She again heard that gunshot, watched Gray fall in her mind’s eye. Other deaths—far bloodier—flashed through her. She didn’t feel horror, only a familiar coldness, bordering on satisfaction.
Nearby, the digital image faded into a picture of her, gently kissing the soft fontanel atop her baby’s head.
Who is that woman?
Who am I?
She didn’t entirely know—and she feared the answer. To make matters worse, over the past several weeks, she felt like she was losing herself. And if she did, what could she offer Gray? What kind of mother would she be to Jack? To distract herself, she did her best to focus on the task at hand, a skill honed into her as an assassin. She concentrated on raising Jack, putting all her energy there, because that was easier than looking in the mirror.
But that was no longer working.
Something was building inside her, along with a new fear.
Until I know who I am, maybe Jack would be better without me.
Noting that her milk production had dwindled, she turned off the pump and set about detaching the bottle and screwing on the lid.
As she did, the front door opened, and Gray called her name.
“In the kitchen!” she yelled back, her voice cracking a bit.
About time you’re back.
His boots thumped across the hardwood floor, then he pushed through the swinging door to join her. He was sweaty, his breath quick. His very presence filled the kitchen. Even his scent washed away the sweet perfume of milk with a ripe musky masculinity.
“I have something to discuss with you. Sigma wants me to—”
“I know,” she interrupted, standing up. “Kat called me and filled me in. You need to go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Because I’m going with you.”
Gray stiffened. “But what about—?”
“Kat’s going to watch Jack. Monk’s already on his way over to pick him up. Harriet and Penny are beyond thrilled.” She crossed to the refrigerator and put the two bottles at the back, adding to the lineup there. “I’ve been pumping regularly over the past weeks. I’ve got plenty here for four days, and more milk in the freezer for good measure.”
She turned and met his eyes.
I need this.
She had expected him to balk, but instead, his eyes flashed with an excited glint. It had been a long time since she’d seen that thrill shining there. She felt her heart respond, pounding harder as she realized a deeper truth.
We need this.
Gray reached out and pulled her closer. “We could be heading into Hell. Maybe even literally.”
She stared up at him and smiled, wider than she had in a long time.
“I’m counting on it.”
11
June 22, 8:45 P.M. TRT
Ankara, Turkey
The forty-eighth Mūsā to carry that holy title left the Kocatepe Mosque, the largest house of prayer in Ankara. It was where he always prayed when he visited Turkey’s capital. He had just finished the Maghrib prayer, the sunset prayer, performing all three rak’at, the two sunnahs, and both nonobligatory nafls.
Now is not a time for half-measures.
He headed across the plaza, leaving the massive bulk of the mosque and its four thin minarets behind him. He was followed by the trio who served him, the three Banū Mūsā, the Sons of Moses. They were not in fact his blood, as such titles had to be earned through butchery and trials by fire. In fact, he had no children. His second wife remained at her family estate outside of Istanbul. It had been an arranged marriage, one necessary for his position. Afterward, they seldom spoke, even more rarely touched, just enough to consecrate their wedding bed.
His true family were these Sons of Moses who guarded him. They each carried a pair of Caracal F semiautomatic pistols in shoulder harnesses over their suit jackets. Eyes watched for any threats to his person.
He was led to his armor-plated limousine, where two Bint Mūsā, the fierce and deadly Daughters of Moses, guarded the vehicle, similarly armed, but also with throwing knives sheathed at their wrists.
One opened the door for him, and he climbed into the backseat.
The Sons joined him, while the Daughters slid into the front, one taking the wheel and engaging the idling engine. The long limousine slid into the evening traffic and headed through the brightly lit city. They were due at the airport in another hour, but first he had one last obligation in Ankara.
He settled back in his seat, but his heart still thrummed in his chest. Anxiety and excitement kept his muscles tense.
After so many centuries . . .
A long line of men took the title of Mūsā, going back to the ninth century, to the first of his name, Mūsā ibn Shākir, a great astronomer who was born in Khorasan in northeast Persia. He had four sons—though most historians only knew of three—who, due to their intelligence, studied at the famous House of Wisdom in Baghdad, during a time when Islam shone with a golden brightness. Following the fall of Rome, the sons spent their lives traveling far, gathering rare texts from Italy and Greece, preserving them, building upon the knowledge found in them. They would produce wondrous works, constructing canals and crafting ingenious devices, along with writing dozens of books.
But only a select few knew the secret history of the Banū Mūsā brothers, how four had become three, how one of Mūsā ibn Shākir’s sons betrayed the others, stole their greatest treasure and the secret it protected, destroying all records, leaving no trace to follow. For this treachery, his name was stricken from their books, his history in the family erased.
It was as if Hunayn ibn Mūsā had never existed.
Still, what that brother stole, what he sought to keep from the world, was not forgotten by a sect within Baghdad’s House of Wisdom. They kept that knowledge hidden, from generation to generation, from one caliphate to another, from one country to another. Forty-seven men had led this cabal in the past, each taking the title of Mūsā, knowing that someday what was lost would be found again.
And that time was upon the world now.
I am the forty-eighth Mūsā—and I will be the last.
He had suffered much to achieve this position, a birthright forged in blood and grief. His first wife—his dearest Esra—and his baby boy were killed by a Kurdish bomb. He eventually hunted the insurgents down, and in the dead of night, slaughtered those responsible, along with their wives and children. Still, all that blood could not wash away his grief.
Instead, he gathered a new set of Sons and Daughters to his side, those hardened to the cause. He intended not only to make all of Kurdistan suffer, but to ignite the entire region. With tensions throughout the Middle East at their highest, the time to bring about Armageddon had come. The return of what was lost was a portentous omen.
Into this powder keg, I will not just toss a match—I will cast forth a thousand flaming torches.
He considered what had befallen the team in Greenland, the horrors that had slaughtered them. It was proof that what Hunayn had sought to keep hidden did truly exist. With such knowledge, Mūsā knew what he must do, what he knew in his heart was always his destiny.
I will find the entrance to Hell, break open those gates, and unleash Armageddon.
He had always sensed the end-times were upon the world. From the unnatural disasters, the pollution of the planet, the endless wars, and most important of all, the moral decay around the globe. The signs were all around. Recognizing this, Mūsā had studied the Islamic apocalyptic writings and read the hadiths—words attributed to Prophet Muhammad—that spoke of the Last Days, when Isa, whom the Christians named Jesus, would return.
He closed his eyes and silently recited a much-quoted apocalyptic hadith: The Son of Mary will soon descend among you as a just ruler; he will break the cross and kill the swine. Unlike Christendom’s view of the end-times, Islam believed that when Jesus returned, he would shun Christians and side with Muslims. He would end his own worship by destroying the cross and pr
ohibiting the eating of a pig’s flesh, as was already dictated by Muslim law.
And Jesus would not come alone.
Preceding his momentous return would be the arrival of a twelfth imam, a divine caliph and descendant of Muhammad, who would purge away injustice, battle Satan, and burn the world clean.
That figure was called Mahdi, whose name means the guided one.
Over the past centuries, many men—false prophets—had claimed to be the twelfth imam, but Mūsā knew the truth. He knew with certainty that there was only one who could purge the world. And the discovery in Greenland—during the reign of the forty-eighth Mūsā—was surely proof.
I will find the gates of Hell, steal Satan’s flame, and cleanse the world with fire.
Then his title would forever change.
From Mūsā to Mahdi.
He had always known in his bones that this was his true destiny.
The phone in his pocket rang and vibrated. He retrieved it, already expecting this call. The voice that answered confirmed it.
“My esteemed Mūsā, our plane has landed on the coast,” Bint Mūsā stated firmly, speaking Arabic as was traditional within their group, respecting the original tongue spoken by their ancient founders. “We are on our way to the House of Wisdom.”
“Very good. And the map is secure? The archaeologist in hand?”
“Yes, but as I’ve informed you, we regretfully failed to retrieve the Daedalus Key.”
Mūsā heard the anguish at this failure, a misstep that would normally deserve punishment, but this Daughter had recovered much and suffered horrible losses. He would grant her mercy—and hope.
“Fear not, my Daughter, we will obtain the Daedalus Key. Plans are already in motion.”
A sigh of relief followed. “I am grateful to hear such glorious news.”
“I will meet you at the House of Wisdom by midnight.”
He hung up the phone, ready to attend to his last obligation in Ankara. The limousine turned onto Atatürk Boulevard. The car traveled the tree-lined street to a set of tall gates in a stone wall. An American flag decorated the entrance to the U.S. embassy.
The gates stood wide, flanked by guards.
As the limo parked at the curb, Mūsā climbed out. Classical music drifted through the open doors to the compound, where a party was already under way in the courtyard.
The U.S. deputy chief of mission approached, his hand outstretched. “Hoș geldiniz,” he greeted in Turkish. “Ambassador Firat, we’re thrilled you were in town and could attend our soiree tonight.”
“Most gracious.” He shook the man’s hand. “As the ambassador to your beautiful country, how could I not?”
Escorted by the deputy, Mūsā headed through the gates, stepping onto foreign territory while in his own land.
Soon all such borders will be burned away.
From the courtyard, he glanced back to his limo, full of his Sons and Daughters. He turned around with a smile, knowing others of his family were already preparing for the next step in his plans.
To secure the Daedalus Key.
12
June 22, 10:04 P.M. CEST
Province of Rome, Italy
Kowalski frowned and sat up straighter as the Land Rover turned off the main highway that circled Rome and headed to the southwest. Leaving the glow of the city behind, the SUV sped away and climbed toward dark hills dotted with the lights of small villages. Black clouds obliterated the stars as a summer thunderstorm threatened. Thunder echoed down from the highlands sounding like distant cannon fire.
“Where are we going?” he asked from the backseat, turning away from the lights of Rome. “I thought we were going to where the pope lives.”
“We are,” Maria answered with an exasperated sigh next to him.
“Isn’t that back in Rome? At the Vatican?”
“Yes, but like I told you, we’re going to the pope’s summer palace. In a town called Castel Gandolfo, sixteen miles to the south. It’s up in the hills outside Rome. That’s where Director Crowe wants us to take the astrolabe, and where we’ll meet with Father Bailey and Monsignor Roe.”
Kowalski settled back down, too tired to press the matter. He was glad Maria had been on that conference call with Crowe. He was no good with details, especially after days of tension and too little sleep. By the time they were finally able to escape Greenland, the ferocious windstorm had blown itself out, and their destination had changed. Rather than heading back to the States, they had been diverted to Italy, ordered to take the silver astrolabe here. No one bothered to explain why. But an order was an order. And if nothing else, the change put a burr under Pullman’s saddle. The Poseidon’s commander had been none too happy to be called away from hunting for that missing submarine and return again to his role as a glorified Uber driver.
Twenty minutes ago, the jet had touched down on the outskirts of Rome, at Guidonia Air Base, an Italian Air Force facility. Pullman nearly shoved them out the door.
Or at least, me.
A black Land Rover Defender with the word CARABINIERI stenciled in white on the side had been waiting on the tarmac. The driver, a young MP named Reynaldo, was dressed in a dark navy uniform with a matching beret. Kowalski had looked enviously at the man’s holstered Beretta 92. Without any weapons, Kowalski felt naked.
Douglas MacNab leaned forward from the SUV’s third row. “Maria, when are your teammates due to arrive?”
“Crack of dawn,” she answered.
Kowalski rankled at this reminder. It was like Director Crowe couldn’t trust him to deal with this mess on his own. Instead he had to send backup.
Suddenly worried, he glanced back to Mac, making sure the bearded climatologist hadn’t left the case aboard the jet when they’d been rushed off. He was relieved to see the silver valise resting on the seat next to him. Due to low-level radioactivity, the astrolabe had been secured inside that lead-lined case. A yellow-and-red hazard label had been slapped onto its side, intended to keep anyone curious from opening it.
Not that Mac was going to let it out of his sight.
The climatologist had insisted on accompanying the astrolabe, his reasoning solid: My friend died over this, he had argued, and Elena was kidnapped on my watch. Until I know what’s really going on, this damned thing ain’t leaving my side.
Kowalski would’ve been satisfied with a simple finders keepers as an explanation, but he appreciated Mac’s stubbornness and determination to get to the bottom of all of this.
He hoped it didn’t get the guy killed.
The Land Rover climbed along a twisting two-lane rural highway, slowing down periodically when it passed through a village. As the SUV accelerated out of a place called Frattocchie, the summer storm finally found them. One moment the road was dry, then around a bend, rain whipped the vehicle in thick windblown sheets. Fat droplets pelted the roof. The windshield wipers beat wildly.
“Bad weather seems to be plaguing us,” Mac said from the back.
Maria checked the map on her cell phone. “We’re only three miles from Castel Gandolfo. We should be there soon.”
As they continued, the storm steadily worsened. Visibility shrank toward the SUV’s front bumper. Reynaldo cursed and was forced to slow down—and luckily, he did. Around another blind turn, they came upon a lumber truck that had jackknifed across both lanes, hazards blinking. The driver braked hard to avoid a collision.
So much for getting to that village anytime soon . . .
With the Land Rover idling, the driver swore in Italian and pushed open his door. “I’ll find out what the problem is,” he promised.
As the MP stepped out, the driver’s-side window exploded. His body flew backward, pounded by a barrage of gunfire. A trio of black-clad men armed with stubby carbines burst around the tail of the truck and rushed forward.
Kowalski was already moving with the first gunshot. He shoved Maria down, vaulted over the seatback, and dropped behind the wheel. He kept low as gunfire strafed the windshield,
shattering and splintering it. Not bothering to close the damaged door, he yanked on the gearshift and pounded the accelerator. All four tires gripped the wet road, and the Land Rover flew forward.
He crashed headlong into the side of the truck, pinning and crushing two of the shooters. A third rolled out of the way. Kowalski knew he had seconds before the bastard collected himself and fired.
He shoved the SUV into reverse and sped backward.
Lights flashed in his rearview mirror as two motorcycles dashed from side roads onto the highway. Riders lifted submachine guns as the bikes accelerated toward them, cutting off his exit.
No surprise there.
Kowalski braked hard—right next to Reynaldo’s bloody body. With the driver’s door still hanging open, he hung from the wheel and reached down with his free arm. He thumbed the flap on the MP’s holster and yanked the Beretta free. Then he used all his core to pop upright in the seat.
Time for a little payback.
He lifted the pistol, balanced in both hands, and floored the gas pedal. With its gear still in reverse, the Rover sped backward. Kowalski aimed forward. The gunman by the truck had regained his feet on the rain-drenched road. Kowalski fired twice through the windshield. The bastard’s body jerked the same number of times, both rounds striking center mass.
As the man fell, Kowalski kept the accelerator floored.
“Stay down!” he hollered to his passengers.
The SUV flew backward, forcing the motorcycles to split to either side. Through the shattered driver’s window, he emptied the clip at the bike on the left side. Rounds sparked off metal. The rider in back tumbled away. The motorcycle careened wildly off the road, hit a boulder, and cartwheeled through the air and crashed into a tree.
The other cycle spun expertly on the road and came back at them, already firing, forcing Kowalski to keep low.
But he had not been the target.
The front right tire blew, sending the Rover into a spin on the wet road. Kowalski dropped the empty pistol and grabbed the wheel with both hands, as warning lights flashed across the dash. He regained control more by sheer will than by the grip of the SUV’s tires. With the Rover now headed back the way it had come, he hit the accelerator and raced away from the motorcycle as it gave chase.
The Last Odyssey: A Thriller Page 11