by Ronie Kendig
“I want help, not trouble.”
Tox eased off very slowly. Released Chatresh’s hand at the last second. “Start talking.”
****
— Jerusalem, Israel —
“Did you find out anything?” Dr. Joseph Cathey asked, unable to restrain himself any longer.
“Yes, yes.” On his knees before a long, oak cabinet in his home, Rabbi Akiva opened it and pulled the rear panel of the cabinet aside then reached even farther—right into what must’ve been the wall itself. He drew out a flat tray and passed it to Joseph before climbing to his feet. “It is not easy to get anything pertaining to the Codex these days.”
Akiva tucked on a pair of glasses, angled a light toward them, then slid a grooved lid from the box. “The page is indeed from the Aleppo Codex.”
Excitement thrummed through Joseph. “I knew it!”
After putting on a pair of blue cotton gloves, Akiva laid out the leaf. “First—look at this.” He lifted a black-and-white photograph from beneath the parchment, separated by an acid-free piece of paper.
Joseph donned his readers. With the lettering and curses at the top . . . “From the Codex?”
“Yes—it’s the only image of this leaf that exists—well, this is a copy, to be precise.” The rabbi pointed to notes in the margin. “See this?”
Joseph leaned closer, straining to make it out. He saw an unusual combination:
A עקוב אחרי
“‘Follow the . . . cross’,” he read the words in place of the symbols. “What is it?” The lettering seemed lighter than the rest, the edges almost black.
“I have no way to know for sure . . .” His friend rubbed his beard, squinting in deep thought at the piece of history.
“But you have an idea.”
Akiva looked up, hesitation darkening his face. “Yes.” He sighed but said no more.
“My friend, this is important.”
“Mm,” Akiva murmured, his gaze not leaving the leaf. Then another sigh. “I have heard a rumor that within the Codex there are dozens of odd cantillation marks, along with many cross symbols, though some say it’s not a cross but the letter T.” He shook his head. “I probably should not be telling you this—”
“Wretched conspiracy of silence.”
“It is said that when you”—he traced a gloved finger over the cross—“‘follow the cross,’ there is a hidden message.”
The words, the very thought, pulled Joseph closer to the parchment. He homed in on the symbol and scanned across the columns and line. “So this one . . .” Which cantillation didn’t seem to fit? “This? The mark over ‘censers’?” For the mark to be over a censer, which they’d found with the leaf . . . “This isn’t a coincidence. It’s a message.”
“Part of a message,” Akiva agreed.
Joseph waited, half expecting Akiva to go on, because something in his words or demeanor—Joseph couldn’t decide which—gave him the impression he wasn’t done. “Do you know the message?”
Akiva’s eyes widened. “Why would I?”
“You were hesitant to share your knowledge—”
“Simply to protect the Codex.” He seemed affronted. “Why would you think I know the message?”
“It just seemed you had more to say.”
“Bah, it is only a rumor, as I said.” Akiva turned back to the leaf and huffed. “Another rumor floating around is that while ben Asher and the Swift Scribe labored on the Codex, a man named Thefarie paid one of them to conceal the message in the pages, but I cannot believe that. Ben Asher worked far too hard, as did the Swift Scribe.
“A story is told,” Akiva went on quietly, “that when the Aleppo synagogue was attacked after the UN vote in 1947, the Codex was nearly consumed in flames before the rabbi’s son plucked it from a burning pile of scrolls. Why it was not in its safe, one cannot say, but the boy sprinted out of the flames and delivered it to his father. They delivered it safely to Israel . . .”
Joseph could not help but notice the sadness, the confusion furrowing the man’s dark eyes. “Rabbi? What is it?”
“That is when they were noticed.”
“Who?”
With a shuddering breath, Akiva hunched his shoulders. “Not who—what. The odd marks. They weren’t there before the fire.”
“Or they weren’t noticed.”
“No,” Akiva snapped. “They were not there. It is said that when the Codex nearly burned, the heat exposed marks written in invisible ink.” Sorrow threaded through the lines in his face. “A great story, no?” He blinked and his sorrow vanished. “But . . . it cannot be true.”
“Why not?”
Recoiling, Akiva gaped. “Because the Codex is then discounted. Thrown out. Useless—all by one wrong cantillation mark.” His brows knotted. “Do you know how many codices and early Masoretic texts were verified using the Codex?”
The ramifications would be catastrophic for Judaism. Among the scribes who worked the texts there were strict, nearly obsessive rules and practices regarding the copy of texts. That painstaking and meticulous detail meant it took years for texts to be created. They were written, checked, rewritten, rechecked.
“You see why even I am reticent to join your chase of these pages, to verify this leaf.”
“Of course.” Harangued by guilt, Joseph knew for the sake of hundreds, if not thousands of lives, he could not abandon this effort. He must push his friend, even the whole Jewish community, if necessary. “But as I have told you, it must be pursued until an answer is found.”
“What answer?”
“How to stop this!”
“Stop it? It’s a disease, Joseph!” Akiva waved a hand. “The doctors will see to it. Besides, nearly two hundred leaves are missing,” he snapped. “What can be done?”
“Find them!”
“You do not think we have tried? We have—for decades!” Defeat punched away the rabbi’s spryness. “A leaf here, a fragment there, but no great number.” He flapped his hands at him. “It is a lost cause.”
“I won’t believe that. I can’t.” Joseph pointed to the page. “People are dying because a plague has been unleashed and the censers are tied to it—just as Aaron checked the plague in the book of Numbers. Then we find a censer with that leaf?” He shook his head. “No coincidence. The chase cannot be abandoned. I must find the others.”
At this the rabbi laughed. “All of them?”
“But I only need the ones . . .” The enormity and absurdity of finding the right leaf, containing the right mark, smacked Joseph in the gut. “Augh!” How was he to know which ones in the nearly two hundred missing leaves to even search after? He lowered himself to the rickety chair and moaned miserably. “It is a lost cause.”
17
— Day 9 —
New Delhi, India
Chatresh glanced around, his bloodshot eyes looking dry and desperate. His white shirt was dirty, rumpled, and buttoned wrong, a spot gaping. “It’s not safe out here. We should go to your room.”
To Tox’s room? Why? Was he scouting the team for someone? Maybe he worked for Tanin. Assigned to kill the team.
“Not yet.” Tox stood back, awareness blazing—this was the victim’s brother. And Tox had touched him. His mind rifled through what was known of the plague. They hadn’t sorted how it was transmitted. He knew the first signs—a cough, itchy eyes . . . He reassessed Chatresh’s bloodshot eyes. How could he tell if that was from tears or a virus?
“How’d you know to come here?” Was Chatresh here to infect the team?
“Shanay’s brother told me you are here. He works at the desk.”
So much for “safe” house. “Who’s Shanay?”
Chatresh shook his head, apparently struggling to work through things. “What was that noise?” He jerked to the side, staring with bulging eyes. “Someone is coming.”
There wasn’t a noise. “Nobody’s coming.” Tox held out a hand to stop him but avoided touching him. “We’re alone. It’s okay.”
“Whoa, easy. Let’s take it slow.” If he didn’t get this guy unwound, he’d detonate. Freak and run. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
The clang of steel in the stairwell startled him. Chatresh whipped toward the sound, his dirty white shirt fluttering. He jerked back to Tox. “You see? We must hide!” When he lunged to pass Tox, he crossed the line.
Instinct shoved Tox back and pulled his Glock from its holster. He cradled it with a firm grip between both hands. “Chatresh,” he said, calm and firm—his swift reaction and tone capturing the man’s attention. Wide eyes told Tox his message had been understood. “We stay here until you answer my questions. Okay?”
Lanky like Chiji, the Indian man couldn’t tear his eyes from the weapon.
“I do not want to hurt you.” Tox gave him a firm look. “But that’s up to you. Don’t give me a reason to use this.” He shifted, still not convinced the guy was legit.
But if he was—then the terror in his expression was real. And the gun wasn’t helping. Tox angled sideways. Lowering the gun in his right hand out of sight, he used the other to pat the air between them to both calm Chatresh and distract him from the weapon.
“Who? Who is coming for you?” Tox asked. Weeding through the guy’s accent made conversation tough, but add the panic and terror, and it was downright futile.
“I don’t know!”
“Where’s Bhavin?”
“He’s dead. Dead!”
Tox stilled. “Your brother—Bhavin is dead?”
With a sniffle and swiping a hand beneath his nose, Chatresh nodded.
A door in the hall opened.
Chatresh sucked in a breath. “They found me!”
“No, it’s okay.” Tox fought his own frustration and fear. “Easy. I’ll check it out. Wait here.” Tox held out his palm as he slid around the corner and peered down the hall.
Weapon in hand, Ram was scurrying toward them.
Tox flashed a palm. “Not too close.”
Wariness stilled Ram. “Who?”
“Target’s brother.”
Eyebrows knotted. “How’d he find us?”
“Knows someone at the front desk.”
Ram processed that with a disapproving shake of his head.
The lanky Indian poked his head around the corner, which made Tox mad. “I said wait!” He showed the weapon to let Chatresh know he was prepared to use it. He wasn’t about to let anyone compromise another member of his team. “Stay!”
Tentative hands snaked up in surrender, shaking.
“Infected?” Ram asked, watching the Indian.
“Unknown.” Tox sighed, his head pounding. Twenty-eight hours and counting without sleep.
“Looks pretty spooked.”
“Which makes him twice as dangerous. I need to get him out of sight.”
Ram nodded. “A certain Nigerian is making his way up the stairs.”
Surprise rippled through Tox and he mentally looked to the rear stairwell. He hadn’t even heard Chiji as he had Ram. “Good to know. Find us a room.”
Ram backtracked toward the room. After he closed the door, Tox took a second to compose himself. Group his thoughts. Strategize. He returned to Chatresh, who now crouched, elbows on his bent knees and head back against the plaster.
The guy was clearly grieving and maybe even in shock, but Tox needed answers. “Bhavin just came back?”
Chatresh considered him. Nodded.
“Was he sick?”
Confusion flickered through Chatresh’s gaze. “You know?” He scowled. “How do you know?” Alarm etched the man’s face as he changed Tox from “ally” to “enemy.”
“Hey,” Tox said softly. “It’s okay—”
Shadows shifted in the stairwell. Chiji strode out.
Chatresh jumped to his feet with a yelp.
Tox shoved him back against the wall, breaking the no-touch policy. Then he saw Chiji’s face. The set of his jaw. The tightness in his brow. “What?”
Chiji never broke stride, swiftly moving past Chatresh and closing in on Tox. “Visitors,” he whispered.
Normally, for security reasons, Tox would haul Chatresh to the room with the others, but he could be infected. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Ram. “Visitors. Get ready. I need a room.”
“I’ll notify SAARC. Room 431 is vacant.”
“Thanks.” He hung up, not wondering how Ram knew the status of 431.
“I will go down a couple of floors,” Chiji said. “Come up behind them.”
“Good.”
The Indian looked pale. “Someone is coming? We should go to your room.”
He was too anxious to get in the room. “Your brother was infected. I’m not risking anyone else.”
Tox crossed the hall and made quick work of the lock on 431. He opened it, cleared it, and drew Chatresh inside. Securing the door, he pointed Chatresh to the hall that led to two bedrooms. “Lock yourself in one.”
The Indian didn’t have to be told twice. As he hurried out of sight, Tox made another call. Coded in. “Get me Rick Hamer or Dru Iliescu.”
****
— Somewhere over India —
“Leave immediately.”
At the ominous words booming through the feed, Kasey closed her eyes, fingers threaded as she listened to the call between Cole, CIA, DOD, and SAARC. She and Levi had just entered Indian airspace—apparently too late.
“Negative,” Tox barked. “We have an asset who can provide valuable intel on Bhavin and what happened. And did you miss the part where he’s probably contagious?”
“Didn’t miss anything,” Hamer spoke through the line. “It’s too hot. If you stay, you won’t be alive to sort anything.”
“And if I leave and he goes back into the streets, thousands die.”
Stomach squeezing, Kasey tensed. What an impossible situation! Her mind fishtailed on the slippery possibilities. Stay and die. Leave and thousands die. A no-win scenario.
God, watch over him. Grant him wisdom.
“Tox,” Rodriguez said over the phone, “the men coming into that hotel are heavily armed. And by their pattern and movement, skilled.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
Kasey looked to the side, her mind tripping on his words. Could he actually see them? Did that mean he was in their line of sight?
“Got six—make that seven heavy hitters . . . Kalashnikovs . . . old school but effective.” The silence on his end proved nail-biting. “Is a QRF en route?”
Kasey glanced at Levi, who had scrambled the quick reaction force, and he leaned forward and keyed a microphone. “Roger. QRF ETA: five mikes.”
Cole cursed. “We’ll be dead in five.” He huffed. Went silent. Cracks and pops peppered the connection. “I have to deal with this.”
“Tox, do not engage.”
No response.
“Do not engage. Your priority is to secure.” A pause, then Rodriguez spoke again. “Secure the witness and wait.”
Crack!
Kasey jumped, locked onto the phone as if she could see what was happening. Was that a gunshot?
Pop-pop-pop!
“Tox, what is your situation?” Rodriguez sounded both upset and worried. “Tox, report. We have no eyes.”
The tat-a-tat-tat of fully automatic fire rattled the feed. Elbow on the armrest, Kasey covered her mouth and listened. Prayed for Cole. Prayed for the team. Prayed this wasn’t real.
“He engaged,” Levi muttered, his thumb pressed against his lower lip.
Of course he engaged. Cole was a fighter. Always had been, and right now, he was fighting for his life. Fighting for his men. He could die.
“Tox?” Robbie Almstedt asked, leaning forward at the table. She’d connected with them in Jordan. Her face was a mask of concern.
> Staring at the phone console on the small table, Kasey willed Cole to talk to them. Let them know he was still alive.
“Tox!” Rodriguez cursed. “Someone get me a feed in that hotel!”
Chaotic chatter buzzed both on the plane around her and on the communication channel, one person ordering Tox to talk, another demanding the location of the next nearest safe house. Someone promised operatives were en route and would assist. A profusion of conversations tangling the air.
Kasey pushed out of her seat and paced. A bitter, metallic taste glanced across her tongue. The taste of fear.
Meaty thuds and grunts pervaded the connection. “Hand to hand,” someone muttered.
It was unsettling, what those men had to do to save their own lives. Kasey felt out of her depth again.
“Feed coming online,” a droning voice reported.
Robbie, who sat across from them on the plane, turned her laptop around and showed them the screen.
Chaos. Utter chaos. Tables were overturned. Men tackled each other. Had to be six or seven in the confined area. It looked like a sophisticated barroom brawl. One between men in tactical gear and men in dark camo.
A uniformed shape swooped in from the side, lunging at a black-clad figure who used the attacker’s movements against him. Flipped him onto his back. Now half-kneeling over the uniform, Shadowman coldcocked him. Another uniform rushed him from behind. But Shadowman turned. Came up. Slammed his elbow into the man’s gut, then snapped up his fist and punched the uniform in the face. The uniform went limp, dropping like a wet rag. Two down.
Kasey hoped Shadowman was one of theirs, because he was eliminating a lot of men. Turning, the Shadowman focused his skills on another uniform, who was punching the daylights out of someone on the floor. Shadowman’s hands went to the uniform’s throat—and only then did Kasey see the knife. She drew in a sharp breath. The uniform froze, stiffened as the knife penetrated. But his hand was already coming up with a gun.
Shadowman stumbled back. His expression calm, focused. His eyes—
“Cole.” The realization jolted Kasey. “Did he—” Had Cole just been shot?
