“I apologize for the suddenness of my appearance.” Shepherd lowered his hands and slipped his badge back in his jacket, his mind flipping through various options of what to say next. The road sat at the bottom of steep walls of drilled rock so that the only way to go any farther was past the roadblock. But he had no authority here and the soldiers didn’t seem to want to let anyone through. “Can we talk somewhere in private?” he said, gambling on this at least getting him on the right side of the barriers.
Arkadian considered for a moment then said something in Turkish and the soldier in front of Shepherd stepped aside to allow him to pass. He stepped through the barrier and heard the clamor of voices double in volume behind him as the other drivers saw what had happened.
“These people,” Arkadian said, nodding back at the line, “more of them arrive each day. They were all born here. They don’t care that the city is still under quarantine, they just want to go home. Especially now that this countdown has appeared on the news.”
“It’s the same all over,” Shepherd said. “Everyone getting ready for the end of the world.”
“Not quite everyone,” Arkadian said, reaching a car and unlocking it. “For some people the world has already ended.”
He didn’t elaborate and Shepherd didn’t pursue it, but as they drove away from the roadblock and down an empty road he could feel the sadness coming off the inspector like something tangible. He selfishly hoped it had nothing to do with the news he was about to hear.
96
The cab pulled up outside the battered building on the outskirts of Gaziantep and Eli stared out at the noisy, busy street. He was in some kind of merchant district with warehouse shops spilling onto the streets and men milling about and haggling energetically and loudly over everything. He showed the driver the piece of paper he had written the address on, convinced they couldn’t possibly be in the right place.
“Is here,” the driver said, pointing at a faded blue door set into the wall. “Is church.”
Eli paid the man and got out, feeling edgy. They’d had to split up at the airport, Carrie following the FBI agent, him heading off to fetch supplies from a local contact Archangel had set them up with. He never liked being away from her, particularly somewhere like this where there were so many triggers for bad memories: the dry heat; the loud conversations in an alien language and Eastern-sounding music blaring from somewhere; the shabby buildings lining dusty streets; the missile minarets of a mosque sticking up above the rooftops. He didn’t like it — not at all — the whole place screamed “hostile.”
He moved over to the door, scoping out the street as he went, automatically looking for sniper positions and ambush points. There were too many to count and the men who had been bartering for goods started to turn their attention to him. Behind him the cab began to move away and he felt a strong urge to run after it, get back in and get the hell out of here. But then Carrie would be disappointed in him and he couldn’t bear to see that sad look in her eyes or know that it was his weakness that had put it there.
He walked over to the door, sweat starting to prickle his scalp, and looked for a name or a sign, anything that might prove he was in the right place. A stack of different doorbells lined the sides of the frame with the names of businesses or individuals he didn’t recognize pinned to each one. The address and instructions Archangel had given him said he was coming to a church, but there was no sign of one here. Panic started to bubble low down in his chest as he realized that, with the taxi now gone, he could be stranded here. He should have made the driver stay until he’d checked it out. Stupid! Carrie would be furious if he came back with nothing. Then he saw it, etched on the plastic case of one of the doorbell buttons, so small anyone would miss it unless they were looking specifically for it — a small cross.
He pressed the button and waited, feeling the eyes of the street upon him. He listened for sounds of movement beyond the thick door but all he heard was the music of the street, sounding strange and unsettling to his ear. He was convinced the volume of the conversations had dropped and that they were now talking about him. He pressed the button again, wondering if the cable that ran out of it and burrowed into the wooden frame like a fat worm was even connected to anything. He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Alone. Sweat beading in his cropped hairline started to run down the sides of his face. He was on the point of turning around and walking away when a loud crack sounded inside the door, making him jump. A gap opened and a round, moonlike face appeared in it. The man was dressed in the traditional long white tunic with a keffiyeh wrapped around his neck. He barely looked at Eli, his restless, bloodshot eyes sizing up the street before opening the door wide enough to let him pass.
Inside, the building was dark and old and smelled of leather and dust. A staircase ran up the center with doors leading off each landing to the various businesses that had been advertised on the bell buttons by the main door.
Eli followed in silence, keeping close to the wheezing, waddling figure of his contact until they reached the very top of the stairs and a plain door that was carefully unlocked with a set of keys kept on a leather thong around the fat man’s neck.
Eli had bowed his head and prayed in some weird churches in his time but this one was in a league all its own. The room was tiny, about the size of a small garage, with a bedroll in one corner and a solitary window crudely taped up with old newspapers to form the sign of the cross. On the floor beneath it votive candles burned on a broad plank of wood set atop a wooden crate, their flames wavering in the disturbed air.
The man closed the door and locked it before leaning toward him and whispering with sour, tobacco breath, “We must be careful, for we are under siege here. The enemy is outside the door. We should pray before we get down to God’s business.”
He dropped to his knees, facing the window, crossing himself before opening his arms wide and holding them up to the ragged, paper-edged cross.
“Lord our Father, bless us and protect us in all that we do in your holy name. And give us the strength to go into battle against the forces of Satan that inhabit your holy lands and help us to defeat those who would seek to destroy you.” He leaned forward as if prostrating himself before the Lord, took hold of the edges of the wooden board and removed it, candles and all, to reveal a neat line of weapons laid out on a blanket beneath it.
Eli reached inside the crate and picked up a Ruger. It looked tiny in his hand but it wasn’t for him. He checked the action and removed the clip. It held only six rounds but that wasn’t necessarily a problem. Carrie was the best shot he had ever seen. For himself he took a Zigana K, a Turkish semiautomatic he had fired before, and a folding hunter’s knife.
“Ammunition?” he asked.
The man turned around in the small space and flipped the bedroll over to show a hatch cut into the floorboards. He lifted the panel out to reveal boxes of ammunition as well as something else Eli had not expected.
“I didn’t ask for a suicide vest,” he said, his eyes fixed on the bundle of explosives and wires as if it was a coiled snake.
The fat man glanced at him. “You are not the only soldier of God who needs a sword,” he said, handing him boxes of shells for the guns he had chosen. “And yours will not be the only battle fought here in the days to come.”