by Gabriel Hunt
“No,” Lucy said and plucked it out of his hands. “The way you carry on? It’d be smashed in five minutes.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re probably right. Well—”
“This on the other hand,” Lucy said, holding up a black plastic box the size of a pack of playing cards, “you can bang around till the cows come home and you won’t break it. Doesn’t have the fancy map on it, but what it’s got’s just as good.” She flicked a switch on the bottom of the box and a single row of red digits lit up along one of its shorter sides:
178SW
Then after a second the display changed:
177SW
“Miles?” Gabriel said.
“You prefer kilometers?”
“No,” Gabriel said, “I prefer miles.”
He slipped the box into his pocket beside his Zippo. “How long will the battery—”
“A week. If you keep it on the whole time, maybe a little less.” She finished packing, looked around for anything she’d missed. “You want me to show you how to change it?”
Gabriel shook his head. “This’ll all be over in a lot less than a week. One way or another.”
An anxious look crossed her face. She reached up a hand and stroked the side of his jaw, avoiding the raw slash that was just beginning to heal. “Just how much trouble are you in?”
“Oh, nothing too serious,” Gabriel said, and he worked up a smile he hoped didn’t look too phony. “You know better than to worry about me.”
She nodded, and the trust in her eyes took him back fifteen years, to when he was twenty-three and she was eleven and he’d keep her up past her bedtime with stories about the places he’d been and the dangers he’d faced. But there was a measure of concern in her expression, too. “I know you can take care of yourself. But—”
“But what?”
“I follow what you do, Gabriel. Newspaper articles, the things you publish, people posting online that they saw you one place or another—”
“Computers are powerful things,” Gabriel said.
“Yeah. Well. Any time your name pops up on my screen, there’s part of me that’s excited, but there’s part of me that’s sure each time it’s your obituary I’m going to read.” Her voice fell. “The famous Gabriel Hunt, clawed to death by wild dogs in Zambia. The famous Gabriel Hunt falls from the wing of an airplane. Something.”
“I always wear my seat belt on airplanes,” Gabriel said. “And dogs love me.”
“Well that’s a relief,” she said. “But I’m just talking the law of averages. You can be the best in the world at what you do and there’ll still come a day when you get unlucky.”
“Is that why you agreed to see me when Michael sent his note?” Gabriel said. “After all this time? Because you thought it might be your last chance?”
“Of course not,” she said. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I was just thinking, how many times are you and I going to be in the same place. The way you move around. The way I do.”
Gabriel lifted her chin with his knuckle. “Don’t worry about me, kid,” he said. “I always come out on top.”
“Well, good. You can prove it,” she said, tapping a forefinger against the pocket where the little box lay, “by not getting yourself killed before that battery runs out.”
They separated on Tevkifhane Street. Gabriel watched her back recede as she walked quickly in the direction of the Blue Mosque, that Laurel-and-Hardy contraption of slender minarets and squat domes. It was brightly lit and stood out against the pitch-black of the sky like a picture cut out from a magazine and pasted on a scrapbook page.
When he could no longer see her, Gabriel turned in the other direction and headed toward the hostel where Sheba was waiting. On the way he passed the Four Seasons hotel, located in what had once been a prison building. The man at the front entrance, who looked as though he might have held the same job back in the building’s earlier incarnation, touched two fingers to the brim of his cap and nodded as Gabriel went by.
A moment later, Gabriel heard footsteps behind him. Two men, he thought—possibly three. Trying to keep their steps quiet.
So the nod hadn’t been for him.
He risked a glance back, saw two men directly behind him, maybe ten yards away, and a third across the street. He didn’t recognize the first two—but the third was Mr. Molnar, the round-faced Magyar whose brother had had the bad sense to charge at him in Budapest when his Colt had still had a bullet in it. Their eyes met, and even at this distance Gabriel could see that the intensity of his feelings had not abated.
“Hunt!” he bellowed, followed by another of those curses that seem so ubiquitous in the Hungarian tongue. Then he and the other two started running toward Gabriel, who took off as well, racing toward the nearby intersection with Kutlugün Street. It was a dark street of short, red-roofed buildings, mostly little hotels and cafes, all of them shuttered tight at half past one in the morning. Gabriel kept going, sprinting for the nearest corner. Sheba was on the next street over, Akbiyik Caddesi, the Street of the White Moustache; it was a slightly less reputable avenue, where the hostels were dingier and the proprietors asked fewer questions, like why a young American woman might be renting a room for two Greek men using a third man’s credit card number.
He could hear his pursuers’ shoes pounding against the paving stones close behind him. That they hadn’t pulled pistols and started shooting at him yet Gabriel attributed entirely to the late hour: they wouldn’t want to wake the entire neighborhood with the sound of gunfire. But if they managed to get their hands on him, Gabriel knew, Molnar wouldn’t need bullets to exact revenge for his brother’s death.
Gabriel skidded to a stop beside a shuttered store. There was a narrow alleyway between it and the next building over and he darted into it, leaping up at the far end to catch hold of the curlicue grillwork at the base of a second-story balcony. He pulled himself up, his arms complaining at the strain. From the balcony he was able to climb onto a bit of ornamental stonework that decorated the building’s wall, testing it first with one foot to make sure it was secure. Then from there he grabbed hold of the edge of the roof and hauled himself up.
Down below, he could hear the three men pouring into the alley. The footsteps stopped and the cursing resumed. They wouldn’t be stymied for long: it was a dead end and the only direction Gabriel could have gone was up. But every second counted, and Gabriel used the next few to sprint to the edge of the building and leap across a narrow airshaft onto the neighboring roof.
He landed badly, twisting his ankle.
Damn it—the law of averages hadn’t had to choose this moment to kick in, had it? He hobbled away from the edge of the roof, putting weight on his left foot only gingerly, twinges of pain shooting up his shin each time he did so.
He was close to Sheba’s hostel (the Sultan—but then every other building in this city was called “the Sultan”). On one hand, he didn’t want to bring Molnar and the other two to her doorstep—that could put her and Tigranes and Christos all in danger. On the other hand, they might be in danger already, if DeGroet had sent a separate team after them, and if so they might need him there to help. There was no way to know what the right decision was. Except that standing still wasn’t it. He limped on, telling himself that the pain in his ankle was already lessening a bit, even though it wasn’t.
At the edge of the building he reached a gap too large for him to jump even if his leg had been fine; so, looking around, he yanked open the only door he could see on the roof and clambered down the stairs he found inside. Behind him, as the metal door slowly swung shut, he heard the running footsteps of his pursuers, coming closer. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could hear them at the top. Then the explosion of a gunshot rang out and a bullet chewed bits of metal, plaster, and paint from the doorframe beside his head. Apparently they didn’t mind waking the people here.
Gabriel ran out into the street. The Sultan Hostel was just two buildings away and he made for
it at what passed in his current condition for top speed, his gait a loping, uneven thing. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His ankle wasn’t broken, he was fairly sure of that, but it felt like a knife blade was jabbing into it at every step, and the pounding he was giving it surely wasn’t helping speed the healing process.
A ten-hour flight to Sri Lanka, he kept telling himself, plenty of time to rest it, get a bag of ice from the stewardess for the swelling…
But first he had to make it to the airport and onto a plane alive.
He ducked inside the front door of the hostel just as Molnar burst out into the street. Gabriel saw him looking left and right and hid behind one of the columns in the entryway. A heavy potted plant provided a bit of extra cover—but only a bit.
Behind him, the lights in the hostel’s lobby went on. A sleepy-eyed attendant shuffled up beside him, a saucer with a flickering candle on it in one hand. “Can I help you?” he said, blowing out the candle.
“Some friends of mine are staying here,” Gabriel said, through clenched teeth. “I’ve come to see them.”
“Rather late to be dropping by,” the attendant said. “I will have to see if they—”
A hammering came at the door then, and peeking around the column Gabriel saw through the glass of the door that it was Molnar, flanked on either side by his henchmen. “Don’t open the door,” Gabriel whispered.
“What do you mean?” the attendant said, turning the knob. “Of course I’ll open the—”
A moment later, the saucer slipped from his fingers and smashed against the tile floor. The man backed up, his hands in the air, his jowls trembling. Molnar followed, the barrel of his revolver planted squarely in the middle of the man’s face. Together, Molnar and the attendant walked past the corner where Gabriel was hiding and the other two men followed, drawing their guns as they went. If any of them had looked to the side they’d have seen Gabriel—but they didn’t. He shot a glance at the still open door. He could dash out, maybe make it to the next street before they noticed…
But he couldn’t leave this guy with a gun in his face and a homicidal Hungarian itching to pull the trigger. Not to mention Sheba just a few flights up with only an eighty-year-old man and an eighteen-year-old kid for protection.
Grimacing silently, Gabriel lifted the potted plant in both hands.
The attendant looked over at him, his eyes widening at the sight as Gabriel swung the heavy stone pot up in the air. It provided enough warning for Molnar to turn and swing his gun around, but not enough for him to pull the trigger. Gabriel launched the pot at him and it caught him in the face, knocking him to the ground with its momentum. The attendant jumped out of the way as the pot landed, cracking the tiles beneath it.
The two other gunmen spun around now, too, but Gabriel was upon them, throwing a powerful right cross at the first man’s jaw and getting the second in the throat with his elbow on the backswing. Neither man was incapacitated by the blow and both brought their guns into play, one firing wildly and missing, his shots tearing up the wood of the reception desk and shattering a lamp as Gabriel ran ahead of them, the other swinging his gun like a metal extension to his fist and catching Gabriel on the side of the head with it. Gabriel reeled, fell back. He dropped into a crouch and pistoned outward with one fist, sinking it deep into the man’s gut. He could hear the forceful expulsion of breath, feel the spray of spittle from the man’s lips. Gabriel followed up with a second punch, and a third, and then the man fell before a fourth could land.
Gabriel made to stand up, but was driven forward as the second man jumped on his back. The extra weight hit his ankle just right, and he collapsed to one knee.
Before him, the other gunman lay prone, his arm outstretched on the floor. Gabriel grabbed the gun from his hand, reversed it in his own, and aimed it back over his shoulder. When he felt the barrel press against something soft that wasn’t part of his own body, he pulled the trigger with his thumb. The weight vanished from his shoulders and a low moaning began behind him.
Standing up, Gabriel limped over to the wounded man. He was leaking blood from a nasty wound in his upper chest. He still held his gun, loosely, in a trembling hand, and Gabriel bent to take it away from him. He broke it open: no bullets left. Every one of them spent on the desk and lamp. He tossed the useless gun into a corner of the room, held onto the other one.
“Who…who are these men?” the attendant said, his voice rising sirenlike as he surveyed the damage. “What did they want?”
“I don’t know,” Gabriel said. “They started following me a few blocks away.” He limped over to the bulletscarred desk, leaned his weight against it. On the stairs winding up to the second floor he saw a man creep cautiously into view, a corpulent ex-military type in a gray bathrobe. He had a white moustache, fittingly enough. “Go back to bed,” Gabriel told him. “It’s all over.”
The man cast a critical eye over the scene before him. “I hope so,” he said, his British accent icy. “I didn’t pay to be woken by gunfire and fisticuffs. If I’d wanted that I could have stayed in Brixton. Excuse me, miss.” As he climbed the stairs, hugging the wall, another figure passed him on the way down. It was Sheba, wearing an identical gray robe—they must have had them hanging in all the rooms. Who would have thought it, amenities in a place like this.
“Gabriel?” Sheba said. “You okay?”
“I’m still standing,” he said. “More or less.”
“DeGroet?”
“On his way,” Gabriel said. He took Lucy’s box out of his pocket, glanced at it. “Just a hundred fourteen miles off.”
“How do you know that…?” Sheba asked and then raised a hand, palm out. “Never mind. I’ll go get dressed. We’re in 304.” She vanished up the stairs.
Gabriel walked from one of the bodies to the next. The man he’d shot had stopped moaning; he seemed to have slipped into unconsciousness. He’d live, though. The same couldn’t be said for Molnar, who’d joined his brother at last. Gabriel stopped beside the third man, who was conscious but curled up on the floor, both hands pressed to his abdomen. Gabriel aimed the gun down at him. “What did DeGroet want you to do?”
“Bring you…” The man coughed, spat a bloody wad onto the tiles. “Bring you to him.”
“Just me?”
“The woman, too.”
“Not the old man?”
“What old man?”
Gabriel nodded. Maybe now that Chios had given up its secrets, DeGroet had decided he didn’t need Tigranes anymore. On the other hand, maybe he just hadn’t told this guy about him.
“Well, tell DeGroet,” Gabriel said, “that we’re leaving the country tonight. That we’re going back to Cairo. If he’s so eager to see us, he can find us there.” When the man didn’t respond, he thumbed back the gun’s hammer. “Got that?”
The man nodded violently. “To Cairo.” He didn’t sound as though he believed it, and Gabriel knew better than to think DeGroet would—but he had to try. Maybe DeGroet would at least divert some of his men to Cairo, evening up the sides a little.
“Now get up,” Gabriel said.
“I can’t…”
“Yes you can,” Gabriel said and nudged him forcefully with his foot. The man struggled to his knees, then to his feet. His face was ashen, clammy.
When he reached the door, the man turned back. “He’ll kill you,” he said, quietly. “You know that.”
“I know he’ll try,” Gabriel said. “Now, go.”
Up in Room 304, the gray robe was on the floor and Sheba was back in her khakis and tank top. Tigranes was asleep in one of the room’s two twin beds. Christos was standing at the window, looking out at the street below.
“You think it’s safe for us to stay here?” Christos said.
“I wouldn’t,” Gabriel said. “DeGroet’s got other things on his mind now, like the treasure and the two of us, but just to be safe—” He handed Christos a slip of paper with a phone number written on it. At least it wasn’t torn from a sandwich
wrapper this time. “That’s my brother’s number. Explain what you need and he’ll take care of it. Stay any place you like.” He paused for a moment. “Just not the Four Seasons.”
“Of course not,” Christos said, “that would be much too expensive—”
“That’s not why,” Gabriel said. “Oh, and tell Michael, when you talk to him, that the man you’re rooming with has the Oedipodea committed to memory. My guess is you’ll get some professional recording apparatus in the mail the next day, and a job putting it to use if you want it.”
Christos looked over at the old man where he lay. “I don’t know how he’d feel about being recorded,” he said.
“Then I hope you’ve got a good memory,” Gabriel said, “because it’s got to be preserved somehow.”
Christos nodded uncertainly.
“Listen,” Gabriel said. “What’s in that man’s head is a priceless, priceless treasure. And he knows it. When you first brought me to Anavatos, he told me about having no son to pass the poem to. He doesn’t want it to die with him. If you explain to him that you’ll be keeping it alive, that you’ll teach it to your son someday…trust me, he’ll do it.” He turned to Sheba. “You could stay, too, you know. The Foundation could certainly use a linguist working on the project. The first translator of the Oedipodea—it could make your career.”
“That it could,” Sheba said, a hint of her long-buried Irish accent coming out in her fatigue. “And perhaps it will. But I’ll never feel safe unless I know this is over. And I can’t let you face it by yourself.”
“Don’t be silly,” Gabriel said, “I can—”
“You can, you can…do you ever listen to yourself?” She came over to him, put a hand on each of his shoulders. “You’re hurt, you’re tired. You’re not going to be alone, too. Besides,” she said, “I already got us on a plane leaving in—” she glanced over at the clock on the bedside table “—forty-seven minutes.”
