Anabia nudged him with his elbow. Olivia stared patiently.
"We aren't the only ones the police are after. Hopefully, they'll split their attention between Emilio and us now," she said.
Diggs roused himself. "There's something I've been keeping from you guys."
Olivia's face darkened in a little grimace.
"What is it?"
Diggs stood up. Olivia expected a limp, but he walked without difficulty. He was holding something in his hand.
"This is Rodriguez's phone. I took it from the Militar last time I visited—"
Liam chuckled. Reno and Andrew joined. And before long, the mood lightened in the room. Diggs blessed it all with a smile of his own, a rare occurrence.
"Yeah, I like to think of it as a visit. You know, it was fun. Except for the last time with the Hacker. That dude was tough." He looked at Andrew, who gave him a slow nod.
Diggs waved the small phone in the air.
"Here is Rodriguez's phone. We can find out who he talked to. If we find that, maybe we find evidence of who killed him, get the cops off our backs so we can walk."
Miller said, "You can do that, Diggs."
"Yeah."
Miller said, "Good. We are left with the problem of the tomb—"
"And the Hacker," Andrew added.
"Him too. And he's gonna stand between the tomb and us. He's the only one standing between us and the tomb. He's gonna come with more vengeance—"
Andrew said, "Emilio is not going to go down without a fight."
They all looked at him. For a second, he looked shocked at the faces. In the team, he was the only one who understood the former cardinal and his involvement in the whole deal about Solomon's tomb.
Only Olivia seemed to have an inkling. She was staring at him across the room. She sat on the floor; her arms were around her feet, and her chin on her knees.
"What are you talking about?" asked Liam. "Emilio is a washout. The Vatican can't wait to throw him out when they hear about his latest shit. And his Table guys are gonna want nothing to do with his ass."
Victor Borodin spoke for the first time that day. "Emilio Batolini is mafia. I think that is what Andrew is telling us."
"Yes." Andrew got on his feet. "He is many things. He has connections, even in the CIA. We have to agree right here that he may be working with Talbot—"
"But Talbot promised…" Liam protested.
"Talbot is a businessman. Emilio is a murderer and a businessman. They are both in it for the big fish. And Solomon's tomb is the biggest fish ever. Now here's the thing: Talbot, Emilio, are both gunning for Solomon's tomb. That's two people we are contending with.
"The Hacker, we don't know who he is or what his deal is. But my guess is he's a hired hand, paid to do Emilio's dirty work," concluded Andrew.
There was quiet for a minute or so. All faces looked glum and ghostly in the yellow and black gloom of the room. Monks prayed in the monastery somewhere, their mannish voices crawled up the wall and came in through the ceiling.
Lawrence Diggs broke the laden silence.
"I knew him. Never met him until today, but I knew him."
They all glanced at him, but only Andrew and Olivia did more than superficially.
He continued. "The Hacker has been everywhere. Russian Spetsnaz, Green Berets, Night Stalkers, Navy SEALs, SWCCs, MASORC, you name it. He's trained with almost all the special forces you can think of. There are five best killers in the world. The Hacker is number three—"
"You are number two?" Reno asked.
He glared at the Peruvian. "I'm not on that list."
Diggs looked around the room with those cold blue eyes. "We are lucky to be alive, Andrew and I. We are fortunate. Next time we may not be so lucky. He is good like that. But Andrew was…" Diggs broke off. He did something else he seldom did. He frowned.
"Andrew isn't who I thought he was."
Everyone looked at the former priest. He shrugged and grinned, something he too rarely did.
Tami asked the question that was on everyone's mind.
"What is inside the tomb?"
"No one knows," said Olivia.
The rest of the night went quietly until midnight when gentle murmurs of snoring flowed around the room.
Diggs and Andrew didn't sleep.
—
Now Paul Talbot was an enterprising thief. A thief knows when he's been had. And when to cut his losses. But he would cut his losses and walk only if he's been cornered.
Talbot wasn't feeling cornered. He was one of the best in the game. And he had learned the benefits of being unreachable.
When the Militar guys called him from Brazil about the missing phone, he knew Lawrence Diggs had taken it. Diggs was ex-CIA. That meant Paul's cover was blown.
His phone had rung in his hotel room from where he could see one of the church's minarets, but he thought it was counterproductive to speak to Olivia at that point.
But the moment would come when he would have to talk to Olivia's team. He felt it coming.
Soon after, though, the phone rang again.
"Hello, who is this?"
"It's me, you jerk. I changed my number. Do you not see what's going on?"
"Batolini?"
"Who else do you think? You don't have a TV in your room or what? I'm in a jam. They think I killed those men on the TV."
A wicked smile crossed Talbot’s lips.
"Well, that's because you did."
"They are not supposed to think that. Someone taped it."
"Yeah. Your boy fucked up. He fucked up in Miami when he couldn't kill the woman there, and you fucked up when you couldn't eliminate Andrew in Rome. So, we are all a bunch of fuck-ups."
Emilio was silent. Talbot imagined him scratching the bald pate of his head. Or rubbing on the hips of a teenage delectable. But Emilio was doing none of that. He was sitting at the desk in his hotel room. He was doing nothing serious than drumming on the wood with his fingers. And staring at a small piece of paper with a number written on it.
"And added to that they have Rodriguez's phone. So, let us say we are at a stalemate now."
Emilio sighed. "They have the keys as well."
"Uh-huh."
"You don't sound surprised." Emilio's eyes narrowed, his jaw stiffened.
"Why should I?"
"Alright." It wasn't time to fight. Talbot was perhaps the only one who could get him out of the bind he was in. Except, of course, Emilio called in his mafia friends in Sicily. And he might. "We need to get the tomb as planned. And we need more men to be flown in. There's going to be a war. The stakes are high."
"Yeah, higher than it has ever been."
Talbot stared out his window at the misty dawn on the street, reflectively. He was playing both sides. He wondered who else Emilio was playing other than the Men of the Table whom he had played. It also warmed his heart that Emilio didn't know his four friends were alive somewhere.
That was Talbot's secret card.
"What are we gonna do?" Talbot asked.
Emilio looked at the piece of paper. He said, "I need passage for some hands. Can you get that?"
"Yes. How many men are we looking at?"
"Two for every single one of those pieces of shit."
Very colorful words, Talbot thought. "Alright. When do you expect them?"
"Tonight."
"Consider it done."
"I'm going to tear apart that church. I don’t care where they moved the tomb."
"It's just a church," said Talbot.
Emilio agreed. "Yeah. Just a church."
—
So around early morning, just as the muezzin's call echoed, and the bells of the various churches called for the day's first Mass, Olivia was woken by the hum of her phone.
"Speak."
"It's me. I'm sorry I've been unavailable."
Olivia saw Diggs looking at her where he was hunched over, red eyes. He mouthed the name "Talbot." Diggs answered with a smirk; he moved acr
oss the room.
"What do you want?"
"You sound like I abandoned you guys. I didn't. I was working in the background."
"Oh yeah." Olivia said, "Why don't you spare me the bullshit, Paul. Get to the point."
Diggs was beside Olivia with a small device. Olivia pressed a button, and Talbot's Kentucky accent filled the room through the speakers. Diggs connected a cable from his device to Olivia's phone, and Talbot's voice was sucked back into the phone. Diggs was recording the conversation.
Olivia placed the phone back to her ears.
Talbot was saying something about men coming in.
"What men?" Olivia asked with a frown.
"Hired guns from Sicily. Emilio is bringing them in. This morning—"
"And how did you know this, Talbot?"
"I heard it through the grapevine."
It made some sense that the CIA had a grapevine plantation in Jerusalem. What didn't make sense was trusting Talbot that he got his fruit salad from that garden.
"We need weapons too. And we need to go into the church today."
"What, you telling me the tomb is in there?" Talbot was genuinely surprised. Olivia liked that.
She asked, "Where else would it be? We couldn't have moved it."
"Good. I'll get you your weapons. I'll make the drop at the Qattaneen market. Find the meat section, stall number 14. Come alone."
"You know I can't do that."
"Well, appear alone. It's safer that way. We don't know who's watching."
"In a city with a CIA grapevine, that seems improbable."
"You never know."
The call ended. Olivia glanced up and asked Diggs, "Did you get enough?"
"Yup."
"Nice."
—
Two events followed after each other.
One, a plane landed at faraway Ben Gurion Airport. It was a private plane that left Sicily under the log that it was carrying an assortment of men on a religious trip to Jerusalem.
The men included Sicilians, who were in the business of body laundering and were also coke pushers. And some Italians who whacked opponents for mob bosses. You could tell from their beards, their eyes, and the way they dressed.
They carried small brown leather bags; wore jackets; black, brown, or just oversized shirts; gold chains around their necks; tattoos on their hands and necks. They smoked cigars from the corners of their mouths.
They didn't go through immigration as everyone else does in the airports. Thanks to the tall, smooth-talking man who wore sunshades and dressed as though he was going to the beach after seeing these men off to some point.
Talbot was waiting with a black van. The twenty men piled in the back of the long van, and he drove them to a hotel near the Qattaneen market.
The second event happened in the US Embassy located on the cobbled street called David Flusser. The embassy was one of the smallest embassies run by the United States of America.
It was a simple structure of pale-colored bricks. Olive trees grew along the outside wall. It gave the place a local and homely appearance.
Arnold Hirsh arrived there early that morning in a rented Fiat.
He wore a great black coat and a cap; it was an attempt to look the part of an Interpol official. It wasn't his part. But he believed the holy book where it said when in Rome, one acted as a Roman. This was Jerusalem, and if you didn't look like what you claim, people claimed what you looked like.
So, he ditched the nerd glasses, the high school and college clothes, and tennis shoes. He wore brogues polished to a sparkling sheen. He even wore a tie.
He asked to see the head of the embassy. Still, the ambassador, said the receptionist, was attending a meeting across town.
Arnold leaned closer over the glossy table.
"There's no place across town where he could be. That's a lie reserved for people who ain't me."
The girl, she may be a New Yorker. Pretty, red-haired, slanting eyes and a curve around her lips, her cleavage called out at Arnold with a resounding perkiness of flesh.
"But—" she started to say.
"No butts. Just patch me through on that telephone of yours. Tell him it has to do with a citizen of the United States. He'll listen to me."
The girl did as she was told. She spoke briefly on the phone, said yes, said no. After another couple of yeses, she lowered the handle on her shoulder and asked. "Your name, sir?"
"Arnold Hirsh, Interpol."
She repeated it on the phone. She listened. Then she told Arnold she's been instructed to bring him to the ambassador's office.
Hirsh followed her swaying behind through a long hallway, down one flight of steps, through a quiet corridor, and they stopped at the door. She opened the door and gestured him in.
The ambassador was in his fifties. They were always in their fifties, thought Hirsh. They let you reach middle age and then murdered your career. They shipped you off to a quiet country where they know you are likely to make the least contribution to humanity.
The plaque on the table said his name was Perry Runkleman. Oh, hell, what a name!
They shook hands. The ambassador's hands were soft, his grip, weak. He had small kind eyes and a broad smile. His black hair was streaked with gray. He sat back, and he placed one finger on his cheek.
"What can I do for you?"
"I have reasons to believe that—" He removed an envelope from the inside of his coat. He removed photos from the envelope and passed them over the table. "These people are about to be killed here in Jerusalem."
Runkleman took the photos and perused them. He did twice; he placed them back on the table.
"These people are wanted in two countries outside the US. The Brazilian government wants them on murder charges. We want them for high treason, I think. Or something, I don't know the specifics."
"Of course, you don't."
"Anything else you need?"
Hirsh pursed his lips. Then he removed another photo and handed it over. The ambassador looked at the photo only once. It was apparent he didn't know who was in it.
"That man is called the Hacker."
"Hacket?"
"Hacker. Real name Roy Maxton. Former US military, a former member of all the special forces you could think of. He is the devil himself. Hired hand for the mafia and organized crime. I'm trying to catch him."
Something had happened to Runkleman. He was alert now, quite interested.
"Are you special forces too?"
"I told your receptionist that I am Interpol."
Runkleman looked Hirsh over. He sighed. "What do you want me to do?"
"Let me do my job. Those people didn't kill the old man in Brazil. Roy did. Someone hired him to do it. But I don't care why. All I'm trying to do is stop Roy from working. That's all. This case is mostly in Interpol's hands now; I have proof from the autopsy in Brazil. The journalist flew to Brazil a day after the man was killed. She and her partner couldn't have done it."
"Okay, I'll take your word for it."
What else can you do, Ambassador?
He continued, "But I can't stop the Feds here if these people break Israeli laws. They'd have to answer for their sins."
"Are you a religious man, sir?" Hirsh asked.
"I go to church. On Sundays. If that qualifies me as one, then I guess I am."
"No, it doesn't—"
"Why do you ask?"
"Nothing. If you care about life, you will keep this conversation secret. At least until such time when you have to make a formal report about it."
Runkleman stared at the Interpol officer with his old brown eyes for a full minute. He packed the photos and handed them back.
Hirsh shook his head. "You can keep that for your archives. You'll need them later. I should be on my way now. I heard through the grapevine that a plane flew in from Sicily with rough-looking men. At Ben Gurion Airport. You might want to look into that."
"It's not of our business if it's none of our business."
Hirsh shrugged; he rose to leave. At the door, Runkleman called him.
"What makes you think you can stop this Hacker guy?" he asked.
"Because I'm one of the only few people who can stop him."
He nodded, told the ambassador to have a good morning, and left.
—
9
The Qattaneen market was actually what Miami dwellers would call a large shopping mall. Like that one on 5th Street, Fifth, and Alton. Olivia did her Christmas shopping there last year. She remembered the lights in the roof, fluorescents embedded in the ceiling. The Muzak that played as the escalators did their around-the-clock roll-up to the floors. Santa Claus had given her a present last Christmas in the children's section of the mall. She recalled that fondly. It made her heart slump in a moment of nostalgia.
She missed Tom Garcia and his wife, Betty. Most of all, she missed her apartment, her window from where she stared at the water.
She had taken a taxi to Qattaneen. As she walked through the ceiling-length glass doors, she calmed herself with the thought that it was only Talbot who knew what she looked like now.
She hoped Talbot would remember that when the notion to sell her out crossed his mind.
Israeli efficiency was evident from the moment she entered the place. Fresh air hit her face and hands. Stalls were numbered everywhere, and major sections were tagged. She stood at a small intersection under the CEREAL tag.
She looked down the crowded hallway and saw more tags. There was a security guard at the door she had missed coming in. Olivia strolled back to the man. He was tall, white beard, and shaven everywhere except his eyebrows, which had some grey.
She asked, "Where's the meat section?"
"That way," he said in a thick voice, "after the fish section."
Olivia thanked him and struck off the way he said.
He found meat minutes after and also found stall number 14 quite easily. All stalls were the same sizes, about the size of a small hotel room. Here at the meat section, half the stalls were freezers, and in the other half sat the seller.
"Hi," said she to the seller.
"Hello."
The man wore a white apron with bloodstains. He wore a chef's cap and had a full beard; his lips were puffy and red, wide eyes, and a hook nose. He was undoubtedly Jewish.
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