The Illumination

by Karen Tintori

  “I thought you said eight.”

  “You’ve just used up two of them.”

  Warrick gave her the curtest of nods as he extended his hand to Jackson Wright. Justine Matthews annoyed the hell out of Warrick. She’d been with Wright since his days in the Senate, and she thought she owned him. Rumor had it that her proprietary hold on him extended even to his wife, whose calls were screened just like everyone else’s.

  “Mr. Secretary, you’ve received the latest update.”

  Wright shoved the photos of Firefly across his desk. “And I’ve seen the pictures. What I want to know is, what the hell happened to it after Agent Tyrelle took these photos? And how is that MSNBC reporter’s murder connected to all this?”

  “We’re still analyzing the data, trying to pinpoint the connection between Dana Landau’s murder, Tyrelle’s murder, the bomb that killed the two NSU agents—and another murder. Right before I came up here we got word that Rusty Sutherland, Landau’s cameraman, has turned up dead in an abandoned building in New York. I believe every one of these is linked to Firefly—and to Dana Landau’s sister, Dr. Natalie Landau.”

  “Explain.” Wright’s scowl took up most of his face.

  “At nearly the same time we lost the NSU agents waiting to serve Natalie Landau with a search warrant,” Warrick continued, “we now believe she and MSNBC’s Jim D’Amato were meeting with FBI Special Agent Luther Tyrelle. Tyrelle took these photos at that meeting and e-mailed them to his computer just before he was killed. Shortly after that meeting, Tyrelle’s partner, Sean Watson, got a call from D’Amato and the woman with him, alerting him that Tyrelle was down and that they were being pursued by two vehicles in the area of Grand and Humboldt.”

  Wright shifted impatiently in his chair. “The three Middle Eastern males who died in that chase—and the one still in ICU—have you ID’d them yet?”

  “Only one with certainty. Khalil Hadi, the driver of one of the two vehicles. He’s been on our radar because of his link to the Guardians of the Khalifah. The survivor in ICU is a twenty-two-year-old American citizen, Marwan Younis. Born here but raised in Bahrain. He was one of the shooters.”

  “So. Word about Firefly traveled instantly.” Wright drummed his fingers on his desk. The Guardians of the Khalifah were the most unpredictable of the new wave of terrorist groups spawned in Al Qaeda’s wake. They were young, educated, and ruthlessly determined to restore the khalifate to Islam in their lifetimes, and to impose Sharia law throughout the world.

  “That Khalifah gang got a hell of a lot closer to Firefly than we did,” Warrick admitted.

  “You realize what those Islamofascists will do with it if they get their hands on Firefly?”

  Wright glared at Warrick, daring him to even try framing an answer. Warrick did not respond. He knew an internal battle was coming within Islam itself. Some factions wanted the new khalifah elected, others insisted he must emerge from the dynastic lineage. Regardless, the next man in line as Muhammad’s successor would impose the most hard-line form of Islam on Muslims throughout the world, ruling like a Muslim “pope.” There’d no longer be even a minuscule separation between mosque and state in the Arab nations, and non-Muslims throughout the world would become targets of forced conversions or death. Sanctions be damned—with Firefly in the possession of the Guardians of the Khalifah, they’d soon be producing a terrifying new breed of supernuclear weapon.

  “If Firefly wasn’t found in the wreckage,” Wright continued grimly, “and wasn’t found on Tyrelle, who has it now—the Landau woman?”

  Elliott Warrick straightened his shoulders. “That’s the assumption we’re working on, especially since she’s vanished, too. So has D’Amato. We’re trying to determine if they’ve been taken out or if they’re lying low. Either way, we’ll find them. I’m personally checking the manifests of every flight out of New York and New Jersey. We’re also following up on the report of a witness who saw a man of Middle Eastern descent bolting from one of the wrecked cars.”

  “We’d damn well better pray that guy doesn’t have it. Firefly in the wrong hands makes our worries regarding their nuclear capabilities about as significant as a hangnail.” Wright’s face was nearly as red as his tie. “Keep me informed—” He broke off as Justine Matthews gave the door one sharp rap before pushing it open.

  “Sir. Your car is here.” She glowered at Warrick. “Good day, Mr. Undersecretary.”

  Warrick ignored her, turning to meet Wright’s eyes directly. “The Landau woman is key. I’ll make sure we find her.”

  The Defense secretary came around the desk and hefted his attaché case from the side chair. “Just make sure you find Firefly. Before anyone else does. And next time, don’t sit on your hands waiting for warrants.”

  22

  Rome

  A half moon sailed high in the smoggy Rome sky as most of the city’s inhabitants nestled beneath down covers. The daily roar of Vespas had dimmed, there were few pedestrians on the darkened streets, and most of the traffic lights flashed only amber.

  The Renault Clio took the small hill on Bruno Buozzi easily, as D’Amato scanned the street looking for the landmark Geoffrey Ashton had given them.

  “I see it.” Natalie pointed. “The flower stall. He said we wouldn’t be able to miss it, even at night. Turn there.”

  The British School at Rome sat at the northeastern tip of the Villa Borghese, one of the most magnificent parks in the city. The Accademia gleamed like a buffed pearl in the moonlight, perched at the crest of a wide, majestic staircase. Most of the tall, opaque windows were dark, as were the surrounding grounds.

  Natalie caught the scent of springtime as they made their way in the chill, hushed night, past tall cypresses and rustling olive trees, to the private rear door Ashton had described to her. Their footsteps squishing into the spongy, damp grass was the only sound. Even in the faint wash of moonlight, the building’s striking facade was impressive.

  A heavy wood door swung open as they made their approach, and Geoffrey Ashton peered out at them. He was a distinguished-looking man in his early sixties, with wispy gray hair and sideburns and exceptionally long arms and legs. His chiseled features might have seemed aristocratic and intimidating if not for the impish amusement that gleamed from his intelligent, deep-set eyes. Natalie recognized the scent of his citrusy aftershave as she clasped his outstretched hand.

  “What an unexpected treat.” Ashton drew her through the doorway. “Delight doesn’t begin to describe my pleasure at seeing you again so soon, my dear Natalie.”

  “You’re very kind, Dr. Ashton, to see us at such short notice.”

  “Well, any time such a lovely colleague jets across the pond to ask my help, I’m intrigued.” He shook D’Amato’s hand as Natalie made introductions, then gestured toward the hallway at the end of the entry corridor. “Please, come in out of the night, and you’ll tell me what this is all about.”

  Natalie caught sight of a passing security guard, who paused at the other end of the corridor. She lowered her voice. “May we talk privately, Dr. Ashton?”

  “Didn’t I tell you in Florence,” he chided, “you really must call me Geoffrey now.”

  With a flourish, he led them to the end of the corridor, past the guard, who nodded respectfully, then down the hall to a spacious office that had every light ablaze, highlighting the intricate pattern of a twelfth-century Persian rug. The last to enter, D’Amato shut the door.

  The impish amusement in Ashton’s eyes dimmed as he studied Natalie’s pallid face and the weary way she lowered herself into the olive green damask chair opposite his desk.

  His expression grew grave as she told him of her sister’s murder and of the unusual pendant Dana had sent her, and, finally, of the terrifying violence she’d just fled.

  “Good God. You’d best let me see what we have here.”

  As she took the pouch from her bag and handed it to him, Ashton unsteepled his long bony hands and clasped the pouch, then positioned it on his
desk. He studied both sides of the old painted leather in silence before finally drawing out the gold chain and pendant. Natalie watched his eyebrows swoop together in surprise. “What indeed . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “We’re hoping you can tell us.” D’Amato had ignored the third chair and stood leaning against the door. “We need your help appraising its value, estimating its age—and also your most educated guess where it came from.”

  “The man who tried to kill us called it ‘the Eye of Dawn,’ ” Natalie said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “ ‘Eye of Dawn’?” Ashton shrugged one shoulder, still scrutinizing the pendant. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard that term before. No, testing these gems won’t be a problem—but I must say they look authentic to my naked eye. What’s your assessment, Natalie?”

  “I agree. They’re genuine. And I’m fairly certain the pendant is gold—but it’s heavier than one might expect from its size, which makes me suspect there’s something concealed inside.”

  “Well, if it is gold, there’s no way we’d be able to determine what’s inside without carving it open. You can’t see through gold. Not even with the Ion Beam machines. The beams won’t penetrate gold.”

  Natalie couldn’t hide her disappointment. “But will you at least be able to test the age of the stones and determine if the pendant’s an antiquity or a more recent piece?”

  “Of course, but based on the cut of this lapis and the technique with which the gold was hammered, my educated guess is that this is a very old piece, and almost certainly originated in the Middle East. I’d even wager a pint that it’s Babylonian.”

  She leaned forward eagerly. “I thought the same thing, since carnelian, jasper, and lapis were a typical combination in Babylonian jewelry and amulets. On the other hand, it could turn out to be a copy.”

  “Well, we’ll find out soon enough.” Ashton scratched his ear. “The Babylonians were indeed fond of lapis. Imported great quantities of it from mines in Afghanistan—and not only for their jewels and amulets, mind you. Did you know, Mr. D’Amato, that the kings of Ur prized lapis for sharpening their swords, believing that the lapis made the weapons invulnerable?”

  “Maybe some of that invulnerability rubbed off on us,” D’Amato answered ruefully. “Since we managed to make it this far.” He moved forward, resting his broad fingertips on the desk. “Let me point you to something else we found, Geoffrey. Look again at the pouch—this time turn it inside out.”

  Ashton obeyed, blinking as he leaned in closer to better examine the writing on the suede side of the leather.

  “It does appear to be Aramaic,” he announced. “Which would make me correct about a link to Babylon.”

  “What does it say?” Natalie inched her chair forward to study it as well. “Can you translate it, Geoffrey?”

  “Doubtful. I might recognize a few letters, but I’m not conversant in the language.” The room was silent as he studied the characters for another long moment. Outside, the Italian night was creeping toward daybreak. Soon, Natalie knew, the cafés would be crammed with impatient patrons vying for the attention of clerks doling out the customers’ prepaid pastries and espressos. A sense of unreality floated over her in those few brief seconds while Geoffrey bent over the pouch. Was it only yesterday morning she’d buried her sister?

  “This first line . . . I believe it might say Balshazzar.” The surprise in Geoffrey’s voice drew her back to his lamp-lit office in the Accademia Britannica. “Good Lord, could this possibly be from the court of Nebuchadnezzar’s grandson Balshazzar?” he mused. Then he shook his head and frowned. “No, sorry, I jumped the gun. My knowledge of Aramaic is pitiful, as you know,” he murmured. “I was close, but the letters seem to spell something else. Not Balshazzar. It looks like . . . Belteshazzar.”

  “Is that a name, a place—what?” D’Amato glanced from Natalie to Ashton.

  “Definitely a name,” Ashton responded. “I can see now that it’s been pressed into this leather with a seal. If you look closely, you’ll notice that some of the edges appear slightly blurred, as if the engraving surface was overinked before it was applied.”

  Natalie turned to D’Amato to elaborate. “Cylindrical seals made of carved stone were Mesopotamia’s equivalent of signet rings. Each small seal was uniquely carved with figures, animals, objects, sometimes characters. People wore their seals like jewelry—on a chain around their necks—readily accessible to roll over wet clay when they needed to impress their signature.”

  “Mainly for legal purposes—on a proof of receipt, or to sign property transactions in ink.” Geoffrey looked up from the pouch. “The seals were also commonly used for marking clay tablets and building blocks.”

  “The Iraq National Museum lost numerous collections of invaluable ancient seals during the looting in 2003,” Natalie added.

  “Mesopotamia. Babylonia.” D’Amato weighed the two interchangeable names with his hands. “The bottom line is, we’re talking about modern-day Iraq here. And that’s exactly where your sister got the pendant.”

  Ashton returned the pouch to Natalie. “I’m afraid I can’t make out the second set of letters except for a tzadi and a resh. The ink is too faded.”

  “Tzadi and resh—that’s all I was able to pick out, too.”

  “We’ll need some enhancements to decipher the rest—perhaps infrared will do it,” Ashton mused. “But I’m thinking that second line of characters was hand-written, since their edges seem quite precise. You’ll need an expert in Aramaic, really, to verify what it says.”

  Natalie was buoyed by a surge of hope. “The ion-beam testing, Geoffrey—can it all be done tonight? Can we get started now?”

  “How long until we get definitive results?” D’Amato added.

  Ashton smiled indulgently at him. “Oh, we can analyze this fairly quickly. Believe it or not, we have chaps dropping by here regularly with family heirlooms, hoping they’ve uncovered a treasure. They’re always relieved to discover they don’t have to entrust their finds to our care for any extended period. Of course, more often than not, they’re mistaken about the nature and value of their ‘treasure,’ but in this case”—he held the pendant up to the light—“I’m convinced you’ve brought me something very special. These two items are unlike anything I’ve ever encountered before.”

  “Please.” Natalie stood up and turned toward the door. “Let’s get started.”

  They followed Ashton to the Ion Beam laboratory in the basement of the building. It was a large, brightly lit room with an epoxy-coated floor that had been polished until it shone like glass. The lab was filled with microscopes and complicated equipment attached to myriad cables, meters, and computer screens.

  Shivering a bit despite her leather jacket, Natalie perched on a stool beside a huge cylindrical contraption that resembled an elongated CT scan machine, and watched the pendant slide inside its white-enameled tunnel.

  “Sorry about the chill,” Ashton said. “The lab needs to be kept at a cool temperature. We never turn the instruments off, and they generate a lot of heat.”

  In the fifteen minutes since he’d closed the lab’s white metal door behind them, Ashton had already photographed and measured the pendant, carefully counting each of the gemstones and measuring their sizes. He had filled a long page of a leather notebook with his notations, and a number of descriptions written in his tight script radiated out from the rough sketch he’d drawn of the pendant.

  “It will take about three, perhaps four hours to complete all the tests,” he told them. “Then I should be able to give you some answers.”

  Gate 53

  Detroit Metropolitan Airport

  Barnabas’s cell phone rang as he swallowed the final chunk of his Cinnabon dinner, his huge frame jammed into one of the uncomfortable bucket seats bolted in tight rows throughout the boarding area. Juggling a tall Starbucks cup and the pastry’s sticky waxed paper, he glanced at the phone’s screen.

  The Sentinel.
>
  Hurriedly, he licked the melted icing and cinnamon from his thumb and fingers and flipped the phone open with his chin. Beside him, a woman was rocking a thumb-sucking toddler on her lap while passing out triangles of pita bread to two small boys who’d been playing tag and tripping over his size-thirteen feet for the past half hour.

  “Yes, I’m here at the gate, sir,” he told the Sentinel. “And we’re still on time. I’ll be boarding in the next ten minutes.”

  “I have additional information for you. I’ve just deposited another thousand dollars into your account. And I now have names for the seventeen other passengers booked on the LaGuardia-London-Rome flights Natalie Landau took. Eight women, nine men—and Jim D’Amato’s name is among them. Still, it’s possible they’ve split up, and she may have passed the Light to him. That’s only a guess, but we need to consider the possibility.”

  “Is Derrek going after D’Amato then?”

  “I’ll decide once I get a bead on D’Amato’s location. Right now, just concentrate on Landau. Call me as soon as you touch down in Rome. I may have discovered her hotel by then.”

  “Is the reverend upset with me?” Barnabas closed his eyes, bracing himself for the answer.

  “His faith in you remains unshaken. Mine, however,” the Sentinel said coolly, “is beginning to waver. I expect results within twelve hours of your arrival.”

  The connection went dead.

  Barnabas swallowed past the lump in his throat. He’d never tasted failure before. His strength and his faith had always propelled him to victory, but the Landau woman was becoming a thorn in his side—a painful one.

  But the Savior had endured an entire crown of thorns, he reminded himself. Certainly, he could manage one.

  By now the Light was in Rome, and he was only a half day behind it. His plane would touch down in the Eternal City early tomorrow morning. He’d sleep during the flight, and with God’s help, he’d find the Landau woman—and the Light—before another sun could set on Rome. Before the Sentinel lost faith.