by J. F. Penn
A hoarse shout came from downstairs and then a single gunshot. Morgan started, turning her head at the noise. Ramon whipped his pistol out, pointing it at the entrance to the flat, his face stricken at the fate of his fellow officer. He pulled his police baton from his belt, hands shaking a little, and passed it to Jake. They waited on either side of the front door for whoever might emerge from the stairwell.
"Hurry, Morgan," Jake whispered.
She tucked the notebook into the inside pocket of her jacket, looking around quickly for anything else that could indicate what the symbol on the statue had been. On a little table close to the ark where Santiago kept his Torah scroll, Morgan noticed a silver photo frame. In it were three generations of Pereiras, snapped in one happy moment several years ago. Santiago himself was in the center, surrounded by the women he loved: his wife and daughter standing with their hands on his shoulders. His granddaughter, Sofia, stood in a classic flamenco pose, one arm raised, her face dramatically serious but the fire in her eyes still evident. Santiago smiled in pride, a moment captured before tragedy had befallen the family.
A volley of gunshots peppered the front door and Ramon fired a couple of shots back through the splintered wood. Enough to hold them off momentarily, but Morgan knew he would be out of ammunition soon. An eruption of shots came from the street below, followed by screams, the smash of glass and running feet.
"Morgan, we really need to get out of here," Jake called softly from the other room. "There are more of them than we thought. We can't stay any longer."
His voice was calm with an edge of excitement. Morgan knew he would be feeling the adrenalin rush, heart pumping, ready for action. The addiction of what they did meant these moments were both danger and lust, a heady attraction.
Morgan grabbed the frame and pulled the back off to extract the photo. She found two more square-numbered grids carved into the inner back side of the frame. At a swift glance, it looked like the numbers were the same on each. Morgan refastened the frame and put it inside the other jacket pocket. She went back into the main room, looking around for escape options, her senses heightened.
Another shot came from the stairwell and Ramon fired back again, two shots, enough to halt them for just a few seconds. Morgan dragged a chest of drawers below the largest skylight and clambered up on it. She pushed the glass until it tilted away from her enough to reveal the tiled rooftops beyond.
"We can get out this way," she said. "Quick, Jake, give me a boost up and I can help you from outside."
A flurry of gunfire came from below and the wood of the door completely splintered, the lock exploding. Ramon stepped back quickly.
"You go," he said. "I'll keep them occupied."
"No way," Jake said, determination in his expression. "These guys want the flat, not us. If we get out of their way, they might not follow. You need to come with us."
He turned and boosted Morgan upwards. She climbed out, pulling herself onto the rooftop, and then reached down to help Ramon, tugging his arm as Jake pushed him from below.
The sound of feet hammered up the stairs and the door burst open just as Jake reached up, gunfire filling the room.
Chapter 8
Morgan and Ramon yanked Jake up and he pulled his legs through the skylight a split second before gunfire shredded the room below. The three of them didn't stop to look back, but ran across the maze of rooftops away from the scene. The light was fading fast and the gloom would hopefully hide their escape.
A clattering came behind them and Morgan looked back to see one man clambering out of the skylight.
"Down!" she shouted, pushing Ramon sideways and ducking behind a buttress separating two properties. A ping and a chip of stone exploded near her shoulder. She looked sideways to see Jake sheltering a little further away. His eyes reflected her own thoughts. If only they had some weapons, this might be going differently. He grinned suddenly and she couldn't help but smile back, reading his thoughts. It was good to be out here together.
Another shot shattered a window behind them, this time at closer range. It was time to get out of here.
Scooting to the edge of the building, Morgan looked over to see a large balcony and an open window below.
"This way," she whispered, slipping over the edge and dropping down onto the wide stone terrace. White curtains billowed around them as Ramon and Jake followed.
Morgan stepped inside to find a beautiful apartment, the table set for dinner. A woman in a short pink dress walked into the room, a gin and tonic in her hand. She clutched at the wall as she saw them, dropping the glass in alarm.
"It's OK," Morgan said, her hands out in the international gesture of reassurance. Ramon started speaking in Spanish, pulling his police ID out even as he got on the radio to call for backup. A shout came from the rooftop above, and the woman retreated into her bedroom.
"We have to get out of here," Jake said. "It doesn't look like they're giving up. We need to get out onto the street and lose them in the maze of the old city."
They hurried out into the streets below, ducking under porticos and bar umbrellas to stay out of sight from above until they were far enough away to be sure they were safe. A police car eventually picked them up near the port and Ramon escorted them to a hotel, checking them in under assumed names and assigning them police protection.
"I'll come by in the morning and we can go through everything we know about the case," Ramon said as they walked towards the lifts. Morgan shot Jake a quick glance before she nodded.
"Of course. We have a lot to discuss."
Jake reached out his hand. "Thank you, Ramon. I know you lost a man tonight. It's going to be a tough time ahead."
Ramon shook Jake's hand with a strong grip, resolve in his expression. "Eduardo was a good man and he had a little son … We'll get the bastards."
He turned and walked off, leaving Morgan and Jake alone.
On the fifth floor, they paused outside Morgan's room.
"How long do you need?" she asked.
"Give me an hour," Jake said. "I really need a shower, and I'll get the plane on standby. It's only a couple of hours' flight to Granada. We could even catch the late flamenco show and talk to Santiago's granddaughter."
In her room, Morgan pulled out Santiago's notebook and photo frame. The numbers on the checkerboard sketched in the back of the book and etched in the frame were the same, but different to Subirachs' square. The latter totaled 33 in any direction but these numbers added up to 70. Morgan tried to recall what she had seen on the back of the statue's head on top of the tower. Had it been the same as this, or were they a series of squares that together would add up to a clue? She took a couple of pictures with her smart phone and emailed them to Martin Klein back at ARKANE. The art of gematria was such that it could be used for a specific message, but it could also result in gibberish, the numbers translated into words that meant nothing. If Martin could sift through the myriad options, it might help them figure out what the numbers meant.
Morgan lay back on the stiff bedcovers, relaxing for a moment as she replayed the events of earlier today. She heard the rush of water next door as Jake started his shower. He hadn't shown any signs of being affected by his injuries, so maybe he really was fully recovered. She imagined how his scarred body must look under the water spray, and a smile played at the corner of her mouth as she allowed herself that brief fantasy. Post-action adrenalin, she thought, always devastating for the libido. She wondered if Jake was thinking along the same lines and went to the connecting door between their rooms, her palm on the handle. She only had to enter to see if he felt the same way. After a moment, she turned and headed into the shower in her own bathroom.
***
A few hours later, just after eleven p.m., the plane taxied to a halt at a small private airfield near the city of Granada. To the British, the hour might be considered late, but to the Spanish, the night was still young. Morgan was used to the later hours, as Tel Aviv ran on a similar clock. She let her ha
ir down as they headed into the city, brushing out the dark curls and putting on some darker makeup.
"Might as well play the part of a tourist after some nightlife," she said, catching Jake's sideways glance at her ministrations. There was an appreciation behind his raised eyebrow; it seemed that the chemistry that had sparked in the fires of Pentecost was still alive and well.
Jake's phone buzzed.
"It's Martin," he said. "Santiago's granddaughter, Sofia, is performing at the Alhambra in some kind of flamenco extravaganza sound-and-light show. It's already started, but the festivities go on well into the early hours. She'll be in several sets so she should be there for most of the night with her band."
The taxi sped through the city and Morgan gazed out at the streets, busy even at this late hour. Granada sat at the foot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and Morgan was thrilled to be back. Her father had brought her many years ago, a teenager keen on discovering more about her roots. Her name came from this area, and her ancestors had roamed these craggy mountains, only an hour from the ocean in the southeast corner of Spain. This was Andalucia; the word conjured its past, the soft fullness of the Arabic Al-Andalus, a melting pot of influences from ancient Greeks, Romans and Byzantines through to Muslims, Sephardic Jews and the Catholic Church that still dominated here.
Morgan thought for a moment of her sister, Faye, back home in England. A twin in blood, but so different in looks and personality. Faye's daughter, Gemma, looked like a Sierra, with darker skin and almost black hair, more like Morgan's child than her blonde sister's. Her own family was so mixed in origin that this multicultural area of Spain would always feel like home.
They rounded a corner and caught sight of the Alhambra, the fortress on the hill a forbidding welcome to new arrivals. The eleventh-century palace had been constructed by a Moorish emir, and even though the Reconquista of Spanish Christendom had taken the city, the Islamic architecture still remained.
They pulled up to the gates and bought tickets for the flamenco event, heading in through the wide entrance.
"Where's the dancing?" Morgan asked the ticket seller.
"In the Court of the Lions," he said, glancing down at his watch. "The last set has just started, so you'll have to hurry."
Morgan led Jake quickly through the terrace of the western-style palace towards the Moorish buildings beyond. The mournful sound of flamenco guitar floated on the balmy night air, and Morgan breathed in the scent of flowers from the extensive gardens. She could see across the valley to the narrow winding streets of Albaicín, where she had stayed with her father so long ago. She heard his voice telling her stories of how the cave dwellings of Sacramonte had sheltered their ancestors as blood was spilled on these streets.
They reached the Court of the Lions, surrounded by the stunning arabesque architecture of the ancient Moorish kingdom. Slim pillars in cool ivory-colored marble led towards soaring archways intricately designed with filigree geometric shapes and Arabic calligraphy. The overwhelming sensation was light and delicate, as if the stone palace was constructed of magically spun air. The Court of the Lions was open to the night air, a courtyard surrounded by one hundred and twenty-four white columns topped with decorated archways. In the center of the courtyard, a great alabaster fountain supported by twelve marble lions spouted water, sparkling in the subtle lighting that only seemed to enhance the otherworldly atmosphere. The courtyard was filled with people, eyes riveted on the scene before them.
A young man sat on the edge of the fountain, plucking his guitar while next to him stood two older men and a woman, singing a song of the gitanos, the Romani people of Spain. In front of them, a young woman danced with the proud stamps and hand claps of flamenco. Her scarlet dress with full ruffled skirt accentuated her dark skin and her full eyebrows arched as she turned, arms raised.
Morgan saw her face in profile and recognized the young girl in the picture in Santiago's room, the granddaughter he was estranged from. Her dance mesmerized those watching, the embodiment of duende, the soul of Andalucia that undulated through her hips and the arch of her back. Morgan had heard that true duende resonated with a heightened awareness of death and a dash of the diabolical, and there was truly an edge of darkness as Sofia moved. The shadows at her feet were almost living things that she stamped back into the depths of the earth. The wail of the older woman's song grew louder, a desperate lament for the loss of their homeland. Sofia whirled, her steps faster and faster until she stood motionless at the crescendo, the guitar silenced by the applause.
She held the pose as the noise died down, waiting for quiet again. She turned and gestured to the guitar player, and Morgan caught the look that sparked between them, recognizing an intimate knowledge. This was Sofia's boyfriend, perhaps the cause of the rift with her family. He had the look of a Moroccan-Spanish Arab, his long dark hair worn loose about his face – a Muslim, perhaps, or a gitano, a man Santiago may have considered beneath his pure-blood Jewish granddaughter. The young man began to pluck the strings and one of the other men from the group stepped forward to dance with Sofia, stamping with fast heels.
A figure stepped from the crowd, standing poised on the edge of the open ring. He wore the black shirt and tight trousers of flamenco and his strong features brought to mind a toreador, a bullfighter in his prime. He had been wounded in battle, his right eye scarred and sightless, but Morgan's gaze was drawn to his wide chest, muscled arms, and his posture of dominance. She tensed at his entrance, aware of the imminent danger Sofia was in, but perhaps this man was just a member of the troupe, a plant for dramatic effect.
The man stepped forward, raising his arms, commanding attention as he stamped rhythmically towards Sofia. She turned in the dance, away from the man in her troupe, indicating her acceptance of his challenge. The man began the dance of the bullfighter, and they circled around each other as the music soared. There was a chemistry between them, and even though the man was old enough to be her father, he was attractive, a dark intensity in his gaze as he danced closer to Sofia, calling his olé as he clapped. She spun in his circle, tilting her body towards his. Morgan saw the guitar player's eyes narrow at this rival. The taut strings of attraction held the pair at arm's length, but as the music reached a crescendo and the song ended, the man reached out and pulled Sofia to him.
The young woman's eyes widened, her mouth opened in a gasp. Morgan stepped forward, suddenly realizing the threat. Then the spotlights flicked off and the fire alarm rang out, its piercing shriek echoing around the Court of the Lions as the whole area was plunged into darkness.
Chapter 9
Morgan froze as the shrill alarm filled the courtyard and darkness sparked a panic amongst the hundreds of people crammed into the tiny space. Someone screamed and shouts erupted as the mass of bodies began to surge for the exits. Morgan felt Jake's hand on her arm and they pushed sideways to stand against one of the marble columns as the tide of panicked humanity swept around them.
"We need to go in the opposite direction," Jake said close to her ear. "Away from this emergency exit."
Morgan pressed back against the pillar, feeling the cool weight of the gun against her back. They had made the decision to carry weapons after Barcelona, but the Barak SP-21 pistol was next to useless in this crowd in the dark. She thought of the man's face, his ruined eye that did nothing to diminish his proud bearing. Was he responsible for Santiago's death? And if so, why did he want Sofia?
The pressure of the crowd lessened a little and Morgan started to push through the oncoming horde, heading back into the square, Jake following behind. The flash of torches illuminated the delicate archways above, flickering across the names of God inscribed on the walls. Beneath the cries of the crowd, Morgan heard running feet heading towards the gardens, the sound echoing on the marble of the hallways inside the palace.
"This way," she whispered. She pulled her gun out as they found themselves alone in a high vaulted room, shafts of moonlight catching the trellis windows and turning the til
es around them to spun silver.
The cry of a woman came from a little way ahead, swiftly muted.
Morgan ran around the room to the other side, weapon held angled down and in front of her. Jake flanked her, going the other way, until they were both at the entrance to the next room. A flash of torchlight came from the corridor beyond. Morgan carefully peered round the column.
A crack of stone and a gunshot echoed. Morgan pulled back quickly as another round blasted the centuries-old palace wall. Jake took the chance to fire back. A shout of pain came from the room beyond.
"They're taking Sofia," Jake said, firing again into the room, pulling away as the men returned fire.
"There's no point us engaging here," Morgan said. "This way." She turned and ran for one of the vaulted windows, tucking her weapon back in her jeans before climbing out. She shimmied down, using the intricate decoration for finger-holds, into the gardens below. She heard Jake get off a couple more shots and then he clambered out the window to join her. The darkness was complete out here, the scent of flowers overladen with smoke from the gunfire. The sound of a helicopter carried on the night breeze.
"That's how they're planning to leave," Morgan said. "I seem to remember that there's a more open area by the pool. They could be using that." She ran swift and low, keeping close to the wall of the palace until they emerged next to a pool surrounded by palm trees.
A shot whizzed by Morgan's ear and they took cover again, only able to watch as the man with the scarred eye was pulled up into the helicopter, a limp Sofia in his arms.
As the helicopter banked away to the west, the armed men faded into the night, no longer needed and eager to escape the growing police presence at the hilltop palace.
"We need to get out of here," Morgan said. "We can't be found with weapons. They'll hold us for too long." She walked to the parapet at the edge of the pool, looking down into the dark green below. "You up for a climb?"
