Ari nodded goodbye, smiled grimly, and got out of the car. As he walked away, the darkened car window opened.
“Davan,” Kane called after him. “Thank you for your thoughts.”
***
At the departure gate, Ari had no problem identifying Eagle. Even in this unearthly heat, the man wore a heavy black turtleneck pullover. And the little gold ring on the fourth finger of his right hand was unmistakable.
Relieving Eagle’s previous watcher, Ari took his place in the queue behind the man as they boarded. Eagle looked fit, he thought, and traveled light—only a small black carry-on bag. Ari sat a few rows behind him, close enough to watch him but not close enough to be noticed. His little buttonhole camera picked up everything and transmitted it home.
He thought about his conversation with Kane. He had expected to feel awkward talking to the head of Interpol and was surprised that he had not. The man didn’t look the sort who invited confidences; still, Kane had listened. Maybe his theory wasn’t so brainless.
But Ari knew there were infinite ways to connect the dots of this story. As he leaned back in his seat, he fought sleep and tried to focus. Was there a Jewish plot to wipe the Muslim shrines off the Temple Mount? Or an elaborate Palestinian provocation? Or was it just a simple bloody conspiracy to get control of the lattice? And what did the death of the Pope have to do with any of it?
He drifted off for a moment and saw in dream a golden dome shining, then burning, then turning to vapor above the blistered remains of the Holy City.
Al-Anbiya Madrassah, East Jerusalem, 0945h
Imam Abu Rushd was not happy about the morning recitation of the shahada.
“La ilaha il-Allah, Muhammadun rasulu’llah!” he called out. The heat of the morning was unblinking—not the wavering heat of the past few days, but a sickening heat like a blanket over everything. It exhausted the boys. Maddened, they had torn their tight white caps from their heads, and sweat yellowed their white clothes. The imam gasped for air between his teeth, and shouted again, louder. “There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet!”
Amal bin-Ayoub shouted back as hard as he could, in hope that the imam would be satisfied. At last the teacher surrendered.
“The Shaitan,” he said. “Today’s subject is the Shaitan. We will study
the devil.”
The tired boys looked a bit more interested. The devil always gets them, thought the imam. Studying the reference chalked on the wall, they flicked open their books and chanted aloud:
God said to the angels, Bow to Adam. They all bowed except Iblis, who said, Shall I bow to him whom Thou hast made of dust?
He said, Is this the one whom Thou hast honored above me? If Thou wilt leave me alone till the day of requital, I will most certainly bring eternal death to his children.
God said, Depart! For whoever of them follows you, you shall have your full reward with them in Hell. Deceive whom you can, send your horsemen and armies against them, buy them up with your treasures, promise them what you will, but the promises of the Shaitan are lies.
“The enemy of man is Iblis the Shaitan. He was one of the Jinn, a being of pure fire who was cast from Heaven because he would not bow down to Adam.”
“Why is he called Iblis?” a boy asked.
The imam was ready. “Iblis means ‘the one who despairs.’ Because he has no hope, he seeks to drag all men with him into a hopeless hell. He is the leader of the godless West, the great Shaitan; he whispers in their ears that there is no God, that there will be no day of requital.”
“Young men!” he raised his voice. “The heat you feel today is nothing compared to the burning of Hell. The unbelievers—the Jews, the Westerners—who follow the Shaitan will burn in despair.”
He wrote a reference on his slate board. “Recite with me!” The boys scrambled to find the page:
God has said: As for those who disbelieve in Our teachings, We will drive them into the fire; as often as their flesh is thoroughly burned,
We will give them new flesh to burn so they may suffer their punishment. Truly, God is mighty and wise.
“Teacher, does that mean they grow new skin?”
“When the skin of the damned burns off, God replaces it in an instant with tender new skin, which burns off again. An infinite number of times each second, for an infinite number of years. The pain never ends. Never, never.”
“That is not the only pain that never ends,” Amal muttered to himself as he glared up at the clock.
After the lesson, Amal rushed home to get lunch for his father. Ordinarily, he would have stayed at school, but the old man had become much weaker these past few days and needed him. Amal exhaled heat as he clambered up the stairs to his father’s room, his shirt soggy and his pulse beating hard.
Hafiz was sleeping under a light sheet on the sofa in his room; a small air-conditioner buzzed wearily in a window without much effect. Amal thought it might be better to help his father down the stairs to the kitchen, where it was cooler. Hafiz sat up, groaned, and allowed the boy to support him to the table. Amal laid out figs and fresh oranges from the refrigerator. It was too hot to eat anything else.
“You were out very late,” Amal scolded his father. “When I went to sleep, you were still out.”
Hafiz gave him a frail smile through two days’ growth of beard. “You were still asleep when I came back.”
“Where did you go? Were you with Nasir?”
“It’s not important where we went.”
Amal forced a slice of orange on his father. “Where did you go?” he insisted.
“Jameel. We went to a meeting.” The old man sucked faintly at the orange to get at the juice. “That’s where we went.”
“An important meeting, to take you out all night.”
Hafiz smiled again. He knew the boy was worried about him, and put his hand on his shoulder.
“And how was the fearsome imam this morning?”
“What will happen to unbelievers—it’s terrible.” Amal shook his head. “The fire.”
“The only fire is in the heart. And they who will feel it, feel it already.” The old man was suddenly dizzy and tired, drained by this attempt at theology.
“I will never understand, Father. Not like you.”
“What makes you think I understand?”
“You are Hafiz. You know the holy book by heart.”
“Knowing a thing and understanding it are not the same.”
He massaged the muscle in the boy’s shoulder and admired the long young body arched in the chair next to him.
“Where is Nasir this morning?”
Hafiz hesitated. “He had to go away. He was called away in the night.”
“I wonder why Nasir always wears black. It is so hot,” Amal mused, spooning cold yogurt on figs.
“It has to do with his calling, I think.”
“I wish he wouldn’t smoke. It endangers your life, you know. My science teacher says it is foolish to smoke.”
“Listen to your teachers.”
“I try to.”
Hafiz lay his head on his hands on the table because the darkened kitchen was in a slow spin.
“Are you all right, Father? Should I get you some water?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Hafiz raised his head and sipped at the water glass. Amal watched the old man struggle to swallow and fed him another orange slice. He decided not to go back for his afternoon classes.
“Father, when my uncle died, did his soul go to the cool garden? Or to the fire?”
“It would be as God wills. And God is merciful.”
“The imam says all the Jews will go to the fire, and all the Americans, and all the Westerners.”
“The imam is not God.”
“But it’s written…”
Hafiz sat up and toiled
to his feet. He was quite sick now, needing to release the tight hard bubble in his chest. Over the kitchen basin he coughed a fine spray of blood.
Alarmed, Amal wet a cloth and held it to his father’s lips, embracing him to keep him from falling.
Hafiz opened his eyes to the boy’s troubled face near his, the curious black eyes and hair, and suddenly realized that he had two sons. He had neglected this one—shamefully. He had played with him, loved him, but never taught him.
It was time. Past time.
Church of Santa Maria Maddalena, Rome, 1100h
“Maybe the biggest security operation ever,” Intel was saying.
Kane replied, “Yes, I could see that when I helicoptered in. I doubt any dead body in history has been as well protected as this one.”
“Fifteen hundred uniformed police and who knows how many undercover. Gunboats on the Tiber. An entire armored division of the Italian Army ringing Vatican City with anti-aircraft missiles.”
“An elephant for swatting gnats.”
“Plus Flaming Sword technology around the Basilica itself.”
“It’s a good thing. They should be worried about Eagle now. Where is he?”
Intel hummed musically for a moment. Kane admired the voice. “He’s on a bus to the city. An airport shuttle from Fiumicino.”
Kane chuckled. “A bus? He’ll be a long time coming. I could see it from the copter—this city’s gridlocked. He’s got a Shin Bet man stuck to him. I’ve asked St. Helena Street to patch through his buttonhole camera for you, so keep an eye on him.”
“Copy.”
Kane cleared his throat. “And our other trace?”
“Passing the Pantheon as we speak.”
“Thanks. Out.” Kane’s voice-activated GeM blinked off, and he sat contemplating his image in the mirrored barrier between himself and his driver. He leaned forward to examine more closely his smoothly cut white hair and immaculate Royal Marine blazer with its insignia. He was satisfied with the sturdy figure he saw—sixty-five years old, wearing the same coat he had bought in Lympstone at age twenty.
Nodding at the Interpol driver, who leaped to open the car door, Kane took a breath of the cold air and looked up at the wedding-cake façade of the church of Santa Maddalena. Inside the nave was turquoise and gold with pillars like a garden of giant flowers. No one else was in the church, so he walked tentatively down the aisle to kneel at the tabernacle and then examined the famous statue of Mary Magdalene that stood at the foot of the high altar. It was rusty rosewood, with a mournful face scarred like the stem of an ancient tree.
He turned when he heard the door to see Maryse entering, her auburn hair blown by the wind, her face pink with the cold.
She gave him a slanting smile and sat down to unpack her bag.
“Any progress?” he asked, taking a chair across from her.
“Good morning to you, too,” she said, looking around at the grand church. They were alone. “Why here?”
“Convenient. And I’ve always loved this church. Not as important as some, but it’s a jewel.”
She was already working the screen on her GeM. She scrolled through several pictures of the vans that had left the Piazza San Giovanni for Lebanon the previous Saturday and laid out for him her theory that one of them might have carried away the missing icon.
He cleared his throat. “Why aren’t you in Lebanon then?”
“Obviously, the icon could have been dropped off anywhere along the way. Our people are already interrogating the drivers—we’ll probably know something soon.”
“Still, I wonder what would have motivated Chandos to send the icon to Lebanon.”
“I don’t know.” She switched off the projector. “Besides…something much bigger than the theft of an icon is going on here.”
“So I’ve heard,” he replied. “Your friend Davan briefed me before I flew out this morning.”
“You met Ari?”
“I gave him a lift to the airport. He’s got two more murders on his hands. Seem to be related.”
“Two more?”
“Something to do with the death of the genetics expert in Haifa.”
“What do you mean, he briefed you?”
“Says there’s another dangerous angle to all of this.” He sketched out for her his conversation with Ari.
Drawing her hair back, she looked at him and then shut her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts. “A threat to the Dome of the Rock?”
“Yes,” he said. “The holiest, most coveted piece of property on the planet. Sacred to three religions. An attack on the Dome would bring down the full fury of the Muslim world on Israel. We’ve lived for three generations with Islamic terrorists, but everything we’ve seen so far is a pinprick compared with what would come if the Dome were destroyed.”
“What do you think would come?”
“The imams have nuclear weaponry and the will to use it.”
“They wouldn’t destroy Jerusalem. It’s holy to them too.”
“No, not Jerusalem. But Tel Aviv, Haifa…”
“Israel would strike back.”
“Undoubtedly. But don’t forget…there are only about six million Israelis and 600 million Muslims in the surrounding countries. One or two bombs and Israel is finished. The Islamists have two advantages—they’re a hundred times more numerous and could absorb the blow, and many of them welcome death. It’s an automatic pass into Paradise.”
“The city is the cauldron,” she murmured. “Desolation and war shall sweep the land of Israel…”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a quotation from Ezekiel. In the Bible.”
“And quite fitting, too.”
They were quiet for a long time. “This is maddening,” she finally said. “Two wholly separate crimes that threaten to tear the world apart—only they’re not separate. They’re linked. Something connects them.”
“Right. What does Rome have to do with Jerusalem?”
“Quid Roma Hierosolymis? The same question St. Augustine asked. I wish I could talk to my father…he might have known how they’re connected.”
“Your father might have known, yes.” Kane looked up cheerlessly. “I respected him.”
“He respected you. He thought of you as his greatest success.” Her voice came out softer than she intended.
“A far cry from my own father,” Kane murmured. Maryse was surprised at this; she had never heard him say a word about his own family. She knew nothing of him before Priory School.
He saw the curiosity in her face and smiled. “His name was Leonard Kane. He played tennis at New Haven…at Yale. The French Open, Wimbledon. That’s where he met my mother. She did like him—big, athletic sort. Grew up in Manhattan. He followed her round England.
“But he was one of those men who have no future. Athletics take you only so far. There was some trouble, and my mother’s family… Well. I met him a few times. He floated round for a while. He wasn’t impressed with me; but my mother’s money—that impressed him.”
Kane looked at his GeM clock and stood. “At any rate, I’m sure your father thought of you as his greatest success. I’m due at the funeral. I don’t know why they want me there; it’s a diplomatic thing. You going?”
“I thought I would. It’s a Pope’s funeral. I’ll watch from the piazza for a while and then get back to work.”
Idly, Kane stepped up the aisle and pointed at the brownish statue next to the high altar.
“It’s Mary Magdalene. Your name sounds like hers. Medieval, made of wood. To think they built this entire church around it.”
Maryse came forward. They both looked up at the curtains of rococo marble high over their heads, and the angels and apostles, figures like gilded sugar rising on terraces above the altar. Through the dusty windows in the rafters bloomed an odd orange light.
“The sun is trying to break through.” Kane turned to her. “Oh, by the way, Davan is in Rome again.”
Maryse tried to hide her surprise—she didn’t know why. “Is he? What is he doing here?”
“He’s the agent attached to Eagle…which means he won’t be in control of his whereabouts.”
“I understand.” She felt unaccountably embarrassed and afraid that her face showed it.
“Let me drop you at the piazza. I have a car waiting.” She followed him down the aisle, but paused when her GeMphone rang.
There was a jolly voice at the other end. “My dear, it’s Jean-Baptiste. Are you still in Rome?”
“Yes.”
“So am I. You must come sit with me in my box. It’s such a show.”
“You’re here for the funeral?”
“Oh, yes. Wouldn’t miss it. Pomp and panoply, you know. Takes me back to the world I prefer—the Middle Ages. Won’t you come? And you can brief me on the Via Condotti.”
St. Peter’s Square, Vatican City, 1200h
The shadows of wet, cold clouds darkened the Basilica of St. Peter to a watery gray as the funeral of Zacharias II began. Maryse had never seen such a crowd. Thousands of umbrellas spread and then fell with the irregular rain. Vast viewscreens hung at intervals from the colonnades, and the people packed in around them reminded her of waves in a windy sea. Harbored by the colonnade, a group of mostly elderly men and women in black-and-red robes clumped together in one of the rank of reviewing stands surrounding the square. They were watching the screen overhead.
Maryse maneuvered through the crowd toward the stand, which was decorated with the banner of the Order of Malta. She was surprised to see Jean-Baptiste in the front row, splendid in a black cape lined with crimson velvet and a black tunic trimmed with medals. He also wore an absurd cocked hat. Vigorously he motioned her up the stairs and into the box.
“This is my friend Maryse Mandelyn!” he shouted to the little knot of people sitting by. They were a smiling lot, courteously introducing themselves. The death of Zacharias II apparently hadn’t grieved them much: they could have been celebrating a win at a test match. Everyone had a grand title. Here was the Grand Chancellor of the order, the Grand Master, the Grand This and Grand That. Only later did she fully realize these were some of the most important people in Europe.
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