Wildcard

by Rachel Lee

  “Salaam aleichem,” Hasan said.

  “And peace be with you,” Hugues replied in flawless Arabic. After ten years, he had learned the language well; only the tiniest trace of his French roots remained in his voice. “So, shall we deal?”

  Hugues had founded the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon—the Knights Templar—on the pretext of providing safety to Christian pilgrims to the Holy Land. The Hassasim, or hashish-eaters, had made that task all but impossible. If Hugues was to secure the financial backers he needed to continue his search, he had to cut a deal with Hasan’s band of killers.

  Of course, if word of this deal got out, Hugues’s life would be forfeit. But he was ready to lay down his life if need be. His quest was that important, for within it lay nothing less than the future of the faith.

  “What do you offer?” Hasan asked.

  “I respect your zeal,” Hugues said. “Our men have met several times. Your men fight well. So do mine. You know that.”

  Hasan nodded. “We both serve Allah, though you follow another prophet. Your men are indeed skilled. You have shed our blood, and we yours.”

  “Exactly,” Hugues replied. The fact was, Hasan’s lightly armed killers relied on stealth and surprise, and were no match for Hugues’s knights. Were that not the case, Hasan would never have agreed to this meeting. However, appearances must be kept and respect paid. “And we could go on, year upon year, shedding blood to no purpose, when we both seek a higher goal. What I propose is simple. You will give safe passage to those who travel under the cross. In exchange, my knights will ignore your other operations.”

  Hasan closed his eyes for a moment, as if thinking, though Hugues knew that he would accept this part of the deal. It was the rest that could create problems, both for Hasan and for himself.

  “What else?” Hasan asked.

  “You are indeed a wise man,” Hugues said. “There is more. I may upon occasion have need of your services. There are those who oppose my quest. Men who want me to fail, who will stop at nothing to protect their power and positions.”

  “I understand,” Hasan said.

  Hugues had been sure he would. Hasan, too, had acquired enemies. Even in the Islamic world, there were divisions. Some opposed Hasan’s Shiite faith, while others opposed his methods. The Turks were seeking to expand their empire in the southern lands, and Hasan had refused to submit. But he could not risk an open confrontation.

  “Of course, in return, my knights might be made available for selected operations,” Hugues said. “I am sure you have those whose…end…would serve your needs, but against whom you cannot move directly.”

  Hasan’s dark eyes glittered. “So my men could remove your infidels, and your men could remove mine.”

  “That would describe it well,” Hugues said. “Of course, you would be compensated for any operation.”

  “And you, as well,” Hasan said.

  “Donations to my order would not be rejected,” Hugues said. “We are, after all, poor and humble knights.”

  At this, Hasan laughed. “And I am a poor and humble goat herder.”

  “Precisely,” Hugues said. “Have we a deal?”

  After a long moment, Hasan nodded. “Yes, I think we can work together.”

  Hours later, as he lay in the arms of the Arab woman Hasan had provided, Hugues smiled in the darkness. A just God would recognize the sacrifices Hugues had made, including his obligation to accept the gift of the woman lest he offend his host. A just God would recognize that Hugues was serving a higher end, and that sometimes higher ends demanded messy means. A just God would know all of this and reserve for Hugues a special place in heaven.

  For now, Hugues was free of the need to protect the pilgrim routes, and he could focus on his primary task, a task that lay buried beneath the ruins of Solomon’s Temple. The truth was there. The old legends spoke of it. And he would find it. The true faith would be his legacy.

  18

  Washington, D.C.

  Kevin Willis had known Edward Morgan for a long time—since college, in fact—but he had mixed feelings about the relationship. Sometimes Edward was a great ally. At others he could be a good tool. Right now… Right now Kevin was having some serious problems as he looked over the information that his researcher had returned.

  Tom had been right. A quarter million dollars had passed from Ed Morgan to Wes Dixon and disappeared from the face of the earth. But sums like that just didn’t disappear.

  The researcher, given free rein, had noted that upon his trip from New York to Idaho, Wes Dixon had detoured by way of Atlanta. That alone was unusual, since the ordinary connection would have been made in Chicago or Denver. Atlanta was well out of the way.

  Even more interesting was that Wes Dixon had apparently spent the night in Atlanta before continuing to Denver the following afternoon, and thence to Boise.

  The obvious conclusion was that Dixon had met someone in Atlanta, then someone else in Denver, but after eighteen months the trail was stone cold. It was unlikely they would find anyone at this late date who would recall Dixon or anyone he might have met.

  Still, Kevin picked up the phone again and called Linda. “See if you can find the names of any associates of Wes Dixon who might be living in the Atlanta area.”

  Then he waited, drumming his fingers on the desktop.

  Watermill, Long Island

  Feeling entirely too pleased with himself, Ed Morgan made the call to his boss. “Bookworm is dead. I checked it out with the hospital.”

  “Excellent,” said the familiar voice. “We don’t want her interfering again.”

  Her? Suddenly Edward’s heart was in his throat. He couldn’t possibly tell this man that he had misinterpreted his order. That would be a fatal mistake. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. Auto accident, head injury. Bookworm died in the emergency room.”

  “Excellent,” the voice said again. “We’re all very pleased with you, Morgan. Keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you.” Morgan’s hand was trembling as he returned the phone to the cradle. A cold sweat had broken out on his skin. For the first time in his life, he knew unmitigated terror.

  Damn it! Bookworm. How the hell was he going to find her now?

  Still shaking, he reached for the phone again, this time calling Dixon. “Get everyone out of there,” he said, without any hint of greeting. “Now. Your man hit the wrong target.”

  Dixon Ranch, Idaho

  Perched in a tree that gave her a view of the training facility, Renate watched through binoculars as men moved pallets of weapons into an underground bunker. They moved with speed and purpose. These men were well trained and self-disciplined. Not at all the ragged rabble that Tom’s FBI file had suggested. A bus marked with the logo of a tour line stood at one end of the training camp, door open.

  They were on their way out.

  Renate watched for a few more minutes, realizing that the men were almost done with their cleanup and would soon be boarding the bus.

  Yes, there. Two men were beginning to load backpacks and rifles into the bus’s luggage compartments. The packs didn’t worry her nearly as much as the rifles. Where were they going with them?

  She had to get out of the tree and back to her vehicle, then around to the ranch’s gate so she could follow them and find out where they were going. She tucked the binoculars back into the case and began to work her way down the tree, gloves protecting her hands from the sap.

  She had just reached the foot of the tree when a voice said, “Halt!”

  She turned slowly, raising her hands, and found herself face-to-face with a man in fatigues. He was pointing a rifle directly at her.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  At least he wasn’t Guatemalan, she thought. Which meant he was someone appointed by Dixon to cover the retreat that was under way. “I’m a bird-watcher,” she answered. “For goodness sake, do you have to point that at me?”

 
The rifle never wavered. “Why were you in the tree?”

  “I thought I saw a nest of red-winged bobbinmars. Do you have any idea how rare they are? It would have been the first sighting in this area in over thirty years. Unfortunately, it was only a sparrow’s nest.”

  She pointed upward, as if to show him the nest. He glanced up, and in that split second she was able to step in close, too close for his rifle to be a useful weapon. He started to voice an objection, but never had the chance. She flattened her hand and drove the tips of her fingers into his Adam’s apple, turning her hips and shoulders to add the full force of her body to the strike.

  His cry died in a gurgle, and he dropped the rifle to grab his throat. That exposed his entire body, and she took immediate and deadly advantage. She continued to move in on him, slamming her knee into his crotch and tipping her head forward. As expected, he began to double over, and his face smashed into her hairline with a crunch of cartilage and bone.

  He fell to the ground, writhing in pain, rolling onto his side and curling into a fetal ball. She delivered the coup de grace, a savage kick to the base of his skull. He twitched twice and went limp as his medulla ruptured.

  The entire confrontation had lasted less than ten seconds, and he had barely uttered a sound after his first challenge. Still, she knew she had to hurry. Dixon was too organized to let his people wander on their own without checking in. The body would be discovered soon, and once it was, all hell would break loose.

  As she made her way back to her pickup, she realized that her situation had become tenuous. So far, she’d been invisible, nonexistent. As far as anyone knew, Tom had been working alone. They would know differently now.

  She circled around the Dixon ranch and made her way to a gas station at the intersection of State Roads 52 and 55, in a town called Horseshoe Bend. It was a calculated risk. If the tour bus headed west, she would miss it. But she suspected Dixon would head south to Boise, then take Interstate 84 down through Utah and on toward the Mexican border. It would be his easiest escape route.

  She sipped from a bottle of water and fought the nausea that kept rising within her. She’d been trained to defend herself and to use deadly force if need be. But never before had she killed someone.

  The worst part was, it had been sickeningly easy. During her training, she’d always imagined that she would hesitate at the thought of taking a life. But she hadn’t. Her training had taken over, and she had moved with swift, ruthless efficiency. Strike, knee, head butt, kick. Larynx, crotch, bridge of the nose, base of the skull. In little more than the time it took her to say those words, she had ended a man’s life.

  Her melancholy reverie was interrupted when the tour bus approached on Route 52. She doubted if anyone would notice a woman sitting in a pickup truck at a gas station. Still, she slid down a bit in her seat. To her surprise, the bus did not turn right and head south toward Boise. Instead, it headed north.

  Momentarily confused, Renate asked herself why Dixon would head that way. Then the answer hit her, obvious and simple. Dixon was headed for the border, yes. But not the Mexican border. He was headed for Canada.

  19

  Guatemalan Highlands

  Miriam awoke to the sound of gunfire. As she rolled off of her cot and scrambled for her boots, Steve Lorenzo appeared in the doorway.

  “The rebels are here. We must go. Now.” To her surprise, he pushed an AK-47 into her hands. “I’m a man of the cloth. But you’re not. Let’s go. Now.”

  The ancient church had a back door, past the sacristy, and Miriam followed at a painful jog, still trying to wrap her mind around what was happening. When they emerged, she saw a cluster of women and children, including Paloma, obviously waiting for Lorenzo.

  “Vámonos,” he told them. He turned to Miriam. “We must go up into the hills. Can you cover our retreat?”

  She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  Lorenzo led the others up a trail that wound into the rain forest. Miriam stayed behind for a few minutes, found cover and watched the village. Dark-clad men walked from house to house, firing into every room. A young woman emerged from one of the houses, clutching a nursing infant to her breast. The rebels cut her down without hesitation. This was no military attack. This was a massacre.

  Every fiber in Miriam’s being screamed for her to intervene, to do something to protect those who had been left behind in the village. But she knew it was pointless. She could do nothing for them. She could, however, help save those who had escaped.

  Mouthing a silent curse, she turned and headed into the stifling jungle. She caught up with the others within five minutes and took up her place at the rear of the ragged column. From time to time she would halt and let them move on, waiting for the sounds of their passage to be lost in the night, and listen for pursuers. Twice she thought she heard sounds behind them, but she could not be sure if they were human or animal. Only when the sounds did not seem to be approaching did she turn and catch up to the group.

  After an hour of steady walking, the group stopped alongside a stream. Miriam accepted the water that was passed around, and sat on a rock, wiping perspiration from her face, the AK-47 between her legs.

  Steve approached and sat at her side, shaking his head. “We’ll have to do this for days.”

  Miriam turned to him. “Why? What do they want?”

  Steve nodded toward a young man with an assault rifle at his side. “They want him.”

  Miriam glanced over quickly and saw the man helping a woman feed three young children. “Who is he?”

  “Unless I’m wrong,” Steve said, “he was involved in the assassination. That’s his sister next to him. I gave both of them First Holy Communion, years ago, when I was posted here. I officiated at her Confirmation. Now I fear I will perform their funerals.”

  “The rebels are cleaning up loose ends,” Miriam said.

  “Exactly.” Tears welled in his eyes. “She told me her village would die.”

  “This is all so…so…”

  Miriam didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  “Yes,” Steve said. “When I was a new priest in Savannah, before I came here, I worried about preparing my homilies for daily Mass. I visited the sick. I fretted over parish budgets and staff squabbles. And I rarely thought about what life is like for much of the rest of the world. Now I ask myself—what is the real atrocity? Is it what just happened in that village, what’s happening now? Or is it that I spent years living in the luxury of peace and stability, ignoring the pain and fear and death that stalks so much of the world?”

  “And what could you have done?” Miriam asked. “I don’t mean to be harsh, but there it is. Yes, you could have fretted about this hour upon hour. You could have filled every homily with mention of the suffering of the poor in war-torn lands. But would that have helped the people of your parish? Would it have helped the people here?”

  “So we should just let them murder each other?” he asked. “These people’s lives have been ripped apart by Western greed. First the Spanish. Then us. We take what we want and leave them to pick up the pieces. I’m sorry, Miriam, but I can’t just shrug that off.”

  “You heard Paloma, Steve. This is a war that began long before the Spanish arrived. Yes, others have taken advantage of that war. Perhaps even nurtured it for their own interests. But you didn’t pull the triggers in that village, Father. Those rebels did that. They chose to do that. And I hate them for it.”

  Lorenzo reached over and put his hand on her arm. “That is the one thing we can’t do. We can’t give in to the hate. If we do, everyone loses. And we lose far more than our sensitivities. We lose our souls.”

  She met his eyes. “Father, forgive my saying so, but let’s worry about saving souls later. Right now we’re trying to save lives.”

  Steve simply smiled. “Life is fleeting. The soul is eternal.”

  “Well,” Miriam said, rising to her feet, “if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather my life and your life and their l
ives weren’t quite so fleeting. So let’s get moving.”

  He nodded. “Yes. We can discuss this more?”

  Her answer died on her lips as she heard the distinctive, rhythmic sound of marching feet.

  “Tell the others to find cover,” she said, readying her rifle. “And keep them silent.”

  Steve spoke to Paloma, who began to issue quiet orders. In twos and threes, the villagers disappeared—all except for the young man Father Steve had pointed out to her. He stayed to help sweep away the signs of their passing, and he did it with a professionalism that spoke of a great deal of training.

  When she melted back into the jungle, he melted with her and stood at her side.

  Right now she couldn’t afford to think of him as the murderer she had come looking for. She had instead to think of him as a victim of the rebels. She couldn’t allow her task to be clouded by anything.

  “You go hide, gringa. These are my people. I brought this on them. If anyone should die, it should be me.”

  She glanced up at him. “You should have thought of that before you killed the ambassador.”

  In the near-darkness of the rainy jungle, she could barely read his face. But she could make out his tension.

  She continued speaking. “People have already died. One of them a woman with a baby. I don’t want to see any more die, except these bastard rebels.”

  The footsteps were drawing nearer, and the two of them quieted as if on signal. Together they crouched in the undergrowth, ignoring rain and insects. Miriam hoped the antimalaria drug she had been taking was still working, although she hadn’t had any since yesterday morning.

  But the thought was nothing but a slight distraction from the approaching threat. The dampness of the jungle floor muffled the thud of the marching feet. She couldn’t tell how many were approaching.

  Suddenly she turned toward the youth and signaled for him to backtrack and count how many were coming.

  He nodded and slipped away into the undergrowth.

  Now all she could do was wait.