by Gregg Loomis
I inhaled deeply, tasting the musty odor of earth mixed with rancid lamp oil. I saw the cave was largely man-made. Large, regularly spaced openings let in the light, making the dark shadows seem even blacker and obscuring my guide in the gloom. From somewhere in front of me a dim light grew brighter, and there was a moaning, keening sound like no human voice I had ever heard.
Then I saw her.
She sat on the stone floor of a tiny room, the oldest person I had ever seen, the woman who had asked for eternal life but not youth. A guttering lamp emphasized deep furrows the centuries had plowed in the sagging flesh of her face. Her uncovered head was bald, and she drooled from a toothless mouth. ^2 Scattered around her were hundreds of tiny oak leaves. I watched her write on one, set it down, and begin another. According to Virgil, nearly a century past, she was composing prophesies. Should a breeze scatter her work, she would not rearrange the leaves.
She looked up with eyes as dull as unpolished stones, and I saw she was blinded by cataracts.
But how could she write if…
She either saw or sensed me, for she pointed a sticklike finger, its arthritic joints the size of chestnuts, before throwing herself onto her back and writhing with an animation that belied her age. She was mumbling something I could not comprehend. It was only outside that my guide repeated the words she had spoken, something in verse that sounded like [translation]:
“To meet your father you will go,
Even though he is not there below.
No harm are you about to receive, If you are one who will believe.” ^3
I waited for her to finish for a full minute before realizing she had begun to snore.
“But what am I…?” I asked the priest when he had given me her prophecy.
My only answer was the production of a clay dish held by the attendant who had led me in. It was time to leave an offering for the gods in payment for the prophecy.
I reached into my subucularm ^4 for my purse. “But… but I have no idea what she meant. I mean, she made no sense.”
But then, sibyls didn’t have to.
Although I had never been there, legend and literature were full of the riddles spoken by the Delphic oracle in Greece, as well as this Cumae Sibyl. If the priest’s rendition was verbatim, she had delivered hers in almost perfect trochee. ^5
Sensing the growing impatience of the cloaked figure, I dropped a gold denarius onto the plate. Far more valuable than indecipherable prophecy, but it does not pay to be cheap when dealing with the gods.
Leaving the cave, I climbed the gentle hill to the temple of Jupiter. Actually, the temple of Zeus, I suppose, since the Greeks had originally built Cumae, as they had most of southern Italy. Had the Sibyl been here then? No matter-I left another gold coin at the foot of the god’s statue that stared off across the sea as though it might he searching for Aeneas fleeing the ashes of Troy. Satisfied I had done all I could, I took the path down to the city gate, where the groom held my horse that would take me the few miles south to Baia.
And to Hades.
NOTES
1. Doves, pigeons, and even swallows abound in ancient descriptions, symbols, and pictures of oracles. Since no form of prophecy can continue long without being right occasionally, many scholars believe that carrier birds were used to bring immediate news of far-off events that could then be “prophesied” weeks or even months before the news arrived.
2. While the oracle at Delphi supposedly made her forecasts under the influence of narcotic gases from a cleft in the earth, the Cumae Sibyl is commonly believed to have made her predictions while in an epileptic seizure.
3. By “translating” the ravings of an epileptic, the priests could often utilize the information gained as noted in 1, above. They were certainly adept at ambiguity.
4. The subucular is commonly translated as a shirt. Actually, it served more as an undergarment. Severenus was carrying his money in such an unusual way as to suggest he had reason to fear of robbers.
5. The long-short meter of the seven types of Latin verse.
PART III
Chapter Thirteen
North Caicos, Turks and Caicos Islands
British West Indies
The next morning
Jason was the only white or male in the line outside the cinder-block building that Barclays Bank shared with Island Hair and Beauty. Although he had stood in this very spot more times than he could count, he already felt like a stranger here. He had spent last night in a resort hotel on Providenciales, the islands’ tourist destination, where he knew no one. This morning, he had hired a stranger to bring him to North Caicos by boat.
After leaving Dr. Kamito yesterday, Jason had taken Pangloss to one of those high-end kennels found in cities where a large segment of the wealthy population were frequently unable to take their pets on their excursions abroad, a place where treatment of four-legged guests was designed to soothe the consciences of two-legged owners. Jason had stayed in hotel rooms-nice hotel rooms-that cost less per diem than Pangloss’s temporary home. Of course, hotel rooms rarely came with soundproofing, regularly scheduled exercise, or personal attendants. The dog’s quarters were even video monitored so separation-anxiety-racked owners could view their pets on closed-circuit TV accessible from the establishment’s Web site.
Despite the glory of a tropical morning, Jason was in a black mood not entirely attributable to Pangloss’s absence. Generally the homeless had a cardboard box, a street corner, a bridge, some familiar place that included that sense of belonging that tethered the human soul to reality. Jason was truly homeless. He was domiciled no place at all, had no location where he belonged. Annoyed at his own self-pity, he reached in a pocket to make sure he still had his real passport and bankbook. The homeless weren’t standing in line to move a high six-figure account. He felt a little better.
He could have simply had Barclays wire-transfer the money, but anything done by computer was theoretically subject to hacking. If his new enemies, Eco or whoever they were, knew he had been living here, it would be logical for them to watch for the transfer of funds to learn his new location-of which, at the moment, even he was uncertain.
He’d had a couple of other details to clear up, too. Jeremiah would sell the Whaler for him and reap the political profit of donating the proceeds equally to the island’s four or five churches. He had succumbed to a compulsion to sift through the charred remains of the house to make sure there was nothing of Laurin’s that was salvageable.
There wasn’t.
He planned to spend no more than half a day in the Turks and Caicos before beginning a convoluted series of international flights. Even if the islands were being watched, he should be able to get in and out before his enemies could muster an attack.
The door opened and a dozen or so native women queued up inside. He was the sole bank customer.
The solemn-faced teller dolefully counted out the money, a large stack of hundred-dollar bills, as Jason had specified by a phone call to the bank’s main branch in Grand Turk. The request was facilitated by the fact that the U.S. dollar was the currency of the islands, rather than pounds sterling. He was leaving when he spotted Felton, the island’s constable and entire police force.
It was not unusual to see Felton in his uniform of starched white jacket and red-striped navy trousers. It was unusual for the policeman to have an old Welby revolver stuck in his shiny black belt. Since most crime on North Caicos involved drunkenness, fighting, or petty theft, there was little or no need for Felton to be armed. Sentences, imposed by Felton acting as prosecutor, judge, and jury, consisted of confinement for a day or two in the constable’s guest room, which doubled as the jail. The prisoner served his time by playing endless rounds of dominoes with his jailer.
More unusual yet were the two young men walking beside Felton, two men whose uniforms identified then as police from Grand Turk.
Someone was in trouble, and Jason had an uncomfortable feeling he knew who.
&nb
sp; Felton and his two companions stopped, blocking Jason’s path.
“‘Lo, Jason,” the constable said, his eyes refusing to lock onto Jason’s.
“Morning, Felton,” Jason replied. “There a problem?”
Felton, clearly unhappy to be the harbinger of ill tidings, nodded. ” ‘Fraid so. Police over to Grand Turk got a ‘nonymous call day or two ago, say some folks were killed ‘fore your house blew up.”
The coffee and island fruit Jason had eaten for breakfast felt like a cannonball in his stomach. He didn’t have to guess at the source of the call.
Felton continued, “Police from Grand Turk came over, looked ‘round. Sure ‘nough, there be human remains where yo’ house was. Police figger you burned the house to hide the evidence.”
“Why would I do that? If I had killed someone and wanted to hide a body, I’d dump it in the ocean or bury it, not burn down my house.”
Felton nodded, acknowledging the logic of Jason’s argument. “Mebbe so, but they wants to talk to you over to Grand Turk.” He produced a pair of rusty handcuffs. “Sorry, Jason. I hates this, but you gonna haff to go wid’ dese here fellas.”
Jason thought about making a run for it and discarded the idea. Even if he succeeded, where on the island could he hide?
“If I’m being arrested, I get a telephone call, right?”
“You can call from Grand Turk,” one of the policemen said.
Felton snapped the cuffs closed around Jason’s wrists and handed the key to the man who had spoken, visibly relieved to no longer be in charge. “Like I say, Jason, I hates this.”
As he was marched away, Jason turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “Not your fault, Felton. I’ll be back and kick your black ass at dominoes.”
The constable’s face lit up. “Dat’ll be de day!”
Jason hoped Felton believed the match would take place more than he did.
Chapter Fourteen
U.S.-Canadian border
Near Sumas, Washington
The same day
Rassavitch handed his Canadian driver’s license and passport through the car window to the fat immigration and naturalization officer. Neither had his real name nor address. False identification was a cottage industry along the northern side of the U.S.-Canadian border.
The official retreated to the small customs building beside the road, presumably to run the fictional name into the computer for a useless comparison with known terrorists. Since Rassavitch had made the name up, he was less than worried.
Sure enough, the man returned, handing the documents back. “Canadian citizen?”
Rassavitch nodded. “Yes, sir.”
No further identification required.
With millions of foreigners in Canada due to the most lax immigration standards in the western hemisphere, Rassavitch and his group caused no suspicion. No one was surprised when they availed themselves of equally liberal welfare laws so they might devote full time to their true purpose.
Even in December of 1999, when Ahmed Ressam had been apprehended near here with a carload of explosives with which to celebrate the new millennium, the Canadian authorities had done nothing to tighten security. It was the Americans, not the Canadians, who had to worry. Ahmed’s target had been the Los Angeles airport, not something in Canada. Besides, prosecuting or even extraditing accused terrorists was contrary to the country’s open-door policy to all people, a policy that endangered their neighbor to the south, much to the glee of most Canadians.
United States bashing had replaced apathy as the national pastime of Canada.
Don’t offend, don’t interfere, don’t get involved. Canada’s national mantra. A national character that rivaled cottage cheese for blandness. And why not? Any external threat would be met not by the few largely ceremonial troops of Canada’s military, but by U.S. military might. Like most recipients of charity, Canada was resentful, believing it could avoid global conflict by political correctness and siding against their protector on every issue.
Rassavitch smiled, showing yellowed teeth, as the officer waved him across the border. Didn’t even ask for the keys to inspect the trunk. That would be racial profiling, hassling someone to whom English was not a native language. And America, the democracy, would not treat any of its minorities differently from its majority.
Apparently dogs were immune from political correctness. The black Lab had sniffed its way around the car and wagged its tail in a most friendly manner. Of course, there was nothing in the car for the dog to smell. Only Rassavitch, who intended to be much more effective than a few hundred pounds of explosives.
He returned the officer’s wish that he have a good day and entered the United States. When he was out of sight of the border station, he pulled to the side of the two-lane road and waited for a fully loaded logging truck to pass before he flicked a flame from a cigarette lighter and burned the driver’s license and passport to unrecognizable ash.
Then he turned east and began the long drive to the opposite coast.
Chapter Fifteen
Grand Turk
That afternoon
On the few occasions he had visited there, Jason had been impressed with just how unattractive a tropical setting could be made. Grand Turk was a center for off-shore banking, corporations and individuals who were willing to pay handsomely to remain below the radar of any number of tax-collecting authorities and the lawyers who served this very specialized clientele. One-story office buildings, mostly concrete block, crowded one another for space along one side of Front Street. Any number of colors, apparently based on the availability of paint at the time of construction rather than aesthetics, had been used. Across the street, a beach, framed by tired palm trees, had probably once been a spectacular crescent. Today, litter and garbage of every description covered the golden sand and floated in the turquoise surf as though a giant party had just ended.
The business of Grand Turk was business. Scenic vistas belonged elsewhere.
Jason sat in the backseat of an ancient Ford between two burly officers who reeked of sweat and stale tobacco smoke. The prison occupied two blocks of the town’s less desirable real estate, ten-foot-high stone walls topped with broken glass that sparkled in the sun with a cheerfulness that seemed out of place.
Upon arrival, he was taken to a small, airless room where the smell of lye soap was strong enough to make his eyes water but not sufficient to conceal the odor of old urine, feces, and despair. He was stripped and searched by two other officers and fingerprinted with a kit J. Edgar Hoover would have discarded as antiquated. His clothes, minus belt and shoelaces, were returned to him. The size of the eyes of the guard examining the contents of the money belt told Jason what was in the man’s mind.
“Barclays has a receipt for issuing every dime of that,” Jason said. “I’d hate to have to make a claim for any that was missing.”
The glance exchanged between the two guards did little to reassure Jason.
“And I believe I’m entitled to a phone call.”
The two looked at him as though he were speaking in tongues.
“A phone call,” Jason repeated, holding a fist next to his ear to simulate the device.
One of the men grinned. “Mon, dis ain’ some hotel on de beach.”
The other nodded. “Yeah, we ain’ got room service, neither.”
The first twisted Jason’s arms behind him with more force than was necessary and shoved him forward. “An’ you don’ gets a choice of view wid de room.”
A short walk down a hallway brought them to an enclosed square, each side lined with six cells. The man behind Jason gave him another push that sent him stumbling, into darkness and crashing into the far wall.
“You does git a private room, though!”
Both found this extremely funny. A barred door clanged shut, and the two men were laughing as the sound of their footsteps faded.
Jason guessed the room was about six by six. A single bunk with a soiled cotton-tick mattress
occupied one entire wall. Opposite from the entrance, a barred slit of a window was next to the ceiling. Below that, a seatless commode and a stained basin with a single handle added to the austerity of the room. A cursory inspection showed the walls to be island limestone, a porous material that was likely to seep water in a driving rain but hard enough to resist any efforts to escape.
A colony of mold was prospering on one wall.
Jason examined the barred door closely. Although the lock was of the old type that required a key, the lock plate was firm and, as far as he could tell, well maintained.
He stretched out on the bunk for lack of a better place. If they didn’t know already, Eco’s minions would soon be aware he was confined, locked up with no chance of escaping whatever they had in mind for him. The memory of Paco’s headless body was enough to guarantee he would not accidentally doze off.
Chapter Sixteen
Providenciales International Airport
Providenciales, Turks and Caicos Islands
British West Indies
The next morning
There was something downright strange about Charlie Calder’s four passengers, the ones who had just gotten off the international flight from Miami.
They didn’t smile, unusual in a place where the sun was almost always shining, the beaches and water almost always beautiful. People were mostly happy to get here and smiled a lot. It was the eyes, Charlie thought, dark, almost black eyes that seemed to scowl from faces that looked very much like they had spent time in a boxing ring, faces very much like those of the six men he had seen here at the airport last week.
Those men, he understood, had chartered a fishing boat run by his cousin Willie, but had done nothing but drift outside the North Caicos reef and look at the beach through binoculars before having Willie put them ashore at North Caicos’s only dock just at dark. As far as Willie knew, they were still over there.
