Ari was aiming an electronic camera and the flash popped. The camera whirred again as he photographed the bloody artwork on the walls and the victim’s body from at least a dozen angles. When Ari finished, he stared across, his face still pale. “What the devil does it all mean?”
Lela stared back at him, lost for an answer.
Five miles away, a strong desert wind had started to blow, tossing flurries of sand against the Mercedes’ windshield.
Jack stared out worriedly beyond the glass, past the fog of gusting sand, while next to him in the driver’s seat Josuf slowly negotiated a narrow desert road. The weather was turning, a sandstorm blowing, and Jack was having difficulty seeing the pickup fifty yards ahead of them. Yasmin was driving the Ford, and the man named Botwan was covering her with his weapon.
In the rear seat behind Jack, Pasha reached forward and prodded Josuf in the back of the neck with his pistol. “Stop here. Honk the car horn, then slowly pull off the road and cut the engine,” he ordered.
Jack felt his heart hammering in his chest. He peered out into the desert but saw nothing but sand and a coarse, rocky track. For the last ten minutes Pasha had remained ominously silent as he kept his gun trained on them. Jack feared the worst.
“I said honk the horn and pull in,” Pasha barked.
Josuf obeyed, slapping the horn, causing three sharp blasts, then eased the Mercedes off the desert track. Immediately the Ford in front slowed and pulled up, its red taillights illuminating in the fog of the sandstorm. A moment later Yasmin climbed out, followed by Botwan brandishing his pistol, both of them covering their faces with their arms to shield themselves from the gritty gusts.
“Get out of the car,” Pasha ordered.
Jack was forced to obey, followed by Josuf, as Pasha clambered out after them, keeping his gun at the ready, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the sand flurries stung their faces.
“Move over there.” He gestured with his pistol for them to move at least thirty feet out into the desert. Jack braced himself as Yasmin moved beside him, and he could feel her hand shaking as she gripped his. “Are—are you going to kill us?” she asked Pasha.
Jack’s heart sank as Pasha racked the pistol slide and chambered a round, ready to fire. “It comes to us all, young lady,” the Syrian said matter-of-factly. “But I’ll give you time to say your prayers.”
Josuf said valiantly, “Please, there is no need to kill them. I’m the one who’s responsible for bringing them here—”
Botwan struck him a blow across the face with his pistol. The Bedu reeled back, blood on his lips. “Kneel, all of you,” Botwan ordered.
They knelt in the sand and Jack’s heart jackhammered as he desperately sought a chance to escape, but the situation was dire, both Pasha and Botwan aiming their guns.
Yasmin’s voice quivered as she begged, “Please . . . can’t you let us go? We promise we won’t tell anyone what happened.”
“Tell it to the devil. I hope you’ve said your prayers, American. Because you’re first to die.”
Jack couldn’t answer. He felt his body shake as Pasha stepped forward, clutching his pistol. Then Jack suddenly went rigid with shock as the Syrian brought up the weapon and aimed it at the middle of Jack’s forehead. Jack tightly closed his eyes, his heart pounding with dread, everything happening so fast he could hardly think, let alone pray.
The pistol exploded.
43
ROME
Cardinal Umberto Cassini stepped through the Belvedere Courtyard and entered the sturdy granite building that houses the Vatican’s Secret Archives.
Moving past the security guards, Cassini ignored the custodian seated at the large table, bare except for the visitor book he guarded. Like many cardinals of the Curia, Cassini hardly ever signed the book. Besides, he had more urgent matters on his mind.
He entered a sparsely furnished chamber, empty except for a couple of earnest young clerical scholars working at their desks. Cassini ignored them and came to a small room at the back of the building, protected by double oak doors blackened with age. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to mentally prepare himself for the difficult task that lay ahead.
He rapped twice on the ancient wood and waited.
The doors opened and a tall, handsome priest wearing a black soutane stood there. Father Emil Rossi was a respected archivist, a guardian of some of the most sensitive records in the Vatican Archives. With his high forehead, fine nose, and slender aristocratic hands, his chiselled face was made for sculpting. Rossi bowed in a slight, effeminate manner. “Your Eminence. It is good to see you.” He limped back to admit his visitor.
