by Jill Gregory
Alan Shiffman, he reminded himself, heading toward the first checkpoint, the passport gripped between his fingers. As he passed the entrance to the men’s room, a deeply tanned loudmouth in a Coors Light t-shirt, baseball cap, and leather flip-flops came barreling out. Cell phone to his ear, he nearly tripped over a tow-headed kid bent over the water fountain.
“Well, nail her ass then, man. Get yourself a lawyer and screw her before she screws you. I told you she was only out for—”
“Hey—” David spoke sharply, as Mr. Coppertone charged ahead, swerving so quickly to avoid knocking down a shuffling old man that he collided with a flight attendant dragging her carry-on behind her. She lost her footing and would have fallen, had David not lunged toward her and caught her elbow, dropping his passport in the process.
“Watch where you’re going, buddy,” he called out, scowling at the oblivious jerk’s back.
“Here, you dropped this,” the flight attendant said, stooping to retrieve his passport. She smiled up at him. “Good catch.”
David’s fingers closed around it. Dammit, he’d lost track of Yael. But as he quickened his pace he spotted her waiting for him twenty feet ahead. Her eyes briefly met his as he strode right past her. She wants me in the lead, he realized. She’s going to follow me through the checkpoints.
He scanned the throng of passengers waiting to be screened and stepped up to the next place in line.
Two checkpoints to go. Two chances to be caught.
Jeff Fortelli slurped down one last cup of joe in the TSA lounge before clipping on his identification badge. His twelve-hour shift started in about ninety seconds. And even though his supervisor was an idiot who changed his mind about procedures every other day, Jeff knew that timeliness was important. Almost as important as a keen eye and a clear head. That, and a sense of discipline, were the hallmarks of any good security man.
Especially one with the TSA at a major international airport, he thought, hitching his dark pants up over his hips. JFK was one of the major crossroads of the world, although his supervisor and fellow screeners often lost track of that fact. Half the time they seemed more interested in rushing the passengers through than in conducting thorough screenings.
Hell, his buddies down in baggage told him all the time that the airlines bitched about how many bags didn’t make it on the planes in time. They whined about what it cost them to deliver those bags, ordering the handlers to screen them faster, to get those bags on the planes on time even if it meant skipping screening a couple of them.
What kind of way was that to run security at a time like this?
Jeff tossed his Styrofoam cup in the trash and headed to the bulletin board as he did every night before he went on duty. He was diligent about keeping up with the security alerts posted there, memorizing the bulletins, looking for new names added to the no-fly registry.
Nothin’ new tonight.
Then he saw the APB out of D.C. His thick shoulders bunched as he leaned forward and, with his thumb, traced an imaginary line beneath the subject’s name.
David Shepherd. Wanted for questioning about a murder in his home.
Too bad there’s no face to go with the name—yet.
He reread the APB, committing the subject’s vital statistics to memory. An easy name to remember—David Shepherd.
Now if I was the one to ID that guy, I’d really have a leg-up on making supervisor. Gotta catch someone or something significant to make you stand out. And one of these days I will. And then, bada-boom, bada-bing. The Times will be interviewing the most eagle-eyed and fucking indispensable screener at JFK.
Jeff Fortelli’s blood pumped with anticipation. Man, how he’d wave that front page story under his old man’s nose. Show him that his second son was no slouch—even compared to son numero uno, golden boy Tony, who’d gotten his fool foot blown off in Afghanistan and won himself a Purple Heart.
Well, Pop, I’m on the front line, too. I’m the Homeland’s first line of defense—right here, before anyone even reaches the X-ray machine or takes off their stinkin’ shoes.
Fortelli punched in and strode toward the security gate, ready to take on the trail of endless, faceless passengers waiting to get past him.
Okay, David Shepherd. Come on down, and make my day.
As David advanced through the security line, he caught a glimpse of the first TSA screener. A young woman with short blond hair pulled back into a stub of a ponytail, her spiky bangs poking out of purple barrettes that clipped them back at the temples. David guessed she probably had a pierced tongue, too, but ditched the metal stud while she was on duty.
Not too threatening, he thought, watching her smile as she handed back each ID. Not for a guy like Alan Shiffman.
As those in front of him inched forward again, repositioning their carry-on bags, he glanced back to find where Yael stood in line. She was only seven spots behind him, directly in front of Mr. Coppertone, still jabbering away on the damned phone.
David moved forward once again, watching passengers ahead load their laptops and shoes and keys into plastic bins for the journey down the conveyor. His stomach started doing a funny little dance and he tried to school his expression into one of nonchalance.
Maybe I should have spent my time playing poker all these years instead of squash.
Just then he noticed a bull-necked man in his twenties stalking toward the head of the line. He wore a TSA uniform and the blonde with the barrettes lit up with a relieved expression that could telegraph only one thing. He was here to replace her.
Great.
There was something about the guy that reminded him of some of his most ambitious students. Something about the way he carried himself. He planted his feet when he took over for the woman. There was an aggressiveness in his stance. After scrutinizing the first documents handed to him, he passed them back with nothing but a brusque nod. Not exactly your “have a nice day” kinda guy.
Then something happened that set David’s stomach plummeting. The man five spaces ahead of him handed over his documents and the screener examined them for longer than usual. But that wasn’t what alarmed David. Instead of returning the man’s passport and boarding pass, the new screener demanded a second piece of identification.
Alan Shiffman had only one.
He felt his palms slicking with perspiration and forced himself to take a deep breath as the man ahead fished through his wallet.
After a few seemingly endless seconds, the screener grudgingly handed back all of the man’s documents, and waved him forward.
David tensed as the passenger hurried on. We’re about the same height and weight, David thought uneasily. Same hair color.
He’s looking for me.
David fought the urge to step out of line. It would only draw attention to him. There was no retreating. There was only one way—forward. He had to get through.
His pulse was buzzing in his ears when the screener reached for his passport. The man’s eyes locked on his, the gaze cold and suspicious.
It seemed to take him forever to scrutinize the passport and boarding pass. But he made no move to hand them back. Instead, his gaze bored into David’s face and he started to speak. David cut him off.
“I need to report something,” he said in a low tone. “There’s a guy about eight people back in line. He’s wearing a Coors Light t-shirt—and a baseball cap. We were in the men’s room at the same time. It might not mean anything, but he was acting kind of funny.”
“Whaddya mean, funny?”
The screener’s eyes seemed to X-ray his face.
“I can’t swear to it—I could be wrong,” David rushed on. “But I thought I saw him slip something shiny under his baseball cap. It might be nothing,” he added quickly, “but I figured I should tell someone. These days, you just never know.”
For a millisecond he saw the screener’s eyes shift off him and down the line. Saw the slightest twitch in the center of his jaw as his eyes zeroed in on Mr. Coppertone.
“You did the right thing, sir.”
Without another glance, the screener passed David’s papers back and reached for the next set, his gaze flicking back and forth between the woman he was screening and the guy in the baseball cap.
David forced himself to continue at an even pace toward the X-ray machine and conveyor belt, his waistband damp with sweat. Only after he’d re-tied his shoes and was heading toward the gate, did relief pour through him hot as a shot of sake.
A few minutes later Yael sauntered across the concourse to sink down beside him in the bank of seats. A smile broke out across her face and trilled into a laugh.
“And just what, may I ask, did you tell that screener to make him take such fierce interest in the poor shlub behind me?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
MARYLEBONE, LONDON
It made no sense. Not one iota. Drop everything and run out to Heathrow to collect his father? He could take a bloody car, couldn’t he? For that matter, he could ask Gilbert to pick him up. But no. The e-mail was emphatic.
I need to speak to you, face to face, Crispin. Something has come to my attention and only you can enlighten me. Arriving at Heathrow at 9:47 P.M. Will be expecting you the moment I clear customs. Do not disappoint me.
He addresses me like I’m ten years old. It’s clear he resents the impact I’ve had on the Circle. What I’ve managed to achieve in the past dozen years is far greater than everything he’s contributed in his entire illustrious career. Here I am, within the grasp of greatness, and he’s summoning me like a headmaster commanding a schoolboy.
The Serpent closed the e-mail with disgust and groped for his cane. As you wish, father.
A pity. Now he’d have to shower away the musk Chloe had left fragrant on his skin. The night before had been a long and adventurous one, a potent release from the pressure of hunting the names. As he soaped himself in the shower, the scratch marks she’d dug into his torso burned. He savored the spicy licks of pain and remembered all over again the way her lips curled back when she screamed his name.
Dear Chloe, one of the most feral women he’d ever bedded, and one of the most succulent. A shame he’d never see her again. This was the last interruption he’d allow himself, the last indulgence of the flesh before joining the others in the Ark and leaving Chloe and this evil world behind. Once he deposited his father at his club, there would be no respite until it was done. The last name, the last obstacle. The descent to the Ark.
By the time he floored his Ferrari in the direction of Heathrow, his annoyance with his father was rising in pace with his excessive speed.
Only you can enlighten me. For the first time, a tinge of uneasiness prickled down his maimed leg. He rubbed the gnarled muscles absently with the side of his hand.
He was ten minutes late pulling into the short-term car park.
Wasn’t that too bloody bad.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
David’s legs felt as if they’d turned to petrified wood by the time the plane rolled to the gate at Heathrow. He and Yael limped out onto Terminal 4 along with their fellow transatlantic passengers. Desperate to stretch their muscles, they welcomed the walk over to Terminal 1, where they would catch their connecting El Al flight.
He was surprisingly weary despite having napped on the plane after dinner was cleared away. And all he could think about was how much farther away he was from Stacy.
“Why don’t we grab a Coke to wake us up,” Yael suggested.
“I need to get some euros first—but I can’t risk using my Visa card.”
“There’s a cash exchange downstairs on the international arrivals level.”
After waiting in line behind half a dozen other travelers with the same idea, David stuffed his euros into his pocket, his fingers accidentally brushing the gemstones. As he did, an odd sensation came over him—as if a snake had slipped down the back of his shirt and was slithering over his shoulder blades. Someone is watching me. The thought came out of nowhere. He straightened and wheeled around.
The man was standing perfectly still in the midst of a moving crowd. Even from a dozen yards’ distance, his eyes were fastened on David as if no one else in the terminal existed.
It can’t be. It’s impossible.
Blood rushed through David’s head. He felt off-balance. Teetering back in time. He was a boy again, young, unsure. Staring at someone older, stronger, far more confident. Someone daring him to risk his life. . . .
But it couldn’t be. This urbane man with the lionine dark blond hair couldn’t be . . .
Overtaken by a surreal confusion, David started toward him until Yael’s voice broke through his fog.
“No, David, wrong way. That’s the International Arrivals Meeting Place—the self-serve restaurant is the other way.”
“It’s him, Yael.” David’s voice was a croak. “My God, it’s him!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
She followed his gaze. “That man with the cane? Who is he?”
Before David could answer, the crowd surged between them and David lost sight of him. When it parted, the man he’d seen was no longer alone. An older man had clapped a hand on his shoulder and the younger spun around to face his father. David recognized Erik Mueller instantly. He looked furious—even as his son gesticulated wildly, the older man didn’t appear to be listening.
“Either that’s a doppelganger or it’s Crispin Mueller with his father.” David shook his head dazedly. “But that’s impossible. He was in an irreversible coma.”
Yael’s eyes went wide. “That’s the boy who dropped the gemstone?”
“I’d swear it. How bizarre is this? No one expected him to recover. My father checked on him two years—then four years—after the accident and he’d never left the private facility in Stockholm where his parents took him as soon as he was stable enough to be moved.”
“I’ve learned not to believe in coincidences,” Yael said in alarm, pulling him away from the cash exchange and into the moving crowd, toward Terminal 1. “Especially now.”
“We have to figure out his connection to the gemstone. And to the Gnoseos,” David muttered, glancing back. But he could no longer see Crispin or his father through the constantly shifting sea of travelers.
“I agree. But first we have to get out of here,” she said, “before he finds a way to come and renew acquaintances.”
Erik Mueller was already punching buttons on his cell phone as they peeled away from the car park.
“Are you certain that was David Shepherd?”
“Oh, that was him all right. If you’d have listened to me in the airport, you could have seen him for yourself. It was the same face I saw alongside Tony Blair’s in the Daily Mail months ago. He’s the same bloody jerk who knocked me off that roof, trying to save his little girlfriend, and stealing four years of my life in the process.”
“Eduardo,” Erik Mueller spoke rapidly into the phone, “David Shepherd and the woman were just spotted at Heathrow.”
Crispin whipped his head toward his father. “Why are you telling DiStefano—?”
“Quiet!” Erik barked, holding up an authoritative palm.
Crispin gritted his teeth. Why did Shepherd’s whereabouts matter to DiStefano?
His father’s voice was affecting him like metal scraping glass. He burned to go back inside and hunt Shepherd down.
Anger, contempt, and a vile sense of unfinished business soured Crispin’s throat. If it weren’t for his damned leg . . .
His thoughts raced instead.
Who was that beauty on Shepherd’s arm? His little girlfriend all grown up?
“Crispin, it’s time you leveled with me.” Erik snapped his phone closed as Crispin stamped on the accelerator. “Everything we’ve worked toward is at stake at this moment and I need to know the truth now. The agate that disappeared from our home nineteen years ago—did you take it?”
Crispin kept his eyes on the road. “My keen mental powers tell me that you asked this very quest
ion two weeks after I woke up from the coma.”
“Are you telling me your answer is still the same?”
“Of course. But I’m still waiting for you to respond to my question. What interest is David Shepherd to DiStefano?”
Erik Mueller turned his head, studying his son. “It seems the stone has resurfaced.”
Briefly, Crispin’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. He hoped his father hadn’t noticed.
“Has it? Then you know I had nothing to do with it.”
“I know that the late Senator Shepherd’s son is in possession of it.”
Crispin’s mind roiled. David Shepherd has the gemstone? “We’re going back,” he said, looking for a place to turn. “I’m going to find that son-of-a-bitch.”
“No, you are not,” Erik contradicted. “This is a matter for the Dark Angels. So let’s stick to the subject. Curious, wouldn’t you agree, that Shepherd has the stone? Especially since it vanished coincidental to our visit to his home—and to your accident.”
So. Shepherd not only stole those four years of my life, but the gem hidden in our family since the twelfth century. And the thief’s here. Now.
At that moment, Crispin knew with crystalline clarity that fate had put Shepherd in his path today.
This is not a bad thing, he told himself, struggling to regain his composure. No, it’s a fortuitous one. Shepherd was with me when the stone was lost, and now—just at the culmination of my work—he’s going to return it to me. Only he doesn’t know it yet.
Crispin feigned surprise. “Curious? Why is that?”
“Because Shepherd is working with our enemies,” Erik retorted angrily. “That’s the reason I insisted you meet me today. He brought the agate to our most dangerous adversary, Rabbi ben Moshe, on the very day the Dark Angels assassinated him. Somehow Shepherd managed to escape with it—and with the entire contents of ben Moshe’s safe—but not for long. The Dark Angels will find him. Especially now.”