7
— Paris, France —
She’d stepped into a Van Gogh painting. Tzivia paused on the cobbled path, appreciating the small café with its canvas awning that stretched over a cluster of tables. In the painting, however, the tables were empty. The setting peaceful.
Here, barely enough legroom existed to navigate the tangle of bodies. And rather than being set in a secluded but quaint alley, these tables were wedged into a U-shaped alcove between the café itself and a stationery shop.
Tzivia had to push around chairs and feet, offering apologies when she crushed a few toes, to get to the small stationery shop where, according to his credit card statement, Dr. Cathey had made a purchase, benignly listed as “seal” on the digital copy of the receipt Noel had obtained from the credit card company. She pushed open the glass-and-wood door, a small bell jingling at her arrival.
A man’s deep voice cut through the musty air. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. I will be with you in a moment.”
She stepped in, sniffing. And took a long breath. So like a bookstore with its moisture sucked out by the books. Only here, expensive paper, parchment, and stationery depleted the air, which was oddly fragranced with inks and fruity scents whose source she couldn’t ascertain.
Yet it was a strangely comforting aroma. Reminded her of her years spent studying old artifacts and crumbling parchments. She wove her way to the back, where another customer leaned on the counter, talking in low tones with the seller. Broad shouldered, the customer stooped over a receipt to sign it. Hair the color of a storm cloud, he laughed at something the owner had said.
Tzivia twitched, impatient and feeling a twinge of . . . anxiety? What was it?
One wall sported a dozen different journals bound in linen, their seams obviously stitched. Sticks of brightly colored wax were displayed in long rows. A tray along the entire stretch of the building held dozens of jars with dark liquid—inks! Blues, purples, reds. Light reached in through the front window, its beam striking the bottles and flicking an array of colors along the ceiling. Almost magical.
And yet something here . . .
“You work too hard, Ti,” the cashier said, laughing, his French accent thickly coating his English words.
The customer inclined his gray head. “Dieu sait.” He bent at the waist. “Until next time, friend.” A waft of soap and salty sea air swirled as he turned and shouldered past Tzivia to the front door.
He seemed . . . odd. Oddly familiar.
Insane. She didn’t know anyone here.
“Can I help you?” the cashier’s voice warned Tzivia he’d asked more than once.
“Oh. Sorry.” She moved closer and pulled out a photo of Dr. Cathey. “I’m looking for this man. He came in here three days ago.”
“Ah, yes! Joseph.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes, Joseph Cathey. You know him, then?”
The man shook an arthritically gnarled finger at her. “I remember him because of what he purchased.”
“What?”
He rounded the counter and walked to a tight corner, where he produced a set of keys then bent toward a locked cabinet. “I do not know how he knew we had these—few ever ask for them. And they cost much.” He drew out a tray of wax seal stamps and returned to the sales counter. “See here?” His thick, swollen finger probed an empty rectangular indention. “Only a serious connoisseur of wax and seals would be interested in this.”
“And Dr. Cathey was?”
“Oui! Very.” His chuckle rumbled through his chest. “He was very excited.”
“Why? What was it? How is it significant?”
“Ah, see?” He lifted a stick of wax, admiring it with the sincerity of someone eyeing a priceless gem. “In the Middle Ages, wax was made from beeswax and Venice turpentine, a yellowish resin.”
“And that’s what he bought?”
“Oui—all that I had.” He laughed, shaking his head. “He also purchased one of my more rare stamps, a Templar Knight seal.”
Tzivia scowled. “Templar?”
A boisterous laugh filled the shop as he returned the tray to the cabinet and locked it. He waddled back, the arthritis apparently not only in his hands but his hip or knee as well. “It is good to have what a customer wants, even more so when it’s a high-value item.”
Confusion choked her. Why would Dr. Cathey abandon the gallery and presentation to come here and buy a stamp? It made no sense! “Did he say why he wanted them?”
The man shrugged. “As my friend says, Dieu sait.”
Tzivia straightened, suddenly connecting dots—words—that had hung in the air around her, tangling her thoughts. “God knows,” she whispered, remembering when Noel had muttered the same phrase while translating the words from the caller, the man who’d told her to go to Syria. Who knew her name.
The same words spoken by—“That man!” She glanced at the door. Of course, he was already gone. She jerked around to the cashier. Her heart rammed against her ribs. “Who is he?”
A guarded expression sprang up on the shopkeeper’s ruddy face. He frowned.
“The man who was here,” she repeated. “The one who said those words—who is he? Where can I find him?”
He smirked. “Dieu sait.”
He was taunting her, throwing the words back at her. Augh!
Tzivia spun and sprinted through the narrow aisle to the front door. She yanked it open and hurried onto the busy sidewalk. On her tiptoes, she strained to see down the sidewalk to her right. Then left. Surely a tall, burly man with gray hair wouldn’t be too hard to spot. Where had he gone?
One phrase answered her: Dieu sait.
God knows.
8
— Niamey, Niger —
“I cannot wait for another home-cooked meal.” Palchinski tossed a plastic tray onto the table with slop arranged in different variations and colors. He dropped on the bench and groaned.
“You and me both.” Cell banged a biscuit into the table. “This thing could double as a clay pigeon for target practice. Who’s going to cook for you? Your mom?”
Pal raised his hand as if he’d smack Cell.
“Wait—are you saying you have a girlfriend?”
“After the trouble you gave me about Marie, do you think anyone would answer that question?” Maangi said. “Besides, I could serve you up a tray of pain right now, dude.”
Tox eyed Pal, noting the sweat beading his forehead and upper lip. Was his face a little pale? More than normal?
Keogh and VVolt showed up, the Malinois giving big puppy eyes to his handler, as if telling him he’d earned a few treats.
“You going to give him some slop?” Cell asked.
“Only reward he gets is his Kong.” Keogh held up a red, irregular-shaped rubber toy.
“VVolt,” Cell said, the dog’s ears swiveling up and toward him, “you’re getting the short end of the stick, soldier.”
“Airman,” Keogh corrected.
“Another short stick.” Cell snickered.
Tox smiled, glad they could have some downtime. But it wouldn’t last. Not with what they were facing. He spotted Ram crossing the room.
“What’d you make of the info from the First Lady and that agent?” Ram slid on the bench toward Tox.
“Forget that,” Cell said. “What’s with the villagers dying?”
Pal plunked his fork down, apparently giving up on eating the slop. “It’s a Third World country, dude.”
“But they weren’t sick when this mission started.”
“Or maybe we just hadn’t heard about it.”
“What if Pal caught this thing?” Cell wondered aloud. “He could be infecting all of us.”
“Easy. Leave that to medical,” Tox said quietly, determined to refocus the conversation. Not borrow trouble regarding Pal. “Our mission is to find the president.”
“Heads-up!” Colonel Rodriguez appeared just inside the door to the chow hall. “Another village has reported deaths. Let’s go.”
> Amid the scraping chairs, Tox headed toward the colonel. “How far from the one where we were?” He followed the colonel back to Command, a wash of fluorescents tugging at his corneas.
“Across the map.”
“Come again?” Ram held open the door to the briefing room as the others filtered in.
“We’ve had four villages hit in Nigeria, but the most recent is in Syria.”
Cell whistled.
“So the contagion, whatever, hopped borders. Spread. What, did someone get on a plane?” Maangi scratched the back of his head.
“Can you see those villagers buying plane tickets?” Cell snorted. “They barely had running water.”
“Maybe, but some of the Boko Haram thugs can—and Wallace did say the terrorists were headed to Syria.”
“So why would they leave the country?” Ram asked.
“To spread this sickness, whatever it is.”
“Medical is saying the initial results point to a toxin rather than a virus,” Colonel Rodriguez said.
“Yeah, well, whatever you call this thing, it’s killing people,” Cell grumbled.
Tox listened to the banter, studied the map, then got to his feet and moved to a computer. Pointing at it, he silently asked the colonel for permission to use it. Tox surfed around, Googling different phrases like TOXIN, DISEASE, SICKNESS, POISON, NIGERIAN VILLAGE, NIGERIANS SICK. He skipped web results and went to the video results. A dozen suggestions popped up. He scanned . . . scanned . . .
“Palchinski.” A voice boomed from the door. “Medical wants you back. Now.”
Pal glanced to Tox with a stricken expression. Tox gave a curt nod. They all knew it was likely. They just didn’t want to admit it. And watching Pal walk through that door ate at him. There’s a reason people call me Tox—I’m toxic. People die around me.
He refocused on the screen. He was getting nowhere. His gaze swept a page of results, his fists tightening. They needed—
Wait. He leaned in closer. The caption was in a different language, but the clothes on that man in the hut . . . he wasn’t native. Nicer clothes. Tox clicked on the video. Snorted.
“What’s up, Sarge?” Cell and the others gathered around.
Sickened, Tox rubbed his jaw and folded his arms over his tactical vest. “Terrorists love their own publicity.”
A poor quality video, no doubt from a cell phone, showed a convoy of vehicles pulling into a village. A sea of armed hostiles under the Boko Haram banner flooded out of trucks, through huts, and routed villagers from their homes. The manhandling of a small girl set Tox’s teeth on edge.
The camera panned back. A man stood atop one of the trucks, hand raised over his head, shouting in Arabic.
“Terrifying splendor,” someone behind Tox said softly.
He turned and found the Secret Service agent in the doorway with the First Lady.
Walker Wallace shook his head. “Sorry. It caught my attention.”
“What does it mean?”
“And what’s he holding?” Maangi said, leaning in. “I thought it was a rifle, but that . . .” He squinted. “That’s not a gun.”
Colonel Rodriquez was on the phone, calling in a tech. “Get this up and analyzed. I want to know who this is, what he’s holding, and a full transcript of what’s being said.”
“I can tell you what he says.” Wallace sidled in between Tox and Ram. “Play it again.”
Tox eyed him.
“Please.” Wallace nodded toward the computer.
Tox hit PLAY. The video refreshed and he advanced it to the speech.
Wallace listened, then started translating. “‘I am using this opportunity to send this message to the infidels in Nigeria and the infidels in the world. People should know that it is Allah we are serving. We are praying to die in this path and see heaven. We beg Allah to grant us the innermost part of heaven and may Allah shield us.
“‘You are now seating down with Badi al Zaman, who says you have reached a ceasefire. There is no ceasefire! Badi seats down with the Great Satan, but know this—we have their leader. We will slit his throat.’” Wallace’s gaze skidded to the First Lady, who covered her mouth. “‘Allah is the knower of everything. Because of this, there is no ceasefire. There is no talk with anyone. Instead it is a war with beatings and killings and guns.
“‘We are on course; our focus and determination is to see that only the Quran is being used in the world. With Allah, this is what we put ahead of us. You pledge to Nigeria, your country; I, Nizar bin Sultan, pledge to Allah my God. If you don’t know, today you will know. I pledge to Allah to be faithful. We will stop Badi al Zaman and cut off the head of the Great Satan with this, the—’” Wallace frowned, shook his head as the man in the video hoisted something over his head; he looked to Tox and shrugged. “Weapon? Weapon of death?”
“Mace of Death,” Ram corrected quietly. “He’s holding the Mace of Subjugation from Syrian antiquity.”
Wallace started.
Ram stared at the video. “He promises to unleash a terrifying splendor, as the Syrian kings did by the hand of their god Ashur.” He sighed. “Basically, he’s planning to wipe out all of al Zaman’s men and anyone who stands in his way.”
Wallace tucked his chin. “I didn’t know you speak Arabic.”
“Never asked.”
“So, what? He’s trying to make himself into a god?” Cell asked.
“He’s going to kill Kevin, isn’t he?” The First Lady’s voice was soft, vulnerable. It made Tox think of their people back home. Americans. Those he was tasked with representing.
“Not if we can stop him,” Maangi said.
“How do you know he hasn’t already killed him?” Wallace asked.
“Because if he had,” Tox said, “they’d be dangling his body for all the world to see.”
“They love their own publicity,” Ram repeated.
Cell stood straighter, ready. “So we get him back.”
Tox nodded, determination filling him.
“Where? How?” The First Lady seemed to burrow in on herself, her fear palpable. “They gave no clues—”
“Wrong,” Tox said, not meaning to sound confrontational. “He mentioned al Zaman.”
She frowned.
“He’s a Syrian prince and defense minister.” He pointed to Cell. “Get on a computer. The villages—find out if they have some connection to al Zaman.”
Ram met his gaze. “So he’s going after the crown prince?”
“Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Rod did say they hit a Syrian city. So . . . hit the city, wipe out the people? Why?”
“Your competitors?” Tox cocked his head. “I’d say he’s going after the crown itself.”
“Whoa, hold up.” Colonel Rodriguez lost his Latino coloring. “Are you saying he’s going to”—he looked at the video and shook his head—“whatever he does with that mace—he’s going to do it to Syria?” The colonel swiped a hand over his mouth, dread in every ounce of his posture. “This toxin is fast-acting. WHO hasn’t even nailed down what it is, let alone found an antidote.”
“Attack while everyone is still scrambling with their pants down, unaware and unprepared?” Tox nodded, staring into the wild eyes of Nizar bin Sultan on the monitor. “Yeah, he’ll do it. If he hasn’t already.”
9
— Paris, France —
“What does he want with a Templar Knight seal?”
“Like I know.” Tzivia pressed her spine hard against the back of the chair. She lifted a cup of tea and sipped, savoring the warmth in aching muscles that had spent the last two-and-a-half days traversing the globe. She was annoyed with Dr. Cathey for this expedition but also that she didn’t have her mammoth copy of the Syrian text about the mace. “If I had the inscriptions, maybe this insanity would make sense.”
“Maybe,” Noel said. “But then again, this is Dr. C we’re talking about.”
She plucked a crumb from her raspberry tart, her gaze drifting around the
café once again in the vain hope that she’d find the Stranger. “Hey. He might be absent-minded or distracted, but he’s never been irresponsible.”
“Define irresponsible.” She heard his keyboard clacking. “Did you see the news? Dozens are dead in Nigeria.”
“How?”
“They haven’t said yet.”
“Weird.” Tzivia let out a sigh. “Do me a favor? Scan the pages of the text and send them to me.”
“You think there’s something in there to explain the professor’s adventures?”
“I don’t know. But it seems too unlikely for him not to be pursuing something connected to the mace.” She broke off another crumb and was slipping it into her mouth when the gleam of a vehicle out on the street caught her attention. “I mean, he was very distraught.” She watched through the window as three sleek black sedans slid up along the sidewalk of the café. Two beefy men in suits popped out of the first and last cars. “Dr. Cathey wouldn’t just abandon something his entire career depended on.”
One suit opened a rear passenger door on the middle sedan. A third man emerged, buttoning his navy blazer as he did. He had the look of money and power and lots of both, with his slicked-back hair and gold watch covered in so many diamonds it could be a homing beacon to land a jetliner. As one of his men leaned toward him and said something, he tucked his chin. His gaze slid over the front of the café.
And for two icy seconds landed on Tzivia, who sat behind the protection of the glass window and a few rows of tables. Crazy. He probably couldn’t even see inside. But she followed him with her gaze as he headed for the open doors to the café. When the people outside got up and abandoned cups and sandwiches, Tzivia sat a little straighter. Swallowed harder.
Somehow, she knew he was coming for her, even if she didn’t know why or what made her believe that.
The suits were inside now, clearing a path for their boss. They stormed around tables, patrons diving out of the way, some gasping and others yelping. Whoever these men were, they put the fear of God into people. Including her.
“Noel, I . . . if I don’t call you back in ten minutes, contact the authorities.”
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