by Glenn Meade
“What?”
“I just saw a red Fiat 500 come out of the monastery and drive off like a bat out of hell. The monk at the wheel was alone and I couldn’t see his face. He had the hood of his habit up, which I thought was odd.”
Ryan’s voice flared. “Could it have been Uncle?”
Butoni rubbed his mustache. He saw the Fiat’s brake lights illuminate, then the car turned right at the end of the avenue and disappeared. “Impossible to say, but my gut instinct told me to let you know. You think I should follow the Fiat?”
“Get after it, Angelo. We can’t take the risk, not while we’re still trying to figure out the shooting near St. Peter’s Square. I’ll call the abbot to find out what in heaven’s name is going on. If it’s a false alarm you can always turn back.”
87
THE SERB BRAKED the Alfa Romeo to a halt outside Hassan Malik’s villa. Beside him in the front seat, Nidal’s head was lolled to one side, his eyes closed, a flood of crimson hemorrhaging from a wound to his stomach. A gurgling sound came from his mouth and there was blood everywhere—on his shirt, on the seats—and the car looked like the inside of an abattoir.
The Serb sweated as he tossed aside a used hypodermic syringe and handfuls of bloodstained paper tissues that he had discarded on the car’s center console. He glanced over his shoulder.
The woman lay unconscious across the backseat. She was pretty, her tight jeans hugging her figure. The Serb looked back as the villa’s front door burst open and Hassan Malik stormed down the steps.
He clutched a cell phone, two bodyguards accompanying him, and he looked ashen. “How is Nidal?”
The Serb jumped out of the Alfa and opened the passenger door. “Worse, Mr. Malik, he’s lost a lot of blood. He was conscious until a couple of minutes ago but as I explained on the phone, he wouldn’t let me take him to a hospital. But he was in so much pain I had to give him a tranquilizing shot I meant for Cane, just to calm him down.”
Hassan Malik’s eyes became wet as he held his brother’s hand. “Dr. Forini’s already here. He’s one of Rome’s best surgeons. I’ve got a bedroom set up with everything he needs, hot water, fresh towels.”
Behind them, right on cue, a tall and distinguished middle-aged Italian, wearing a cashmere overcoat draped over his shoulders, hurried down the steps of the front porch. He carried a black medical bag and when he took one look at Nidal Hassan he snapped his fingers at the bodyguards. “Take him inside and be careful how you handle him.”
Hassan grasped the doctor’s arm. “Do your best, Francheso, he’s the only brother I have.”
The doctor nodded. “He doesn’t look good, but we’ll try to get him stabilized first, then see where we are. Have your helicopter stand by just in case.” He noticed the unconscious young woman lying across the seat. “What the … is she wounded too?”
Hassan slapped a reassuring hand on the doctor’s back. “No, she’s okay, Franchesco. She fainted, that’s all. Take care of Nidal, please, I beg you.”
The bodyguards carefully eased Nidal out of the car. They carried him inside the villa, the doctor hurrying beside them, checking his patient’s vital signs.
Hassan turned his attention to the woman as he snatched open the rear door. He leaned in, felt for a pulse, and then raised one of her eyelids.
The Serb wiped sweat from his face. “We were lucky to make it out of the tunnels alive with all the shooting, and that’s the truth, Mr. Malik.”
“Who shot Nidal?”
“The couple following Cane. They’re Israelis.”
The muscles in Hassan’s face twitched furiously but his focus remained on the woman. “Are you certain she’s okay?”
“It was like I said when I phoned, things weren’t too bad until we reached the car. Then Nidal took a turn and started to hemorrhage. There was blood everywhere and she fainted. It must have been the shock. But she’ll come round soon enough, Mr. Malik.”
“Help me carry her inside.”
The book-lined study was at the back of the mansion. Hassan kicked open the walnut door as he and the Serb carried the woman in and sat her on a chair.
Hassan took her face in his hand and was about to shake her awake when the door burst open and one of the bodyguards appeared, his expression drawn. “The doctor wants you, Mr. Malik.”
When Hassan reached the bedroom, he saw the sheets were drenched crimson. The doctor was standing over Nidal, desperately trying to stem a faucet of blood from his stomach wound, a stainless steel pan with surgical instruments beside him on the bed.
“What’s going on?” Hassan demanded.
The doctor looked under pressure, sweat glistening on his forehead. “The hemorrhaging has started again. He’s even worse than I thought, Hassan.”
As the doctor felt for a pulse, Nidal seemed to become conscious a moment, sweat drenching his forehead. He gave a low moan and Hassan saw to his horror a jet of blood gush from his brother’s stomach.
The doctor ordered, “Give me a towel, quick. Before he bleeds to death!”
Hassan handed him a towel and the doctor pressed it hard against Nidal’s belly. The bleeding diminished but Nidal’s body shook violently.
The doctor raised his voice. “We’ll need to get him to a hospital at once, we’re running out of time.”
Hassan’s face lost all its color as he shouted to one of the bodyguards, “Tell the pilot we’re leaving right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hassan turned and saw the doctor let go of Nidal’s hand just as his brother’s head rolled to one side. The doctor said, “I’m afraid we’re too late. He’s dead.”
88
THE HOTEL ANSELMO—LARGE and old-fashioned, with wrought-iron balconies—is in a quiet cobbled square near the Vatican. It was raining and just before midnight when Jack and Lela checked in.
The receptionist gave his guests a wary look as Jack tried to explain the mess they were in by saying they’d got caught in the downpour and he had slipped in the wet street, which explained his head wound. The receptionist kindly offered to call a doctor, but Jack politely refused. They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Cane and minutes later they were in a cramped room with a double bed, a minibar, and a view of one of Rome’s noisy, cat-infested alleyways.
They dumped their belongings on the bed—two carrier bags packed with a fresh change of clothes and toiletries that they had bought in the tourist stores near the Piazza Navona.
Jack peered through the curtains at the rain-lashed alleyway. There was barely enough room to maneuver. “The Italians aren’t exactly generous when it comes to hotel rooms. A man could get a hunched back in a room this size. I need to get rid of this grime.”
“Me too. I feel like I’ve been crawling through a muddy battlefield after those tunnels. You go first. I need to call our driver, Cohen, and see if Ari’s okay.”
Jack checked out the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and hung it around his neck. “I’m still waiting for you to explain about Yasmin.”
“Have your shower first. Then I better take a look a closer look at that scalp of yours. The bleeding may have stopped but the wound will need to be cleaned.”
Jack unbuttoned his shirt. “How do I know you’re not going to tell your Mossad friends where we’re hiding out?”
“You really don’t trust me, do you?”
“Trust you? Considering we haven’t seen each other in twenty years, I hardly know you, Lela.”
A tiny smile creased her lips. “And here was me thinking that we were married.”
Jack stood under the hot jets for several minutes, soaping his body clean. He toweled himself dry and checked the cut on his scalp in the mirror. The blood had congealed, but as soon as he touched the bruised gash an excruciating jolt of pain shot through him.
He examined his leg, unwinding the dressing until he came to the cotton pad stuck to the wound. The sutures were still in place. His leg didn’t hurt as much as the ache in his skull. He still had a handful of painkille
rs in the plastic vial Pierre had given him. He swallowed two with a glass of tap water, then stepped into the bedroom wearing a fresh pair of Chinos and a T-shirt.
Lela was sitting on the bed, talking on her phone. “I’ve got to go, Cohen. No, I can’t tell you where I am right now. But I’ll speak to Ari just as soon as he’s well enough. Meantime, take care of him.” She had a worried frown as she flipped shut her cell and removed the battery. She saw Jack observe her and she said, “In case you’re wondering, disconnecting the battery prevents a cell phone being traced.”
Jack slumped into the only chair in the cramped room. “I know; I read it somewhere. I did the same to my phone. What’s the story with your friend?”
“Ari’s Mossad colleagues found him. He was barely conscious and had lost a lot of blood. They managed to get him aboveground and drive him to a safe house. A doctor’s on his way.”
“You told me that the Mossad chief gave you orders to find out what happened to the scroll and to return me to Israel.”
“That was the general idea.”
“You still haven’t told me about Yasmin. It’s killing me.”
Lela put a hand behind her neck, undid a clasp, and let down her long black hair. “I’m going to take a shower first.”
She stepped toward the bathroom, and Jack admired her long hair, her olive skin, the curves of her splendid figure.
Lela said, “While I’m gone, how about you crack open that minibar and pour us both a stiff drink?”
“And then?”
“You and I are going to have a serious talk.”
89
JACK LAY ON the bed and replaced the telephone receiver as Lela came out of the bathroom. Her hair was wet and she had a white towel wrapped around her. She looked beautiful, her hair pulled back to the nape of her neck, exposing her high cheekbones. “Feel any better?” he asked.
“Much. I heard you talking on the phone.”
Jack swung his feet off the bed and stood. “I had a call to make.”
“To whom?”
He opened a couple of miniature scotches he’d taken from the minibar. “Someone I’m hoping can help me decode the scroll. There was no reply so I left a message for them to call me back. I also noticed at least a dozen calls on my cell from Buddy, but I switched off and didn’t check the calls. I didn’t want your Mossad friends to get a fix on me.”
Lela toweled her hair. “That’s wise. They could easily do that. Buddy’s probably trying to find out where you’ve gone after you disappeared from Qumran. By the way, I’ll have that drink now.”
Jack poured her a scotch and splashed in soda.
Lela took her glass and went to sit in the chair and finish drying her hair.
Jack sipped his scotch, leaned against the window frame, and watched her.
She noticed his staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Honestly? I’m trying to figure out why you’d want to help me.”
Lela blushed and put down her wet towel. “Because we were once friends. Because I cared about you. Maybe I even used to think that I loved you. I guess that had something to do with it …” Her voice trailed off .
“Tell me about Yasmin.”
“Professor Green certainly had a niece named Yasmin. She was born in Lebanon and brought up in Chicago.”
“I’m listening.”
“She died ten years ago.”
“Come off it, Lela.”
“It’s the truth. Sergeant Mosberg checked it out.”
Jack put down his glass, stunned. “I don’t get it. Who’s Yasmin if she’s not who she says she is?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out. But the professor had to be party to the deception. He went along with the pretense of her being his niece.”
“Are you suggesting that Green was in some way involved in the scroll’s theft?”
“Who knows? Something weird was definitely going on. There’s something else you ought to know. The Arab who took Yasmin.”
“What about him?”
“His name’s Nidal Malik. He’s the youngest son of your parents’ driver, and the brother of Hassan Malik. You’ve heard of Hassan before?”
Jack nodded, and his face creased in puzzlement. “This gets muddier by the minute. I didn’t really know him well, but I recall seeing him around the dig when his father was working. Tell me about him.”
“Hassan’s the family’s eldest son. His father’s death made him a bitter young man. For a time, like you, his life spun out of control.”
“How do you know all this?”
“My father learned Hassan was living rough in Jerusalem, caring for his family and having a hard time of it. My father helped him the little that he could. Arab or Jew, it didn’t matter, my dad always said that we were the same blood. That we were like two brothers, quarreling for thousands of years.”
“So what happened?”
“All I heard were the rumors. That Hassan eventually joined some of his Bedu relatives, scratching the desert for a living, searching illegally for precious artifacts. Rumors said he got lucky and found a bunch of valuable scrolls, sold them to private collectors, and made himself a fortune.”
“Didn’t the police investigate?”
Lela shrugged. “Sure, but they couldn’t prove a thing. Before you know it Hassan’s got a raft of legitimate businesses. He’s also dealing in rare and precious artifacts and valuable paintings. Soon he’s very rich. He’s even got a villa outside Rome. If his brother Nidal’s involved, it seems like a reasonable bet that Hassan’s got a big interest in the scroll.”
Jack’s jaw tightened in anger. “And now there’s a good chance he’s got Yasmin.”
“Whoever Yasmin is.”
“Where’s this villa?”
“A place called Bracciano, outside Rome.”
“Tell me about the symbols you said you found on the monastery wall. Show me what they looked like.”
Lela found a pen and sheet of hotel writing paper in the nightstand drawer and drew the symbols.
She said, “Blood splashes trailed from the symbol on the right and onto the floor, which probably doesn’t signify anything except that Novara was bleeding to death. Apart from the fact they could look like a pair of crosses, do these symbols mean anything to you? Could they mean something in Aramaic?”
Jack scratched his jaw. “The letter t in an old version of Aramaic was in the shape of a cross. Which would give us a double t. Whatever that means. But that was eighth to ninth century B.C. I’ve absolutely no idea what the double t might suggest. Unless it’s in some kind of code maybe?”
“There’s no other significance you can suggest?”
Jack shrugged. “I’m afraid not. We might even be way off track.”
“The symbols have to mean something, or Novara wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of writing them on the wall in his own blood. I don’t think he expected Pasha to shoot him. Maybe he was enraged and meant to leave behind some kind of evidence.”
“But what does the evidence mean?”
“You’ve got me there. I’m no Aramaic expert, but the guy I rang earlier on the hotel phone is. I’m hoping he’ll call me back.” Jack moved over to the window and looked preoccupied.
Lela said, “What are you thinking?”
“Right this minute? That I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in almost two days.” He looked back and met her stare. “There’s not a snowball’s chance that you could be wrong about Yasmin?”
“I doubt it, Jack.”
“Do you think Hassan might have had something to do with Green’s death?”
“I can’t say. But I don’t think so.”
“Why, Lela?”
“If he had, he’d probably already have the scroll, don’t you think?”
“Good point.” Jack suddenly faltered and put a hand out to grip the nightstand.
Lela grabbed him, giving him support. “What’s wrong?”
Jack clasped a hand to his fo
rehead. “I feel lousy.”
“How’s your leg?”
“It’s okay. But I’ve got a throbbing headache and the room’s beginning to spin. I took a couple of painkillers that made me drowsy. I guess I’m beat.”
“Let me see that gash.” She made him sit on the bed and examined his head. “I’ll need to disinfect the cut with something. How does scotch sound?”
“A waste of good liquor, but go for it.”
She smiled, dipped a finger in her scotch, and dabbed the liquid on his wound.
Jack felt a stinging pain and winced.
Something passed between them then, and as he looked into her eyes he saw a spark of concern. Lela brushed her hand against his face. “Try and sleep, Jack.”
“Can I tell you something? It’s good seeing you again after all these years.”
“For me too.” Lela leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Now lie back.”
He lay on the bed. His eyelids felt like heavy weights. “Aren’t you going to rest?” Jack asked.
“In a while. Close your eyes. Give in to it, please, Jack.”
He sank his head into the pillow. The tremendous strain he had been under was finally taking its toll. His body was filled with an enormous fatigue and this time he didn’t fight it. He closed his eyes and in an instant he felt himself being sucked into a soft cushion of blackness.
90
ROME
ANNA KUBEL WAS an undeniably attractive woman: buxom, middle-aged, her blond hair piled high in a bun. She tossed another log in the woodstove in the kitchen and wiped her hands on her apron. Everything comes to an end, she told herself. And the end was close now, she could sense it.
Anna wiped a tear from her eye and went to fill a cup of freshly brewed coffee from a pot on the hotplate, and then sat in front of the stove. The centuries-old house, like so many in Rome, was drafty and crumbling. It lacked a proper heating system and at 6 A.M. the tiled floors made the room feel as chilly as in winter.
