The Illumination

by Karen Tintori

  She slid beneath the covers, and it seemed an eternity until she heard the bedsprings shift beneath D’Amato’s weight. She feigned sleep and waited to see what he’d do.

  She heard him pad across the polished wood floor and pause beside her bed and somehow controlled the urge to open her eyes, the same way she controlled her breathing to convince him she was still lost in sleep.

  When the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, she opened her eyes. It took him only fifteen minutes to shave, shower, and dress. Again she feigned sleep, not ready to talk to him, not ready to pretend she didn’t know he was keeping something from her.

  She rehearsed what she’d say, how she’d behave once he woke her. But he didn’t wake her. The next thing she heard was the door to their room clicking closed behind him.

  He was gone.

  Natalie waited thirty seconds, then threw off her covers, sprang out of bed, and looked around. D’Amato’s backpack was gone. So was his toiletry bag.

  She grabbed her shoulder bag and raced for the stairs.

  Barnabas lumbered toward the Basilica of Saint Peter, scanning a guidebook to Rome. Until the Sentinel gave him more information, he’d scope out the crowds of tourists converging on the Vatican and pray he got lucky. It seemed to him there would be no better place for Landau to hide the Light than in the impenetrable Vatican City.

  Until he heard otherwise, he would follow the Sentinel’s instructions and keep trolling the most traveled streets and ruins, until the Lord granted him the knowledge of where she and her companion were. Or until the Sentinel finally figured it out. In either case, he was ready.

  Sooner or later he would spot her—and the washed-up journalist helping her.

  His second meeting with Landau would be far more productive than his first.

  26

  D’Amato briefly used his cell phone in the hotel lobby. The call lasted far less than the three-minute window needed for anyone to trace it. He stepped outside and hailed a cab, then gave the driver an address near the Piazza Navona.

  With any luck he’d be back before Natalie even noticed he was gone.

  Peter Driscoll sat reading a newspaper just inside the door of the small café where they’d arranged to meet. His long legs were tucked beneath the table so as not to trip any of the customers flowing to and from the register. He appeared to be following the text intently, but D’Amato knew better.

  Driscoll had packed on a few pounds since the last time they’d met, D’Amato noticed. But with his height, he could handle it. His longish sandy hair was now flecked with gray, and he sported a short goatee, but D’Amato had no difficulty recognizing him. His face was still ordinary enough that he could have been anybody—and any age from thirty-five to fifty, any national origin from Australian to American to Swedish. He wasn’t memorable, which made him well suited for what he did.

  Driscoll had bought them both a brioche and a cappuccino, but waited until he spotted D’Amato before he rose to join the throng at the counter and claim them from the harried clerk.

  They took seats outside at a small, cloth-covered table offering a view of the most famous fountain in the piazza, Bernini’s Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi—the Four Rivers. Pigeons waddled everywhere, pecking and flapping through the large square, but few people were out this early to feed them. The crowds would swarm the square later—now there were only the usual pensioners sunning themselves on stone benches, and passersby rushing, intent on reaching their favorite café for a hasty breakfast before work.

  Through the window of the farmacia across the street, Natalie watched the two men talking across the table. Catching a cab had been easier than she’d expected as she’d watched D’Amato’s taxi speed away from the hotel. But following him had been an unsettling experience, especially since she knew how observant he was. She’d been worried he’d spot her taxi and had let her driver continue on for another block, once D’Amato alighted, so she could double back on foot.

  Now she studied him. He’d altered his appearance: a baseball cap, visor pulled low; aviator glasses that seemed to change the shape of his face.

  She wished she could hear what they were saying over their coffees and pastries, but she didn’t dare try to move any closer. She knew he’d be watching his surroundings. What she didn’t know was who was with him and what was on their agenda.

  “Scusi.” An elderly woman in a fashionable black dress reached past her to pluck a tube of insect-bite ointment from a glass shelf.

  Natalie glanced her way for a moment, and when she looked back toward the café, D’Amato and his companion were walking away together.

  Swearing under her breath, she edged out of the farmacia and craned her neck as they turned a corner. She hurried forward, keeping close to the fronts of the buildings.

  She trailed them for three blocks, hanging back, busying herself with shop windows and an aimless demeanor. After an additional block they entered what looked to her like an old brick apartment building. Now what do I do?

  Five minutes later he exited the building alone and headed back the way they’d just come. Anger and curiosity propelled her after him. She crossed the street a dozen yards back, then quickened her pace as he disappeared around a corner.

  Impatience was gnawing through Hasan Sabouri like a drill bit through a vault. His phone was already pressed against his ear as his plane taxied toward the gate at Fiumicino.

  “Tell me how things stand.”

  “Our friends are in Trastevere. Guests of the Hotel Marcello di Montagna. They went straight to the British School in Rome from the airport last night.”

  “And?” Hasan’s eyes narrowed in concentration, as all around him people began unbuckling their seatbelts and the plane came to a stop.

  “They stayed inside for more than two hours, enough time for me to secure the tracker under their rental car.”

  Hasan unbuckled his own seatbelt, ignoring the passengers getting to their feet around him.

  “And today?”

  “The car is still parked near the hotel. I’m only a block away.”

  “How do you know they have not left on foot?”

  Silence.

  Hasan felt anger coil through him, and he suppressed his urge to shout into the phone. How was it he’d had to end up relying on this fool? But for the next hour or two, Siddiq Aziz was all he had. Almost everyone else was already in Jerusalem. Fortunately, backup from Naples was en route.

  His lips twisted with contempt as he pictured Aziz with his international finance degree, his diamond cuff lnks and buffed nails. Aziz had spent too much time in the West—he had never been a foot soldier. He was a decent marksman, but he didn’t like to get his hands dirty. He preferred sitting in his marble office and moving money around. And yet, this was the man now keeping tabs on the Eye of Dawn. Aziz, who thought he was so cunning, but who knew nothing of the streets or alleyways, and even less of dipping one’s hands in the warmth of an enemy’s blood.

  “Listen to me carefully,” Hasan bit out. “Get yourself to the front of that hotel and wait for me. Who is picking me up?”

  “Jalil. He’s already at the airport.”

  “If you see them leave the hotel, call me immediately. Follow them and do not lose them. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.” Aziz sounded resentful, but there was a hint of cockiness in his voice. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Above all,” Hasan added, his voice thick with warning, “be discreet. Remember what is at stake. I will be there shortly.”

  Aziz slipped on his sunglasses as he watched the hotel doorway. Perhaps it had been a mistake to watch the car and not the entrance to the hotel.

  Siddiq Aziz didn’t like admitting making a mistake, not even to himself.

  He only hoped his assessment had been right—that the Americans were still inside and that the Eye of Dawn was there with them.

  Uneasy, he stepped off the curb and headed toward the lobby, an idea playing in his head. He would approa
ch the clerk and bribe him into sharing the Americans’ room number. By the time Hasan arrived, he would already have reclaimed the Eye of Dawn.

  His SIG Sauer P226 was chambered and ready—and he had the element of surprise on his side. It would be even better if they were still sleeping. . . .

  Wouldn’t that take the sneer from Hasan’s voice?

  He thinks his contribution is greater than anyone else’s. Without my expertise at moving large sums of money undetected, we could never have funded this project so quickly. I have more brains and ideas in my head than Hasan Sabouri and his brother Farshid both. I should be the one who claims the Eye of Dawn for the khalifate—and hand it to Hasan when he arrives. Let’s see how he speaks to me then.

  For a moment the daydream propelled him toward the desk, imagining the respect and admiration in Hasan’s all-seeing blue eyes. And then he stopped short and remembered the nature of the man who had just arrived in Rome.

  Hasan Sabouri was not only proud, but quick tempered. Aziz had seen him strike a man who was slow to reply to his question. Above all, Sabouri possessed the evil eye and did not hesitate to cast his wicked glance. He had killed many with his eye alone, even his own mother.

  If something goes wrong with this plan, or if Hasan is offended by it, Hasan will not hesitate to kill me, too.

  Aziz glanced around the minuscule lobby, at the high-beamed ceiling and single faded mural, and reconsidered. He strolled to one of the side tables and helped himself to an orange.

  Then Aziz returned the female desk clerk’s friendly buon giorno and ambled back outside and across the cobbled street to wait.

  27

  Natalie quickened her gait. D’Amato had slipped into a narrow, dim alleyway. The sun slanted and slivered between the buildings. A Vespa zipped past her, ruffling her hair. Up ahead, D’Amato turned right into an adjacent alley.

  She skimmed around the same corner a moment later and shrieked as she crashed into his chest.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  “You’re asking me questions? I’m the one trying to find out what you’re up to!”

  “I should’ve left you a note.” His tone was calmer, but his eyes were unreadable. “I went out for some breakfast.”

  “You had company.” Her eyes challenged him in the alley. “You didn’t mention you had a friend in Rome. You also neglected to mention that you’re a man of many identities. So who are you today, D’Amato? Or is it Cassavetes? Or maybe Antonelli?”

  He frowned at her. “This isn’t the place for this.”

  “You picked the place. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Not here, Natalie. It’s not safe. It’s not smart. Let’s head to the synagogue. I’ll explain everything later.”

  “No way.” She shoved him away as he tried to take her arm. His matter-of-fact tone was infuriating her. There was so much she didn’t know, couldn’t figure out, and here he stood, stone-walling her about the one thing he could explain. “I want answers now,” she demanded. “I’m not budging another step until you level with me.”

  A footfall sounded behind them, and they spun to face the noise.

  A young man had entered their alley, a cell phone to his ear, and was heading toward them with a bouncy step.

  D’Amato tensed. Lanky, maybe twenty-three, twenty-four. Close-cropped dark hair, olive complexion. Jeans, sneakers—laces untied. Not a professional.

  Just the same, D’Amato’s left hand slipped into his pants pocket as the stranger neared. It remained there until the kid had sauntered around the corner, lost in his cell phone conversation.

  “Natalie. Just listen to me. Let’s go back to the hotel, get you a cup of coffee. And then we’ll talk. It’s not secure here.” He glanced purposefully at her shoulder bag. “You know that as well as I do.”

  She hesitated, her feet still planted firmly on the smooth bricks beneath them. But she knew he was right about two things: It wasn’t safe here and they damn well needed to talk.

  Around the corner the olive-skinned young man waited to see where the pair in the alley went next. As they headed toward him, he quickened his pace and skimmed into the shadows of a leather-goods shop, waiting until they’d passed.

  Then he knelt and quickly tied his sneakers.

  28

  The reception clerk set down the stack of fluffy white towels she was sending up to room 3D and stared uneasily at the two men across the counter.

  “The Americans. We’re looking for the Americans, you idiot! What room are they in?” As the woman shook her head and reached for the phone, Hasan Sabouri leaned across the slim reception counter and backhanded her. She gasped, recoiling in shock, and dropped the phone. One hand went to her swollen belly as tears of pain sprang from her eyes.

  In panic, she glanced frantically toward the elevator, praying someone would come down. But the lobby was deserted. Most of the guests had already gone out, their heavy knobbed room keys dropped on the reception counter for her to shelve in their cubbies behind her.

  “Per favore, signore. Please,” she gasped, blinking to clear the tears. Then she froze. The blue-eyed man had slid a gun from beneath his suit jacket. A gun with something stuck on the end of its barrel.

  The young woman paled. She grabbed the registration book from its shelf below the counter and shoved it at him. “Look for yourself. I don’t know these Americani. You find.”

  The well-dressed man, the one wearing diamond cuff links and dark sunglasses, yanked the book from the counter and scoured it. His finger paused at room 2C.

  Landau—Brooklyn, New York. D’Amato—New York City.

  Siddiq Aziz grinned with satisfaction. The clerk who’d checked them in had neatly copied the information from their passports. “It’s right here. Room 2C.”

  “Take the stairs,” Hasan ordered, his gun still trained on the petrified woman. “I’ll follow in the elevator.”

  Aziz loped toward the staircase. Hasan leaped over the registration counter, scattering the stack of towels to the floor. “Face down. On the ground.”

  The young woman backed up in the tiny space, her liquid black eyes fixated on the gun.

  “Now!” The ferocity of his tone sent her crashing to her knees.

  “Per favore, signore . . . il bambino . . .”

  “Now! Face down!”

  Quivering, she obeyed him.

  The silencer swallowed the explosions as he put two bullets in her head.

  There was no time to clean her blood from his shoes. He grabbed the room key from cubby 2C and sprinted for the elevator. Aziz was waiting for him outside the Americans’ room, only slightly breathless.

  But when Hasan twisted the key and shoved open the door, they found themselves staring into an empty room, barren but for the twin beds, rumpled and unmade. No personal belongings in sight. Seething with disappointment, Hasan checked the bathroom. The floor mat was damp and the tub still speckled with water droplets.

  “You worthless idiot!” He spun on Aziz, his arctic blue eyes sparking with wrath. “Watching the car and not the door!”

  “Patience, Hasan—we can wait for them. The car is still here. They will come back.”

  “Might come back!” Hasan spat. “The police might be here first.” He glanced down at his shoes with a cold smile. “I’ll have to leave them a message.”

  29

  D’Amato held the hotel door open as Natalie gulped at a double espresso from her cardboard cup. As usual, the lobby was deserted. There wasn’t even anyone manning the reception counter. Several room keys left by guests who’d gone out for the morning were scattered across it, theirs among them.

  He palmed the heavy key with a frown. Not unusual for these small, understaffed, family-run hotels, but not ideal security either.

  Neither spoke as they rode up in the elevator. Natalie had braced herself against the wall, away from him. Her face was tight with anger.

  As the elevator jolted to a stop, D’Amato gri
maced involuntarily. The pain he’d been trying to ignore all morning suddenly screamed through his left side: damned poisoned shrapnel, courtesy of the terrorists intent on reclaiming Jerusalem, who’d embedded it by design where no surgeon’s knife could scrape it out. One minute he’d been scooping hummus onto pita bread and the next the café where he lunched most days had exploded into chaos, rubble, and body parts.

  Sometimes the pain waited, dormant, merely a constant nagging ache. Other times it flared, searing without warning. On a scale of one to ten, right now it was soaring past seven. In days past at this point he’d be scrambling for a couple of Lortabs.

  “What’s wrong?” Frowning, Natalie followed him out of the elevator. “You’re pale and drenched with sweat. Are you okay?”

  “Never better.” He glanced at his watch. Eight fifteen. Forty-five minutes until the Great Synagogue opened its fortified doors.

  “When are you going to tell me who that man was?” Natalie prodded as he shoved the key into the tumbler.

  “He’s just a guy who happens to deal in cell phones.” His voice was low as he pushed the door wide and glanced inside. He preceded her into the room, automatically scanning it. “He—”

  D’Amato froze, and she nearly collided into his rigid back.

  Smeared in red along the wall was a crudely drawn eye, staring out at them. In its center, like a bull’s-eye, shone a bloody pupil the size of a basketball—pierced by a knife.

  A scream froze in her throat. Seconds ticked past as thick silence sucked the air from the room.

  “Let’s go!” Suddenly, somehow, there was a gun in D’Amato’s hand. With the other hand, he shoved her out the door.