Cloe stood up and turned to the group. “Michael is right,” she said. “We must stop the Karik. The information that may be in the jars cannot fall into his hands. The pope has made that clear. The Karik will kill every Sicarius he finds until one of them tells him where they are. This cannot happen.”
“Agreed,” said the monsignor.
“Agreed,” said J.E.
“Agreed,” said Father Sergio, as the rest of the cohorts repeated the same.
Cloe looked at them and said, “Then it is settled. We continue to seek the jars to keep faith with the mission given us by the pope, but we stop the Karik at all costs.”
CHAPTER 67
“Well, the Karik certainly has a substantial head start on us,” said J.E., gazing at the disabled vehicles. “This won’t help us catch up.”
They had decamped, packing what little they had. Cloe was still exhausted but knew they had to move out. After a couple of hours of trekking, they had arrived at where they had left the Land Rover. What remained of Father Sergio’s vehicle was there next to it.
“The Karik’s men must have set the gasoline in the tanks on fire,” observed the monsignor, looking at the burned-out vehicles. “Interesting that he would do that since he hardly would have expected any of us to survive and return to the cars.”
“Belt and suspenders, perhaps,” quipped the camerlengo.
“Just pure meanness to burn those cars,” said J.E.
“All true,” said the monsignor. “But burning the cars also destroyed any forensic evidence that was ever in them. This would delay the authorities’ efforts to find out to whom the vehicles belonged and what might have happened to them. I see he has also taken the license plates.”
“Okay, now what?” asked Cloe. “It’s at least a six-hour drive back to El Guettar. It will take a lot longer to walk. Can we call some help?”
“I already have,” said Michael, gesturing to his satellite phone in its belt holster.
Cloe heard a roar come up the valley and over the edge of the road bank to the south. She turned and saw a large helicopter feather out above the parking cul-de-sac. Slowly the machine settled into the niche where cars normally parked. Its skids made solid contact, and the turbine engine begin its deceleration. The rotors kicked up an enormous amount of dust, but this too quickly began to settle.
“Well, that’s very impressive,” observed Father Sergio. “I wondered how you got up here in the first place. Perhaps the Karik is not as far ahead of us as he thinks.”
The pilot swung out of the left-hand seat, walked to the group, and saluted Miguel. “Hello, boss. Can we give you a lift?”
Miguel turned to Cloe and the others and said, “Lady and gentlemen, meet Sky. He can fly anything better, farther, and faster than any other man alive. He was a child pilot in Vietnam, then the Balkans, Iraq, et cetera.”
Sky could have been forty-five, sixty-five, or any age in between. He was tall and had a weathered, tan face and almost-white hair. His dark arms were stringy but muscled. Sky had a mustache that Bill Cody in his day would have envied. Cloe thought the man looked like a walking, flying myth.
“Good morning, ma’am. At your service,” said Sky with a bow.
Cloe smiled in spite of the fatigue and said, “Mr. Sky, we need a ride to El Guettar.”
“Well, happy to oblige, ma’am, but if it’s all the same to you, we’ll go to Gafsa where the boss has his jet parked,” said the pilot. “Then we’ll go wherever the fuel load will take us that you may want to go. And if that’s not enough, we’ll stop and get some more go-juice.”
Cloe’s smile broadened, and she actually began to feel good in the halo of the man’s optimism. “Tunis sounds pretty good right now,” she said.
“Well, Tunis it is if the boss man says go,” replied Sky.
Miguel looked around and then to the east, pointed to the sky, and said, “Go.”
CHAPTER 68
Cloe could not remember the last time she had felt so good. Submerged to her chin in a full-size bath filled to the brim with hot water and soapy bubbles, she was in heaven. Michael had insisted on sending an ice bucket and very fine champagne to her room. She thought about whether she wished Michael was there. He had been very brave coming into the cave for her. On the other hand, she needed to talk to Albert and J.E. about Michael’s story in the cave. Had he really come for her or for the Karik? Or had he come for the jars?
The helicopter had ferried them to Gafsa, where Michael’s jet indeed was waiting. The ground crew had it serviced, and the copilot was warming the engines when they arrived. The group had transferred what little gear they had and then shot off the runway like a scalded dog. Sky did like a hot ride.
Cloe had slept a little on the way back, but mainly she watched and listened to J.E. and the monsignor discussing everything that had happened. They were debriefing each other as if they had been astronauts on a moon shot. She knew it would not take J.E. and the monsignor too long to figure out the Sicariis’ plan. It was only a matter of time.
In the tub, she leaned back and took a long sip of the clean, crisp wine. Strangely, her thoughts shifted to her Uncle Sonny. He was her dad’s only sibling and her only near relative. He had been through hell with the Kolektor, as they all had. But Uncle Sonny was ninety years old. She worried about him and said a silent prayer that the Swiss Guards who had been assigned to him were doing their job. She made up her mind to call him as soon as she could.
Cloe thought about the pope and his charge to her. The Karik must not find the cave with the jars, he had said. Well, he had found the cave but not the jars since it was empty. Cloe now questioned whether they had underestimated this Karik. He was plainly very clever and determined, and at times, he seemed to be more ruthless than the Kolektor himself.
Even so, the Sicarii had been ahead of everyone. Cloe guessed that the pope would be pleased that the Karik had not found the jars and their contents, at least not yet. Doubtless, by now the monsignor and Father Sergio had been in touch with the Vatican, and the pope knew what could be known. She hoped the amazing ops center under the Vatican had swung into action and was somehow tracking the Karik. Maybe it would all fall into place.
Realizing she was done, she popped the drain, rinsed off, and grabbed a full-length towel from the heated bar near the tub. The hotel was nothing if not full of detailed elegance. She dried off and sat in front of the mirror at the dressing table. The jet had brought them back to Tunis in less than two hours. The pilots had made reservations for them at the Les Berges Du Lac Hotel, where they had stayed on the way in country. They had no intel on the whereabouts of the Karik.
She had to meet her friends for drinks in a bit. Michael would be there. Her thoughts were all jumbled, and she felt on edge, a little like random lightning strikes were hitting near her. Was she doing the right thing?
***
Cloe put on the cocktail dress the concierge had purchased for her from the designer store in the hotel. The woman had excellent taste, and as Cloe sized herself up in the full-length mirror, she thought she looked pretty spectacular, the new grayer shade of her hair notwithstanding. The hotel’s jewelry store had actually loaned her a few pieces for the evening. She was beginning to like Tunis.
Cloe joined her friends on the same terrace where she had met Michael. An orchestra was playing softly. The terrace overlooked the bay, and the light was beginning to fade. Here and there a star made its appearance in the growing darkness.
As she approached, they all jumped up, and Michael seated her.
The monsignor said, “Signorina, you look marvelous.”
All nodded in approval, and Michael added, “Cloe, my compliments. How do you do this?”
Cloe looked around and saw they had all been to the hotel or area boutiques. J.E. had on a linen jacket with open collar. The two religious had once again found their traditional garb, although they had had to go outside the hotel to do so. Michael was splendid in a summer tux with white jacket. Cl
oe thought she and Michael were a bit overdressed for the time of day, but in the moment it was perfect.
Cloe reveled in the wonderful evening, her friends, and the gorgeous venue for just a bit. But then she got down to business. “I know you have checked your sources,” she said finally. “What of the Karik?”
“Nothing,” said the monsignor.
“Nothing,” said Michael.
“Mom, as far as we can determine, he is not in Tunis. Where he has gone is a mystery,” added J.E.
The group was silent for a moment while this information was digested. The monsignor leaned forward and looked directly at Cloe. “Cloe, you have not told us the details of your hours spent with the Sicarii,” he said.
“As I have said, much of the time with them, I spent listening to their history, some of which they had related to me after Hakeldama. Also, they confirmed that it was one of their sisters who was captured by the Karik’s thugs and who, they believe, drew a map of the cave’s location. She must have been tortured and near death to give him any information at all. Still, in drawing the map, as we now know, she transposed key landmarks so that the Karik would never find the cave by himself,” said Cloe.
“Such courage,” whispered the monsignor.
“Yes, they are a strong, courageous band of women,” replied Cloe.
“Where did they take the jars?” asked Father Sergio directly.
“They emptied the cave after their sister was tortured and killed. They could not take the chance that she had revealed the secret. But they would tell me nothing except that the jars were safe.”
“If I remember correctly, you said they took the jars to a ‘sacred place,’” said the camerlengo.
“Yes, that’s what I remember they said, but they gave me no further information on where that might be,” replied Cloe.
“A sacred place,” considered the monsignor again.
“Why don’t we order?” suggested Cloe. “I’m famished!”
A waiter materialized, distributed menus, and took drink requests. After a bit of discussion and consideration of the evening’s specials, orders were placed, and the friends settled back into the ambience of the evening.
“Cloe …” started the monsignor.
“Albert, can we have the rest of the evening without the Karik?” asked Cloe sharply. “I have told you what I know. Let’s enjoy tonight.”
“Yes, of course,” replied the priest, surprised by her abruptness.
Michael stood and said, “Cloe, may I have this dance?”
“Michael, I’m terribly sorry, but Father Sergio has asked me for the first dance,” Cloe replied, looking to the young cleric.
Smiling ear to ear, the Reverend Father Sergio Canti rose to his full height and circumnavigated the table to escort Cloe to the dance floor.
As they danced, Cloe said, “Father Sergio, you were very courageous in the cave, and without your insights, we never would have made it here. You’ve been a marvelous addition to our team. I shall make sure His Holiness knows. There’s nothing further for you to prove.”
Tears welled up in the young man’s eyes. “This is so important to me and to my people, Dr. Lejeune,” said the cleric. “My small village in Italy sacrificed so much to send me to seminary, and they have celebrated every achievement. When it became known I had a chance to possibly become a part of the pope’s personal household, they all prayed daily for me. I must succeed on this mission.”
“You have succeeded,” emphasized Cloe. “Please let this burden fall from your shoulders. No one could have done better.”
“It has been heavy at times, but it’s not a burden; it’s a privilege. My entire village succeeds because of me,” concluded the cleric. “God has blessed me.”
As the music ended and they walked back to the table, Cloe reflected on the two gems of the younger generation she was with and gave Father Sergio a great hug before sitting down, this time with tears in her eyes.
CHAPTER 69
“Michael, the dinner and dancing were wonderful,” said Cloe as they walked together through the lobby of the hotel on the way to the elevators. The hotel was quiet, and the lights had been turned down for the night. The rest of the group had long since retired.
“Yes,” he replied. “Cloe, I know we have not known each other very long, but I’m very happy.”
They entered the elevator and went to Cloe’s floor. Michael slipped his arm around Cloe’s shoulder as they walked down the corridor to her room.
Too soon, she thought, they were at her door. They turned, looked at each other, and kissed softly. Cloe had not felt like this in twenty-five years. She felt like a teenager again. Was she in love?
“Michael, come in and have coffee or a nightcap,” suggested Cloe.
She opened the door to her room, which had a seating area separate from the bedroom. Michael followed, and she turned to flick on the light switch. When she turned back to face Michael, he was looking over her shoulder into the room, an expression of horror on his face. As the door slammed behind them, she spun and saw several armed men coming at them.
“Run!” shouted Michael as he stepped by her, seeking to defend her from the first intruder.
But Cloe did not run. It was not in her to desert Michael. She slipped out of her heels and scooped one up to use as a weapon. She joined him at his shoulder and fought the way Thib had taught her on the river when she was young. She clawed, she kicked, she gouged—there were no rules except to survive. They both fought like the cornered animals they were.
Cloe expected to be shot since all the men had to do was step back and fire on them. Strangely, they did not.
Cloe and Michael had taken down two of the attackers with their bare hands and Cloe’s stiletto, but numbers were against them. One of the thugs struck Michael with the butt of his pistol, and he went down hard. Then it was just Cloe against four of them. Still, she pointed the heel of the shoe at them and made to fight on.
“Hold,” said a shadowy figure in the bedroom doorway.
Cloe looked up. It was the Karik. He had a pistol in his hand, and it was pointed squarely at Michael’s chest. The pistol had a silencer on it and would scarcely make any noise if he fired.
“It is nothing to me, but if you want your friend alive, at least for the time being, come here and sit on the couch,” said the Karik evenly.
Cloe glared at him but straightened her clothes, held her head up, and walked to the couch. As she sat, she was pleased to see the relief on the bleeding faces of most of the Karik’s men. She smiled sweetly at them, but her thoughts were furious. This was not a killing mission, or she and Michael would now be dead. The Karik’s men had them dead to rights with guns drawn when they entered the room. No, she thought, this was something else.
“Imagine my surprise,” said the Karik, “when I returned by car to Tunis only to learn that you and your people had survived and were already here.” He approached and sat lightly on the couch an arm’s length away from her. “You will have to tell me how you survived my explosives,” said the Karik. “They should have brought the whole cavern down.”
“They did,” she responded, “you dirty coward. You killed a number of our friends.”
“Pity I did not get you all,” replied the Karik. “How did you get out?”
Not seeing any reason to lie, Cloe said, “We went out the way Thib fell in decades ago. We dug through the ceiling above the cave-in that brought my father into the cave in the first place.”
“Ingenious! My compliments on your escape,” said the Karik cheerily. “But it seems that what was your good fortune has also turned into my good fortune.”
Cloe studied the man. Unlike the Kolektor, who spoke little and then very directly, this man was full of riddles. He seemed to amuse himself by toying with people under his power and to be more enamored of himself than was his predecessor. The Kolektor was self-obsessed, but the Karik was eaten up with self-love, with narcissism. Cloe thought there might be an advantage
in understanding this. He wanted something from her. She guessed she would soon find out.
“My dear, I think we have common cause in one thing,” said the Karik. “We both seek the jars, do we not?”
Cloe ignored the intimacy and stared stonily at the man. She noticed what looked like a small tremor in his left hand.
“I search for the jars to vindicate my master,” continued the Karik. “If I find them, I want them to be rigorously examined by the best scientific minds and the findings made public so all can know what’s there. Do you not seek the same goal?”
Cloe laughed. She knew she should not have done so, but she couldn’t help it. The man was such a lying fraud. He was terribly dangerous, but he did not frighten her the way the Kolektor had. The Kolektor was brilliant and chillingly scary, but the Karik was a power-mad brute who was little more than a blunt instrument. Essentially, it was Stalin versus Idi Amin. Still, she thought soberly, the latter had done a lot of damage.
“Karik,” she finally replied, “we don’t seek the same ends. If anything, we seek the opposite. You want the jars. My job is to prevent you from finding them. Thus far, that’s worked out.”
His face began to color. Cloe knew she might have a bit of an advantage because the Karik would be taken aback by the boldness of a woman talking to him like this. Even so, she could see he was fighting for self-control. Baiting him might be good to a point, but only to that point.
“Karik,” she asked, seeking to divert the conversation, “may I see to my friend?”
He gestured with the barrel of the gun, and she went to Michael. She examined the head wound carefully. It had bled a good bit, but it seemed shallow. Even as she held his head, Michael began to come around.
The Karik watched this closely and said, “This man … he means something to you, yes?”
Cloe thought hard and knew she had to detach herself from Michael. “His name is Miguel. He’s one of the pilots who flew us back. He was escorting me back to my room after dinner with my friends.”
The Last Sicarius Page 20