The Judas Strain sf-4

by James Rollins

  “Jack! Open the door!”

  He had woken two hours ago, confused and disoriented. She had seen it before. Sundowner’s syndrome. Common with Alzheimer’s patients. A condition of heightened agitation after sunset, when the familiar surroundings become confusing in the dark.

  And it was worse here. Away from home.

  It didn’t help that the Phoenix Park Hotel was their second accommodation in less than twenty-four hours. First, Dr. Corrin’s apartment, and now here. But Gray had been firm when he whispered his good-byes and added a private instruction to her. Once Dr. Corrin left them at the apartment, she had been told to leave, cross the city, and check into another hotel, paying cash, using a false name.

  An extra precaution.

  But all the moving had only worsened Jack’s status. He had been off his Tegetrol mood stabilizer for a full day. And he had finished the last of his Propranolol, a blood pressure medication that reduced anxiety.

  So it was no surprise that Jack had woken earlier in a panic, disoriented. The worst she had seen in months.

  His shouts and heavy-footed blundering had woken her. She had inadvertently fallen asleep, seated in a chair in front of the hotel room’s small television. The channel had been tuned to Fox News. She had the volume on low, just loud enough to hear if Gray’s name was mentioned again.

  Startled awake by her husband’s shout, she had hurried to the bedroom. A foolish mistake. One didn’t surprise a patient in his state. Jack had slapped her away, striking her in the mouth. With his blood up, it took him a full half minute to recognize her.

  When he finally did, he had retreated to the bathroom. She’d heard his sobbing. It was the reason he had locked the door.

  Pierce men didn’t cry.

  “Jack, open the door. It’s okay. I’ve called a prescription into the pharmacy down the street. It’s all right.”

  Harriet knew it was a risk, calling in the prescription. But she couldn’t take Jack to a hospital, and if untreated, his dementia would only grow worse. And his shouting threatened to draw the wrath of the hotel’s management. What if they called the police?

  With no choice, her teeth aching from the blow, she had made a decision. Using the phone book, she had called a twenty-four-hour pharmacy that delivered and ordered a refill. Once the medication arrived and her husband was treated, she would check out, move to a new hotel, and disappear again.

  The doorbell chimed behind her.

  Oh, thank God.

  “Jack, that’s the pharmacy. I’ll be right back.”

  She rushed out of the bedroom and across to the front door. Reaching for the dead bolt, she paused. She leaned forward instead and peeked through the door’s peephole. It offered a fish-eye view of the hallway. A lone woman, black hair cut into a bob, stood outside the door. She wore a white jacket with the pharmacy logo on the lapel and carried a white paper bag, stapled with a clutch of receipt.

  The woman reached out of view. The bell chimed again. The woman checked her watch and began to step away.

  Harriet called through the door. “Hold for a moment!”

  “Swan Pharmacy,” the woman called back.

  To be extra cautious, Harriet crossed to the telephone on an entryway table. She caught a look at herself in the wall mirror above it. She looked haggard, a melted wax candle of a woman. She tapped the button on the phone and rang the front desk in the lobby.

  It was answered immediately.

  “Phoenix Park. Front desk.”

  “This is room 334. I wanted to confirm a pharmacy delivery.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I checked her credentials three minutes ago. Is there a problem?”

  “No. Not at all. I just wanted—”

  A crash sounded from the bedroom behind her, followed by a spat of cursing. Jack had finally opened the bathroom door.

  The receptionist spoke in her ear. “Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am.”

  “No. Thank you.” She hung up the phone.

  “Harriet!” her husband called, a note of distress behind the anger.

  “I’m here, Jack.”

  The doorbell chimed again.

  Frazzled, Harriet undid the door’s dead bolt, hoping Jack would not fuss about taking his pills. She pulled open the door.

  The delivery woman lifted her face, smiling — but there was no warmth, only a feral amusement. A shock of recognition froze Harriet. It was the woman who had attacked them at the safe house. Before Harriet could move, the woman kicked the door the rest of the way open.

  Startled, the edge struck Harriet in the shoulder and knocked her into a stumbling fall onto the hard tile. She tried to absorb the impact with an outstretched arm — but her wrist exploded under her with a sharp snap. Fiery pain shot up her arm.

  Gasping out, half on her hip, she rolled away.

  Jack stalked out of the bedroom, only in his boxers.

  “Harriet…?”

  Still addled, Jack took too long to register the situation.

  The woman stepped over the threshold and raised a thick-barreled pistol. She pointed the weapon at Jack. “Here’s your medication.”

  “No,” Harriet moaned.

  The woman pulled the trigger. A snapping pop of electricity exploded from the barrel. Something spat past Harriet’s ear, trailing wire. It struck Jack in the bare chest, sparking and crackling blue in the dim light.

  Taser.

  He gagged, arms flying out — and crashed backward.

  He didn’t move.

  In the stunned silence a Fox News announcer whispered from the half-muted television: “Metro police are still continuing a manhunt for Grayson Pierce, wanted in connection to the arson and bombing of a local D.C. home.”

  8:32 A.M.

  Istanbul

  Alone at the roof rail Gray struggled to think of some secure channel to communicate to Washington. About the dangers at Christmas Island. He would have to be circumspect, some private communication that would not spread beyond Painter. But how? Who was to say that the Guild was not monitoring all manner of communication?

  Seichan spoke behind him, back at the table. Her words were not directed at Gray. “Monsignor, you still have not explained why you called us to Istanbul. You claimed to have understood the angelic inscription.”

  Curiosity drew Gray back to the table, but he could not sit. He stood between Seichan and Vigor.

  The monsignor swung up his backpack and settled it in his lap. He fished through it and pulled out a notebook, flipping it open on the table. Across the page was a charcoal-etched line of angelic letters.

  “Here is the inscription on the floor of the Tower of Wind,” Vigor said. “Each letter of this alphabet corresponds to a specific tonal word. And according to the father of angelic script, Trithemius, when combined in the right sequence, such groupings could open a direct line to a specific angel.”

  “Like long-distance dialing,” Kowalski muttered from the other side of the table.

  With a nod, Vigor flipped the sheet to the next page. “I went ahead and marked the name for each letter.”

  Gray shook his head, not seeing any pattern.

  Vigor slipped out a pen and drew a line under the first letter of each name, reciting as he did so. “A. I. G. A. H.”

  “Is that some angel’s name?” Kowalski asked.

  “No, not an angel, but it is a name,” Vigor said. “What you have to understand is that Trithemius based his alphabet on Hebrew, claiming power in the Jewish letters. Even today, practitioners of Kabbalah believe that there is some form of divine wisdom buried in the shapes and curves of the Hebrew alphabet. Trithemius just claimed his angelic script was the purest distillation of Hebrew.”

  Gray leaned closer, beginning to understand the direction of Vigor’s track. “And Hebrew is read opposite from English. From right to left.”

  Seichan traced a finger across the paper and read backward. “H. A. G. I. A.”

  “Hagia,” Vigor pronounced carefully. “The word
means ‘divine’ in Greek.”

  Gray’s eyes had narrowed — then widened with sudden understanding.

  Of course.

  “What?” Seichan asked.

  Kowalski scratched the stubble on his head, equally clueless.

  Vigor stood and drew them all up. He walked them to face the city. “On his journey home, Marco Polo crossed through Istanbul, named Constantinople at the time. Here is where he crossed from Asia and finally reentered Europe, a significant crossroads of sorts.”

  The monsignor pointed out to the city, toward one of the ancient monuments. Gray had noted it before. A massive flat-domed church, half covered in black scaffolding as restoration work was under way.

  “Hagia Sophia,” Gray said, naming the structure.

  Vigor nodded. “It was once the largest Christian church in all the world. Marco himself commented on the wonders of its airy spaces. Some people mistake Hagia Sophia to mean ‘Saint Sophia,’ but in fact, the true name of the structure is the Church of Divine Wisdom, which can also be interpreted as the Church of Angelic Wisdom.”

  “Then that’s where we must go!” Seichan said. “The first key must be hidden there.” She swung away.

  “Not so fast, young lady,” Vigor scolded.

  The monsignor returned to his backpack, reached inside, and drew out a cloth-wrapped object. Gently resting it on the table, he peeled back the layers to reveal a flat bar of dull gold. It appeared very old. It bore a hole at one end, and its surface was covered in a cursive script.

  “Not angelic,” Vigor said, noting Gray’s attention to the lettering. “It’s Mongolian. It reads, ‘By the strength of the eternal heaven, holy be the Khan’s name. Let he who pays him not reverence be killed.’”

  “I don’t understand,” Gray said, crinkling his brow. “Did this belong to Marco Polo? What is it?”

  “In Chinese, it is called a paitzu. In Mongolian, a gerege.”

  Three blank faces stared back at Vigor.

  Vigor nodded to the object. “In the modern vernacular, it’s a VIP passport. A traveler bearing this superpassport could demand horses, supplies, men, boats, anything from the lands governed by Kublia Khan. To refuse such aid was punishable by death. The Khan granted such passes to those ambassadors who traveled in his service.”

  “Nice,” Kowalski whistled — but from the glint in the man’s eyes, Gray suspected it was the gold more than the story that had won the man’s awe.

  “And the Polos were given one of these passports?” Seichan asked.

  “Three of them, in fact. One for each Polo. Marco, his father, and his uncle. In fact, there is an anecdote concerning these passports. A famous one. When the Polos arrived back in Venice, it was said no one recognized them. The trio came worn, tired, in a single ship. Looking little better than beggars. None would believe them to be the long-vanished Polos. Upon stepping to shore, the trio sliced open the seams of their clothes, and a vast wealth of emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and silver spilled out. Included in this treasure trove were the three golden paitzus, described in great detail. But after this story, the golden passports vanished away. All three of them.”

  “The same number as the map’s keys,” Gray commented.

  “Where did you find this?” Seichan asked. “In one of the Vatican museums?”

  “No.” Vigor tapped the open notebook with the angelic script. “With the help of a friend, I discovered it under the marble tile upon which this inscription was written. In a secret hollow beneath the marble.”

  Like the friar’s cross, Gray realized. Buried in stone.

  Seichan swore slightly. Again the prize had been right under her nose all along.

  Vigor continued, “I believe this is one of the very paitzus granted to the Polos.” He faced them all. “And I believe this is the first key.”

  “So the clue leading to Hagia Sophia…” Gray began.

  “It’s pointing to the second key,” Vigor finished. “Two more missing passports, two more missing keys.”

  “But how can you be so sure?” Seichan asked.

  Vigor flipped the gold bar over. Inscribed in great detail, a single letter adorned the back side. An angelic letter.

  Vigor tapped the letter. “Here is the first key.”

  Gray knew he was right. He glanced up, toward the massive church. Hagia Sophia. The second key had to be hidden there, but it was a huge structure. It would be like finding a golden needle in a haystack. It could take days.

  Vigor must have read his worry. “I already have someone scouting ahead at the church. An art historian from the Vatican who helped me back at the Tower of Wind with the angelic riddle.”

  Gray nodded. As he studied the single letter, he could not shake a deeper worry. For his two friends. Monk and Lisa. Already in harm’s way. If he could not contact Washington safely, perhaps there was another way he could help his friends: by beating the Guild to whatever lay at the end of this mystery.

  To find the City of the Dead, to discover the cure.

  Before the Guild did.

  As he stared toward the sunrise, Gray remembered Vigor’s words about Istanbul being the crossroad of Marco’s journey. In fact, since its founding, the ancient city had been the crossroads of the geographic world. To the north lay the Black Sea, to the south the Mediterranean. The Bosporus Strait, a major trade route and seaway, flowed between them. But more important to history, Istanbul straddled two continents. It had one foot in Europe, the other in Asia.

  The same could be said about the city’s place in the gulf of time.

  One foot in the present, one in the past.

  Forever at a crossroads.

  Not unlike himself.

  As he pondered this, a cell phone chimed to the side. Vigor turned and fished his phone out of the backpack’s front pocket. He studied the caller ID with a frown. “It’s a D.C. area code,” Vigor said.

  “Must be Director Crowe,” Gray warned. “Don’t mention anything. Stay on as short as possible to avoid any trace. In fact, we should pull the cell’s battery afterward so it’s not passively tracked.”

  Vigor rolled his eyes at his paranoia and flipped his phone open. “Pronto,” he greeted.

  Vigor listened for a few moments, his brow growing more and more furrowed. “Chi Parla?” he asked with a bit of heat. Whatever he heard seemed to shake him up. He turned and held the phone out for Gray.

  “Is it Director Crowe?” he asked sotto voce.

  Vigor shook his head. “You’d better take it.”

  Gray accepted the phone and lifted it to his ear. “Hello?”

  The voice that came on the line was instantly recognizable, the Egyptian accent clear. Nasser’s words drained all the heat from the air.

  “I have your mother and father.”

  8

  Patient Zero

  JULY 6, 12:42 P.M.

  Aboard the Mistress of the Seas

  So much for his rescue efforts…

  Standing in the midship elevator, Monk balanced a lunch tray on an upraised palm. He carried his assault rifle over his other shoulder. From small speakers, an ABBA song played, an acoustic version. The ride from the ship’s cramped kitchens to the top deck took long enough that he was humming along with the music by the time he reached his floor.

  Oh, dear God…

  The doors finally opened, allowing Monk to escape. He tromped down the hall toward the guards who flanked the double doors at the end. He mumbled under his breath, practicing his Malay. Jessie had stolen some dye to stain Monk’s face and hands to match the other pirates, similar to the disguise of the dead man in Lisa’s cabin, whose body Monk had discreetly dumped overboard.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  To finish his own disguise Monk kept his head scarf over the lower half of his face, playing the role to the hilt.

  When in Rome.

  Over the past day and night Jessie had trained Monk in some of the more common Malay phrases, the official language of the pirates here. Unfo
rtunately Monk hadn’t learned enough to talk his way past the cordon of security established around Lisa. He and Jessie had scouted the ship and discovered that all the scientific heads and their immediate support staff had been herded to one floor, while the medical staff continued ministering to the sick throughout the ship.

  Unfortunately, Lisa’s background in physiology must have been discerned. She was isolated in the scientific wing, barricaded and under tight security. It seemed only the elite of the pirates, under the immediate supervision of their leader, a tattooed Maori named Rakao, manned these posts. The radio room was equally guarded. Jessie had learned that much by folding himself into the pirate’s flock with his fluent use of their language.

  In the interim Monk had become little more than Jessie’s muscle. There was not much else he could do. Even if Monk tried a John Wayne assault on the scientific wing, how would he escape with Lisa? And go where? While still cruising at top speeds, they’d have to make a jump overboard. Not the wisest plan.

  Earlier this morning Monk had studied the waters from an open deck. The Mistress of the Seas cruised deep among the Indonesian islands. They were lost in a maze of smaller atolls, a thousand jungle-frosted fingers pointing skyward. If they escaped, swam to one of those islands, they’d be easily hunted down.

  That is, if they made it past the tiger sharks.

  So Monk had to bide his time.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t accomplish something.

  Like now.

  Serving lunch.

  It was a good plan. He needed to open a means of communication with Lisa. To let her know she wasn’t alone, but more importantly so they could coordinate whenever Monk was ready to take action. And as he could not reach Lisa directly, he needed an intermediary.

  Monk reached the double door. He lifted his tray toward the pair of guards and mumbled his way through the Malay equivalent of “the lunch bell has rung.”

  One of them turned and pounded the butt of his rifle against the door. A moment later, a guard, who was stationed inside, opened the door. He spotted Monk and waved him into the presidential suite of the ship.