Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  Fire sizzled across his thigh. He shut out the pain as the path rushed up to meet him. He braced. Captured his breath. Hit hard. Shards of pain clawed through his shoulder. Knocked the wind out of him. Momentum carried him several feet. He rolled, angling for the wall and staring down the length of his Glock, ready for assailants. Mentally assessed his own injuries, the graze on his thigh. The stickiness in his shoulder—must’ve torn the stitches.

  His head thudded into something hard. Next thing he knew, a hand reached over his shoulder.

  Tox grabbed it, primed to kill the person. He was not dying now.

  “Ndidi.” Chiji grabbed his shirt and dragged him backward.

  Sweet relief. “The gardens,” Tox hissed, scrambling to his feet. He sprinted for the vegetation. Heard the crack of weapons’ fire. Shouts of soldiers. Shrieks as people flooded the carpet of grass, seeking shelter. They could get lost in the chaos, so Tox slowed marginally, but focused on the end goal: the gate.

  Trees batted them. Branches smacked his head and face. A few grabbed his shoulder. The limbs were moving because bullets pelted their waxy leaves. Tox kept hustling.

  Crack. Thud!

  Behind! Tox spun. Towering over his opponent, Chiji with his lightning-fast reflexes delivered lethal blows to a small man in tactical gear.

  Another attacker surged from between two trees.

  Tox steadied himself. Let the man bring the fight. As soon as he threw the first punch, Tox blocked it, deflecting the momentum and putting the man off balance. Tox countered with an uppercut, nailing the guy’s solar plexus.

  Suddenly, his attacker arched his back, arms winging out. Something protruded from his chest. The air glittered like some twisted fireworks show as the man screamed—primal and loud. Flesh sizzled. He crumbled, smoking.

  Ten, maybe twelve yards away, the assassin’s mangled ear and unibrow glare were unmistakable. Leering, Tanin lifted a crossbow.

  “Come!” Chiji shouted, grabbed Tox’s collar.

  Startled that he’d frozen, Tox raced unyielding to the end of the temple grounds, anticipating the arrow Tanin would lodge in his back. Each step felt like his last. Each breath weighted. Safety hovered closer—yet the tricks of adrenaline made it feel an eternity away. Why hadn’t the arrow hit yet?

  When he rounded the corner, he skidded to a stop, glancing back. National police were in pursuit of Tanin. And the man he’d struck instead of Tox? Smoke rose from the body. What on earth . . . ?

  People rushed across the lush gardens, faces awash in the horror of the attack. Some screamed. Many were injured. A few seemed to have taken bullets meant for Tox. In the trunk of a tree, another arrow. How many had missed him? Was Tanin that bad of a shot?

  The howl of an emergency vehicle pushed Tox to go. But in the midst of it all . . . at the top of the center mandir, amid the heavily carved columns and darshans, Tox saw him. The Brit who’d spoken to him. Standing there, hands in his pockets, watching.

  Tox hesitated. He wasn’t just a man. He’d walked amid fire in the tunnel collapse.

  Not possible. Yet . . . he was there. How? Why?

  “Ndidi,” Chiji said, his voice rumbling.

  Eyes on the man, Tox nodded, patted his friend, then glanced at Tanin. Then back to the mandir. Now empty of the watcher.

  20

  — Day 10 —

  New Delhi

  I’m missing something.

  Kasey hit REPLAY and leaned back in the chair, headphones on, reviewing the interview with Chatresh Narang again. Maybe she was overthinking things. They were getting the journal. What else would Chatresh hide from them?

  A light tap against her shoulder drew her out of the analysis. She slipped off the headphones and looked up.

  Robbie nodded to the video. “Why are you watching him again?”

  “Something’s bugging me. I think he didn’t tell us something.”

  Robbie considered the possibility.

  “Ma’am, we have incoming,” Vander announced.

  Both their gazes swung to the surveillance feeds.

  “Male and female, according to thermals,” Vander reported. “Running the vehicle . . .”

  Robbie waited at Kasey’s chair.

  “Car’s a rental. Running . . . Ah!” He peered over the rim of his glasses at them. “Dr. Joseph Cathey and Tzivia Khalon.”

  Robbie moved closer to the feeds. “Perfect timing. Let them in.”

  They watched the archaeologists park and climb out. Tzivia Khalon went to the professor’s side. Together, they walked toward the camera until they stepped out of sight. Levi, hand on his weapon, punched in the code on the keypad then swung open the steel door.

  Tzivia entered, her gaze sweeping the warehouse.

  “Welcome, Ms. Khalon,” Robbie said, arms folded. “Is there a reason you aren’t at Jebel al-Lawz?”

  Tzivia stared. “And you are?”

  “Shut the door,” Robbie said, waiting for Levi to secure the area before continuing. “Robbie Almstedt with SAARC—we spoke on the phone.”

  Tzivia glanced around again. “Where are my brother and Tox?”

  She knew Cole? Something in Kasey bristled.

  “They’re fine,” Robbie said.

  Tzivia’s finely penciled eyebrow arched. “Just because you know our identities doesn’t mean we trust you.”

  “Likewise,” Robbie said, her tone evening out. “They’ll be back soon.”

  Tzivia clenched her jaw, then gave a slow nod. “Jebel al-Lawz was bombed. There’s nothing left.”

  Robbie scowled and turned to Vander, who muttered, “on it.”

  She straightened. “I assume your brother instructed you to come here?”

  “He said Bhavin’s brother was here.” She nodded to the glass interview room. “That him? Did he talk?”

  “Yes. We got everything out of him,” Robbie said, her gaze drifting to Kasey.

  “You don’t sound too sure about that,” Tzivia said.

  “Agent Cortes just told me she felt like we were missing something. The team went after a journal Mr. Narang”—Robbie nodded to Chatresh—“said his brother kept.”

  Tzivia’s keen, perceptive eyes shifted to Kasey. “You think there’s more?”

  “That’s just it.” Kasey bunched her shoulders, hoping she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself. “I saw signs of deception, but I figured it was just about the journal.”

  “Like what?”

  With a click, she advanced the video. “Here, where Ram is talking to him—I wasn’t here for it, but listen.” She pointed to the screen as it played. “Phrases like, ‘That’s about it,’ ‘that’s all I can say,’ ‘that’s what I’m telling you,’ ‘I’m telling you’—they’re signs that there’s more information the person isn’t sharing.”

  It should be enough to satisfy her that they’d caught him in his lie. But . . . “There’s also steepling the hands, which is a sign of superiority. Doing so in front of the mouth is saying, ‘I’m superior to you, I know more than you, and I’m not going to say it.’”

  “So he’s high off himself.” Tzivia looked at the image of Chatresh, his smile frozen against his dark features. “That all?”

  They shared a glance. “No,” Kasey muttered. Hit PLAY again. Watched. Rewatched. Then—“There.” She pointed to his smiling self. “That.”

  “You don’t like happy people?”

  Kasey sniffed. Then had an idea. She went back to the video the tech had sent her and played it. “I—there!” She practically broke her track pad stopping the video. “Right there.” By placing the two images side by side, exultation spiraled through her chest. “Knew I wasn’t imagining it.”

  Tzivia leaned closer. “What?”

  “The last smile,” Kasey said, tapping the right-hand image, “is a lying smile. The corners of his mouth turn down in that one, which they normally don’t do.”

  Tzivia’s wide eyes came to hers slowly. “Impressive. And that means . . . ?”

&nb
sp; “He knows something—something else. Even after he tells Cole about the journal, he’s still smug, and that’s when he gives that smile.” She shuddered. “He has more information in his possession.”

  “Think he knows the location of my stolen censer?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Tzivia started toward the glass wall.

  “What are you doing?” Robbie called after the take-charge woman.

  “Having a friendly chat,” Tzivia said as she entered the halo of light from the chamber. “Mr. Narang.”

  Chatresh rolled over and looked at her. “Yes?”

  “I’m Tzivia Khalon—the site your brother worked was mine.” She took in a breath. “Do you know what happens to any person who touches the censer without protective gear?”

  He stilled, worried.

  “Every person who has touched it unprotected has died.” Tzivia stuffed her hands on her hips. “I need to know where my censer is, Mr. Narang.”

  The rock-hard walls slammed back up.

  “His family,” Kasey whispered. “They’re important to him.”

  “I hope you didn’t hide it in your home or in a place where anyone you love could touch it. It’s cursed.”

  Cursed? Kasey frowned, eyeing the woman whose black hair was coiled into a messy knot at the back of her head.

  But the man’s posture hadn’t changed.

  “How much do you want, Mr. Narang?”

  He came off the cot.

  Tzivia sighed. “What will it take to buy your soul?”

  21

  — Day 10 —

  New Delhi

  One million dollars.

  Guided by a GPS device, Tzivia drove through New Delhi faster than she would’ve driven anywhere. “I will never understand people,” she muttered.

  “He wanted to protect his family. Desperate people do desperate things,” Dr. Cathey said, gripping the dashboard and roll bar as they rounded a corner, the tires squalling in protest. “Like drive too fast and cause an accident.”

  “Am I making you nervous?” She grinned and gunned it through a light as it changed to red. Horns blared.

  “Always.” Dr. Cathey shuddered. “Even when we’re not going ninety kilometers per hour in a sixty.”

  “Well, then you should’ve stayed home in London.”

  “And miss this adventure and the chance to die of an ancient plague?” he said with a chuckle.

  “It’s not the same plague from the Bible,” she clarified, wanting to be sure he didn’t have a path to get religious on her. “Dr. Ellison verified that—it’s both septicemic and Black Death. And Benowitz thinks that being exposed to our air in this century altered its makeup. I gave him some blood before we left. He hoped to figure out an antigen with it.”

  “Bah, Benowitz would say whatever you want him to say,” Dr. Cathey said. “But this New Black Death—have they discovered how it was released or activated?”

  “No—”

  “Aha—”

  “Don’t start.” She tightened her grip on the wheel.

  The GPS guided them to the building, and she parked along the curb then fed the parking meter. She eyed Dr. Cathey’s cane. Its hollow core allowed him to store things but it could also be a great fighting tool if they encountered unfriendlies.

  “You have gloves?” he asked as they approached the multistoried building that held a shopping center. Like an American mall but in a skyscraper.

  “Of course.” She also had a baggie and a keen awareness that they could be followed or attacked—or both—at any second.

  They entered through a department store as Chatresh had instructed and made their way to the mall concourse. Tzivia moved to the balcony, a sense of dread heightening as her gaze rose several levels. “Think of all the people . . .” She didn’t want to utter the words. The ones who could die.

  “Yes, think of them and get going,” Dr. Cathey said, not stopping to gawk with her. He turned the corner and was out of sight.

  “Hey,” Tzivia hissed, skipping to catch up with him. “I was also looking for tails.”

  “Just assume they are there and walk quickly,” he muttered, using his cane to pull himself forward.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Bond.”

  His gray eyes chided her.

  She shook her head, but then saw it. “There. The masseuse.”

  In a wider opening in the concourse, a row of black leather chaises were occupied. Every last one of them. Chatresh had said he’d laid on one, trying to hide from the people hunting down his brother.

  “He said the third or fourth one from the end.”

  Tzivia groaned as the full set-up revealed itself. Not just one row—there were three! All chairs surrounded by black mats. “What do we do?”

  Dr. Cathey tapped her arm. “Gloves.” He started toward the first row. “You check the far one, I’ll check the closest. Whoever finishes first goes to the middle.”

  At first, his method didn’t make sense until she remembered Chatresh had said he’d been hurrying down the concourse. What he hadn’t said was that he went to the middle. It would’ve been significant enough for him to have mentioned. At least, Tzivia hoped her logic was sound.

  “That’s a lot of time.”

  “Only if you keep talking.” Spry for a sixty-something man, Dr. Cathey went to the far row and used his cane to tug the black mat away from the chair.

  Tzivia started her hunt, muttering an apology to the masseuse and the client as she knelt and lifted the mat. Nothing.

  She scuttled to the next. Nothing. And moved on. “Nothing.”

  “Hey,” the masseuse shouted, “leave my customers alone!”

  “Sorry.” Tzivia shuffled over to another chair.

  “No! You leave!”

  Tzivia managed a weak smile and returned to the side, where Dr. Cathey joined her. “Nothing?”

  “I even got halfway down the middle row,” he lamented. “Was he lying?”

  “I think that deception expert would’ve known.” She shook her head. Discouraged. Frustrated. “Come on.” She tugged his arm and pivoted—

  A massage patron lifted his phone from a compartment beneath the chair.

  “What . . . ?” She hurried closer, scanning each chair. They all had a hollow space built into the chair, perfect for keeping belongings while getting a massage. She raced to the other side and scampered along the perimeter, searching. Both sides. Then stopped short. Backtracked.

  She squatted four feet from the table where she’d spied a discoloration. Bent, she moved in. Saw the handle of a censer peeking out of the shadows. She put on the glove and reached in.

  “Is that it?” Dr. Cathey sounded breathless.

  She slid it into the plastic bag and stared at it. “You little troublemaker.”

  “Tzivia,” Dr. Cathey called, his voice distant . . . panicked.

  She looked up and saw two cops jogging down the concourse. “Time to go.”

  ****

  Waiting for the team to return after they’d split up to increase their chances of making it back to the safe house undetected proved excruciating. The two hours droned by, especially once Chatresh Narang had been removed by a hazmat team to a quarantined location. Kasey was at the end of her rope when the perimeter alarm of the safe house finally went off. The first to return was Ram Khalon, Tzivia’s brother. Then over the course of forty minutes, the rest of the men returned. All except Cole and his Nigerian friend.

  “Where’s Russell and Okorie?” Almstedt asked, her voice masking what Kasey saw on her face. Concern. Fear. They needed Cole.

  “En route.” With another look at Kasey, Ram Khalon joined his men against a wall, silent. They had, without a word, drawn a line in the sand, creating sides.

  Silence could be painful. Especially when it was coming from all sides. Like they all knew a terrible secret. And suddenly, that secret became a thousand different terrors, all drenched in what wasn’t said as much as what was. Cole was en route.r />
  The last they knew.

  What if he’d been captured en route? What if he’d been killed? What if . . . ?

  Kasey gripped her upper arms, squeezing away the dreadful thoughts. Regardless of the outcome, Cole was out there. Ten minutes struggled on. Then fifteen. Nerves frayed and wits whittled down by the pressing quiet, she wandered the room, inwardly begging Cole to silence her fears and step beneath the beams of the streetlamp that captured trespassers.

  “Something’s happened,” she muttered to Levi.

  “Stop. He’s fine.” His tone bordered on acerbic.

  She checked the monitors again, irritated Levi chalked up her concern to romantic interest in Cole, not to her ability to read a situation.

  “Movement!” Vander announced. “One newcomer.”

  A presence formed behind her, but Kasey begged the monitor to reveal Cole. “Who is it?”

  “Chiji,” Ram said.

  Kasey deflated.

  “Why’s he alone?”

  “Because he vanishes like a ghost,” Cell taunted from the far wall.

  Once Chiji entered, they all grouped up on him.

  “Where’s Tox?” Ram demanded. “He was with you.”

  “We fought our way out, but it was very bad. They pursued us. We had to take different routes.” Chiji shook his head, sweat gliding from his temples.

  “Did any of you get the journal?” Robbie asked.

  “Things got too hot too fast,” Cell said.

  “So you didn’t get Mr. Narang’s journal.” Robbie folded her arms over her bosom, consternation knitting her penciled-in eyebrows.

  “No way to get it.” Ram shrugged. “Tox knew that. He ordered us to return to base to regroup and plan.”

  “Your sister showed up,” Robbie said.

  “Tzivia? Here?” Ram’s gaze surfed the room. “Where?”

  “Out,” Robbie growled, then nodded to Kasey. “Through Agent Cortes, we discovered our guest had more information. He knew where the censer was.”

  Ram’s eyes widened. “She went after it?” Distress colored his question.

  “Left almost immediately after she arrived,” Robbie said. “That was two hours ago. Haven’t heard from her since.”