ.
He looked right at Butcher Boy and smiled. This will be right up your alley, he thought.
With that same annoying and arrogant smile that was so much of his makeup, he said, “Gentlemen, tomorrow we leave for Turkey. So ready yourselves.” His attention then turned to the bull sharks who circled in endless loops, the creatures having no other purpose in life but to entertain him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Alyssa Moore was wrapping things up at the Göbekli site. She had forwarded informational discs regarding her study of Göbekli Tepe to the NYU Archaeology Department, and was checking the equipment needed for Eden when the flap of her tent pulled back and a man leaned inward. “Ms. Moore?” he asked. “Alyssa Moore?”
She powered down the thermal imager and placed it on the cot beside her. The man she was looking at was strikingly handsome with angular and rawboned features; even from a distance of ten feet she could see the man’s dazzling blue eyes. Her eyes were quick to enamor until she saw the Roman Catholic collar and the insignia of the Vatican on the pocket of the man’s shirt.
She got to her feet and approached the man who did not venture inside, but stood at the threshold of the tent’s entry.
“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice held the soft touch of appeal, nonetheless.
“Are you Ms. Moore? I was told this was her tent. I apologize for the intrusion,” he said, managing a feigned smile, “but the flap of a tent makes for poor knocking.”
Alyssa had her hair up in a tight bun, revealing more of her pixie-like face. “You’ve found her,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“If I could have just a moment of your time,” he said.
“For?”
He looked skyward, and then at her with a pinched look. “I know it’s late in the day, Ms. Moore, but it’s still hot out here. Would it be all right if I came inside for a spell?”
Her eyes flared with the sudden realization of her inhospitality. “I am so sorry,” she said. “Please, Father, come in.”