13th Apostle

by Richard F. Heller

  “For Christ’s sake, give him something,” Gil urged. “He knows you’re bullshitting him. Give him some simple translation from the beginning of the scroll. Just tell him about Micah’s life or his love of his craft.”

  But even as Gil imagined what contrived message they might claim the scroll contained, he knew it wouldn’t work. Maluka would not be conned into believing this piece of antiquity was nothing but the story of a metalsmith and his daily trials and tribulations. And, if they did succeed for a short time, what good would stalling do them?

  “I won’t do it,” she said. “I will not give him one single word. Not one. And if you are so willing to give up the scroll to save your own skin, you’re far more of a liability than I thought.”

  Her cold, calm look was one Gil had seen twice before, once on the way to the bathroom in the restaurant in Weymouth when she thought they were being followed and, again, in the early morning light when Hassan lay at their feet in the Monastery courtyard. It was a look that scared the hell out of him. There was no doubt that she would give her life to save the scroll or, just as willingly, take his.

  Gil’s gaze dropped to her crotch.

  Is she still carrying the gun in there?

  He wasn’t certain if an answer to that question would make him feel better or worse.

  Gil tried a more reasonable approach. “Look, not every single word in the scroll is sacred. What would…”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “Every word is sacred. That’s what you don’t seem to understand.”

  “But all Maluka has to do is get rid of us and get someone else to translate the scroll. He’s going to find out what it says anyway.”

  Her face softened. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You think this is the real one.”

  Gil stared in confusion.

  “Of course. If this were the real scroll, it would make no sense to withhold anything from Maluka,” she said. “You’re right. He could just kill us and bring in the next translator. I’m good but I’m not indispensable,” she added with a shake of her head. “I assumed you knew it wasn’t the real one when you touched the box.”

  Suddenly he understood. No wonder he felt no warmth from the strips as well. They were fake, cut from a faux facsimile that Sarkami had made. That was why she and Sarkami ran. To give Sarkami time to finish it or to make it look like they were trying to get away. Or both.

  No matter. The Cave 3 Scroll was safe somewhere. This was nothing more than a collection of useless pieces of copper. If he and Sabbie didn’t tell Maluka what he wanted to know, their abductor would never get it from this worthless scrapheap.

  “But you said the gashes on your hands came from cutting up the scroll,” Gil said.

  “No, I think I said something like, ‘If you cut a scroll into strips, you’ve got to expect to draw some blood.’ In other words, I had to cut up my hand because that’s what Maluka expected to see, you moron.”

  She was brilliant. In fact, he had seen only what he had expected to see, and so had Maluka. “Then where is the real…”

  Maluka returned. He was accompanied by the beast that held a semiconscious body by the scruff of its neck.

  “As you both know,” Maluka began, “this is Mr. Robert Peterson, former assistant to Dr. Ludlow. Mr. Peterson is the proud father of two little girls, the youngest of which is severely disabled. He would do anything to get his daughter the medical help she so desperately needs. He has sold his soul, and for that he was generously rewarded. Now, he withholds additional information.”

  Maluka waved Aijaz to bring the body closer.

  With what must have been all the energy he could possibly muster, Peterson raised his head in protest. He knew nothing more, he said, then his head fell forward limply.

  “It may be that he does know nothing or that he is withholding information,” Maluka continued. “In either case, he is of no use to me.”

  Gil watched as Aijaz’s free hand disappeared behind his back. Gil’s chest ached with certain knowledge of what was about to happen.

  “Since you two insist on acting like stubborn children, let us turn to a very effective method of instruction. I will count to three. One, two…”

  The sound of the gun was deafening. Pain shot through Gil’s ears. Instinctively, he covered them and looked to see if Sabbie had been injured as well. She stood with her hands at her sides, her face impassive, her forehead and cheeks covered with bits of Peterson’s bone and brain. Gil could not tell where Sabbie’s old bruises ended and Peterson’s remains began.

  “You seem surprised,” Maluka said, obviously pleased with the terror he had instilled in Gil. “You may have assumed I intended to show you the importance of responding by the time I reached three. But the lesson was meant to do just the opposite, to remind you that you cannot always predict another’s actions. Especially mine.”

  Gil glanced at Sabbie. She had not wiped her face. She stood straight, without emotion, and stared directly ahead, past Maluka.

  “Now, do either of you have any information to offer me?” Maluka asked.

  It was useless to protest. Gil remained stoically silent. Then, as he awaited his fate, something in him changed. A calm washed over him like none he had ever felt. No conflict, no fear. He was powerless to stop this man. Maluka would do what he wanted. This murderer might even escape punishment. That Gil could not control. He could only refuse to help him and that he would do. Even if it cost him and Sabbie their lives.

  Maluka turned to Aijaz. “Let’s raise the stakes, Aijaz. Go get the other one.”

  Gil prepared himself for Aijaz’s return and the massacre that was sure to follow. He was ready. No matter what they did, he would not look at Aijaz or Maluka. No matter what he saw, he would not speak. He would let whatever happened, happen.

  As long as she’s not next.

  The thought brought a cold terror to his soul.

  The door flew open a minute later and, despite Gil’s promise to himself, the massive form that filled the doorway captured his attention.

  In place of Aijaz and his next victim, stood George, smiling, confident, and quite obviously very healthy. Aijaz remained behind him, his face strained and set, his usual toothless smile strangely absent.

  Chapter 61

  When Gil would think back to the moment he first saw George in the doorway—and he would every day for the rest of his life—he would always remember the unexpected look of delight on Maluka’s face. As strange as it was to see his boss suddenly appear in the middle of his own personal hell on earth, it was even more incongruous to see his captor smile at George as if he were an old friend.

  Sabbie’s reaction was just as bizarre. “Shit!” she cried. “I knew it. Son of a bitch, I knew it. Don’t kill him!”

  Why would Maluka want to kill George?

  Gil stared in disbelief as Maluka walked toward George with open arms of greeting.

  Gil turned to Sabbie. “He’s not going to kill him, he’s going to…”

  Her hands were in her crotch. She desperately pushed her pantyhose aside and pulled her gun from its hiding place.

  In the time it took her to aim, George had moved forward and to one side of the doorway. The blast of a gunshot echoed off the naked walls. She looked at Gil in surprise. She had not yet fired.

  Aijaz stood alone in the opening, his mouth open in surprise. In the middle of his ample belly a hole spurted blood like some bizarre fountain. As if in slow motion, Gil watched the huge man look down at his stomach and insert his huge finger into the hole that had suddenly appeared, as if in an attempt to plug up the stream of red that shot forward. Without a word, Aijaz looked into Maluka’s eyes, held them for a moment, then he fell to the floor.

  Aijaz’s killer emerged through the doorway. He was tall, blond, and though he was not dressed in white, Gil knew instantly who he must be.

  McCullum’s WATSC Nazi!

  The Power Angel stepped forward to reveal his mirror image behind. His clone dumped a struggling
DeVris on the floor. The second angel of death fired three bullets in quick succession, one into DeVris’ head, then two more into the back of Maluka’s neck.

  It was some mad dream where everyone kept changing places. Except there’d be no waking up from this nightmare.

  George stood stock still, a Power Angel on each side.

  Gil waited for the inevitable, but wondered why McCullum would send his Power Angels to kill George?

  Sabbie remained frozen with her gun pointed toward George and the WATSC bookends. “Get over here,” she instructed.

  “Now!” she repeated.

  She wasn’t talking to George, she was talking to him! Gil hesitated, trying to make sense of it all. It was a fatal mistake.

  The two Power Angels had stepped away from George. Each had Gil in his gun sight. Sabbie’s gun could not cover both killers. At most, she could take down only one of them. With a jolt, Gil suddenly realized that she hesitated not for herself but, rather, because it would leave him totally vulnerable.

  “Take them,” George ordered. As one Power Angel kept his gun trained on Gil. The other walked forward without concern and took Sabbie’s gun from her. Though she said nothing and stood unmoving, tears streamed from her eyes.

  “Now clean up this mess,” George ordered. He held out his hand. One Power Angel began to bind Aijaz legs, apparently for easier transport, and the other handed George his gun so that George could keep watch on Sabbie and Gil.

  “Get his gun,” George ordered his twin assassins. He pointed toward the heap that had been Aijaz. Both men bent in unison over the bloody mountain, and both men collapsed onto it as George shot both of them squarely in the back.

  Gil stood face to face with the fat man he had once pitied and who now pointed a gun at his chest.

  “What the hell is going on?” Gil demanded.

  “It’s nothing personal,” George said simply. “You know me, Gil. Business is business. Sometimes you can’t afford to be a softy.”

  Gil waited to become part of the carnage that covered the warehouse floor. Two shots rang out, but Gil felt no pain. He looked down, and, remembering Aijaz’s surprised expression, half expected to see himself spilling from his body.

  Instead, George dropped to the floor. He hit hard and his gun flew from his hand.

  Sabbie crouched low, her gun still pointed. The weapon she held had belonged to Aijaz. Gil had seen him use it on Peterson. She must have pulled it from Aijaz’s back waistband, where he had been so fond of keeping it, while George was saying his brief good-bye to Gil.

  “Get the guns,” Sabbie said in a throaty whisper. “Quick.”

  “No one’s going anywhere,” Gil began.

  She didn’t answer. When he turned he understood why there was, indeed, no time to waste.

  Chapter 62

  Sabbie’s body lay sprawled on the floor.

  Gil bent over her and searched desperately for any source of injury. There was nothing.

  “You’re okay,” Gil said. “He missed you.”

  “I don’t think so,” she replied softly.

  Gil told her to straighten her leg. It was twisted at such an odd angle.

  “That’s the problem. I can’t move.” She looked into his face, less than a foot away. “My head, that’s all I can move,” she said in a hoarse voice. “I can’t feel anything else.”

  “But you haven’t been shot!”

  “See if there’s an entry wound somewhere on my chest,” she whispered with eerie calm.

  The small hole in the hollow above her collarbone was barely bleeding. Large enough for a bullet, it nevertheless looked like any benign injury that would heal on its own.

  “George’s bullet must have hit my spine,” she said hoarsely. “Just a bit below C4…I think. Breathing is okay…but difficult. Not able to move my…arms or legs.”

  Instinctively, he started to reply, “I know, army training,” but the words died in his throat. Sabbie said it for him. Tears streamed from her eyes and pooled on the floor beside her neck.

  Gil gently pulled her leg from under her. “Tell me…who’s alive,” she said in a weak voice.

  He ignored her question and answered the one he assumed she was asking. “Nobody can do anything to you now, don’t worry. I’m going to call an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”

  “No!” she cried weakly and attempted to lift her head. “Tell me…who’s dead.”

  “The only thing that matters now is getting you help…”

  She struggled to get the words out. “Tell me, Goddamn it!”

  “Everybody,” he answered.

  “How do you…know? Did you check them? Each…of them? Do it!” she ordered in a whisper.

  Gil pushed and prodded his way through the bodies and reported as he went.

  “Power Angel number one, dead.” Pull him aside. “Power Angel number two, dead. I’ll need to flip him over to try and get to Aijaz. Okay, Aijaz bites the dust, too,” Gil said flippantly.

  “It’s not funny,” she whispered. “You’re going too quickly. Take your time and make sure.”

  Gil doubled the pulse-searching time he was spending at the neck and wrists. “Maluka, dead. For sure,” Gil added.

  No need to check Peterson. The next was more difficult. “DeVris, dead,” Gil said.

  “What about George?” Sabbie insisted. “Did you check him?”

  George was the last and closest to Sabbie. He lay face up, his shirt, jacket, and pants covered in red. There was no way he could still be alive. He wouldn’t have enough blood left.

  Sabbie had turned her head and was watching George intently.

  “I think he’s still breathing,” she said.

  “He’s not sharing the ambulance with you, if that’s what you’re…”

  Gil never got the last word out of his mouth. As he approached, George turned on his side like a beached whale and, as he held his firing arm up with the other arm, took direct aim at Gil’s chest.

  “Move!” she screamed with more breath than Gil thought possible.

  And he did, just in time. In five strides, Gil was behind George and had wrested the gun from his hand. But somewhere between the first and the last of those strides, George had taken aim at Sabbie and fired.

  “This one…hit higher,” she whispered. “Can hardly…breathe.”

  Gil knelt beside her. He cradled her head in his hand.

  Each of her breaths was more labored than the last.

  “Where?” he asked desperately. “I don’t see it.”

  She stared into his eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “I’ll get the ambulance…” he said, laying her head gently back on the floor.

  “Wait,” she said. It took everything she had.

  His eyes met hers and followed her gaze to his hand. He knew what he would see before he let his eyes drop. The stickiness he felt there was already turning his stomach. A strange clear fluid and thick blood dripped from his hand to the floor. He fought to keep from wrenching.

  “Sarkami…” she whispered.

  Was she calling for him? Gil stared, not knowing what to do.

  “Sar…kami,” she repeated.

  “You want to know what happened to Sarkami, is that it?” Gil asked desperately.

  “Gone,” she responded.

  So, Maluka got Sarkami, too. Or did she mean that she was gone? Oh, God! These were her last words and he had no idea what she was saying.

  “Scroll,” she whispered with less breath.

  Gil shook his head helplessly.

  “Sarkami…Don’t kill him,” she said. Her words were barely audible.

  “Who? Don’t kill who? Sarkami?”

  “Don’t…kill…George,” she whispered.

  Gil’s heart pounded madly. George had just shot her. Twice! Why the hell was she worried about him?

  “Best place…” she started.

  “The best place to go is?” Gil said. He was trying desperately to imagine what she wanted
to say.

  “No, the best place…” Then there was no breath left, for words or for life.

  She was gone and the silence was deafening.

  For a moment, there was no sadness, nothing at all. Then a giant hand within him grabbed his chest and crushed it beneath its grip. Tears of rage poured from his eyes. He reached down, grabbed George, and with all his strength shook the huge flopping body.

  “Why the fuck did you do it?” Gil screamed. “Why?”

  George stared at him and said nothing. Gil released him in a heap.

  “Why?” Gil cried. “Why? What good did it do to kill her?” he wailed to no one.

  George’s head, cocked oddly to one side, continued to stare, not at Gil, but at the nothingness of his own eternity.

  Gil returned to his Sabbie, knelt beside her one last time, cradled her in his arms, and cried from the depths of his tortured soul.

  Chapter 63

  A few hours later

  It was like waking from a terrible dream. In the fading light of the day, what had been bloody bodies on the warehouse floor, now appeared as abstract shapes and shadows. Only Sabbie’s pale face, cool and still, bore testimony to all that had happened only a few hours earlier.

  Gil was filled with an emptiness he had never felt before. Still, his mind was clear and remarkably focused. There was nothing he could do here now and, sure as hell, Sabbie would have hated to see him wallow in the pain and loss.

  She would have yelled at him that he had a job to do and to get the hell out of there. And she would have been right.

  He needed food, a place to sleep, and a plane ticket home, in that order. The first two would have to be taken care of immediately. The third would have to wait until he completed the task that he and Sabbie had begun together.

  For now, Sarkami’s house would do. There should be something in the refrigerator and, if Gil traveled at night, he was less likely to be recognized by—how did Sabbie put it—the good people of London. He was still a fugitive, Gil reminded himself, and he needed to think like one.

  Gil gathered up the strips of copper scroll littered across the table and around the floor. Though they were only copies, still he placed them gently within the old wooden box and wrapped it, once again, with the blanket. A strip or two of the faux scroll might still remain beneath the scattered bodies, he thought, but he had neither the time, strength, nor the stomach, to roll them over and search beneath. The police would be certain to unravel the whole matter in time. The removal of these key pieces of evidence, and hopefully leaving no others behind, might just buy him a few extra days.