She didn’t want to believe him. But his fear was too real, too palpable. Her voice was now a dry, cracked whisper. “So who has it now? Who hired the Yalena?”
“You think if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you?”
“But you must know something!”
He pushed back his chair and stood. The interview was at an end. “I know what I have told you. That is all.”
She followed Amin through the same mean, narrow streets down which they’d walked earlier, only, somehow, everything now seemed changed. She saw a dark-haired little girl in a red skirt jumping rope beside a bullet-chipped doorway, and thought, If we don’t stop what these men have planned, that little girl will die. And so will that boy spinning a soccer ball on his finger, and that young mother laughing at-
Amin said, “Mind your step,” and put out a hand to keep Tobie from stumbling into a muddy puddle in the hollow left by a missing tile.
She jerked her attention back to him. “Thank you.”
With the approach of evening, the streets had filled with long blue shadows. Women carrying plastic shopping bags thronged the sidewalks; boys dodged honking rows of cars. Tobie said, “Did you know him? Jasha Baklanov, I mean.”
“The Russian?” Amin shrugged. “I’ve dealt with him. He’s-”
The Palestinian broke off, his head turning as the whine of a motorcycle coming up fast cut through the noise of the crowded street. Looking just beyond the hotel, Tobie spotted a dark blue Kawasaki with two black-jacketed, visored riders weaving toward them through the stalled line of dusty cars.
“Shit,” she whispered.
As the Kawasaki pulled abreast of them, the rear passenger drew an MP4 from beneath his jacket. Amin shouted, “Look out!” and pushed her down as a spray of bullets ricocheted off the wall beside them.
54
Jax was in their room at the Hotel Offredi, pacing back and forth beneath the watchful eye of Abu Elias when the sudden, staccato burst of machine-gun fire jerked both men to the window.
He saw October hit the sidewalk, saw a line of bullets rip the chest of her kafiya-draped escort even as the young Palestinian drew his MAC10 and returned fire.
“Amin!” cried Abu Elias, pushing away from the window. Machine pistol in hand, he threw open the door, pausing only to shout over his shoulder at Jax, “You stay here.”
“Like hell,” said Jax, snatching his phone from the litter on the scarred dresser top as he ran.
They tore down the narrow steps and erupted into the street just as the Kawasaki roared around the corner. The body of one of the motorcycle’s riders lay sprawled motionless on the blacktop. A throng of shouting, gesturing men spilled from the line of cars blocking the street. Jax pushed through them, his heart hammering in his chest as he neared the spot where he’d last seen October.
She was there, crouched beside the bloodied body of her young escort. She’d yanked the kafiya from around his neck and was using it to try to stem the flow of blood that darkened his ripped chest.
“October. Thank God.” Then Jax saw the blood smeared across her arms and face and felt his stomach tighten. “Are you hit?”
She shook her head, her attention all for her task.
He grabbed her elbow, trying to haul her up. “You need to get inside,” he shouted over the wails and excited shouts of the crowd. “They may come back.”
She shook her head, hanging back. “No. I need to help him. He saved my life.”
“Tobie.” Jax tightened his grip on her, jerking her around so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Listen to me. You can’t help him. He’s dead. Now will you get inside?”
She shivered so violently her entire body shook. Nodding silently, she eased the Palestinian’s head to the pavement and pushed to her feet.
When she still hesitated, Jax shouted, “Go!”
Jerking his phone out of his pocket, he punched in the number for Langley, his narrowed gaze carefully scanning the excited, jabbering crowd as he listened to the call go through. “Matt? Your fucking mole almost got October killed! Find him. Now.”
Kaliningrad, Russia: Thursday 29 October
6:55 P.M. local time
Andrei Gorchakove stared at the prisoner in the stark, brightly lit cell on the other side of the one-way mirror.
He was a big man, brawny, with the thick red hair one saw sometimes in Chechnya. A couple of militiamen had pulled him over in the southeastern part of the oblast for speeding, then become suspicious when they noticed a photograph of Stefan Baklanov lying on the passenger seat beside him.
Now, seated on a low stool, the Chechen had been stripped naked and doused with cold water, his wrists shackled in a painful position. As Andrei watched, the man shivered violently.
“What does he say?”
Andrei’s captain, a stocky man with a thick neck and low forehead and the broad features of an Ossetian, shrugged his shoulders. “He says the boy is alive.”
“You believe him?”
The captain, a man named Kokoeva, shrugged his shoulders. “He says what he thinks we want to hear.”
“That’s always been the trouble with torture. It’s a wonderful way to get people to admit they’re witches, or heretics, or traitors to the Party. But it’s worse than useless when it comes to collecting real intelligence.”
“We tried being nice to him. It didn’t work.”
Andrei grunted. “What else does he say?”
“We asked him what they took off U-114. He said he didn’t know. He said it’s not his business to know. When we pressed him, he said it was an atom bomb.”
“After you suggested it was an atom bomb?”
The captain frowned. “Yes. Why?”
“Who does he say he’s with?”
“Al-Qa’ida.”
Andrei studied the man on the other side of the glass. Beneath the steady onslaught of the air conditioning, the man was slowly turning blue. “Did you suggest that, too?”
“No. We suggested Chechen separatists.”
“Did you run his fingerprints?”
“No.”
Andrei turned toward the door. “Do it.”
55
Beirut, Lebanon: Thursday 29 October
7:15 P.M. local time
“I shouldn’t have let you go by yourself,” said Jax, for something like the tenth time.
They were walking along Beirut’s famous Corniche, the darkening waters of the Mediterranean lapping the beach beside them. A cool breeze blowing in from the sea brought them the scent of salt and fish, and fluttered October’s hair across her face. “If I were a man,” she said, putting up a hand to catch her hair, “would you still feel that way?”
He thought about it. “Probably not.”
“Then stop patronizing me.”
He laughed softly as she turned away to stare out over the broad stretch of sand, deserted now in the gathering gloom. She said, “I always thought ‘Semitic’ was a linguistic division, not ethnic. Arabic, Hebrew, Aramaic…they’re all Semitic languages, right? Although I have to admit, I don’t know much about Aramaic.”
“Aha. A language she doesn’t speak.”
She took a swipe at his head. “It’s extinct.”
He ducked. “Actually, it isn’t. Christ spoke Aramaic, and so did the authors of the biblical books of Daniel and Ezra, which I suppose is why a lot of people think the language is extinct. But there are still populations in the Arab world that speak Aramaic, particularly in places like Syria, Iraq, and Lebanon.”
“But if it’s just a linguistic division, then it wouldn’t have any effect on someone’s susceptibility to a disease, would it?”
Jax shook his head. “Not necessarily. Language is turning out to be a pretty good reflection of the genetic relationships between different peoples. You need to remember that the division between ‘Arabs’ and ‘Jews’ is something new-and, some people would argue, artificial. Up until the twentieth century, people talked about ‘Arab Jews,’ the same way they talk about ‘French Jews,’ or ‘Spanish Jews.’ For well over a thousand years, some Arabs have been Muslims, some have been Christians, and some have been Jews. The original Jews-the ones from the Holy Land-are basically the same, genetically, as the Arabs. They’re all Semites.”