Shadow Maker (14 page)

Frankfurt, Germany

H
ad Katy known the power of Kurt Baron's lectures, she would have asked Nick's dad to move in with them a long time ago. Luke was sound asleep. Katy was on the verge herself.

The dark lecture hall offered a welcome break from racing around Frankfurt. Kurt, aka Clark W. Griswold, had been running them ragged since they arrived. They saw the cathedrals, the botanical gardens, the Frankfurt Zoo. Most of it was a blur, but she did find the enclosure full of guinea pigs at the zoo oddly amusing. Maybe they weren't considered disposable pets in Germany.

To stay awake, Katy took her eyes off the giant timeline of Jericho artifacts on the screen and let them drift around the room. About half the students were paying attention. The other half were either playing with their phones or passed out like Luke. None of them took any notice of her.

Good.

Throughout their tourist activities, Katy had noticed people watching her—the tall guy at the zoo, the car that followed them all the way to Mainz, the blonde woman who stayed with them from the train to the botanical gardens and then reappeared when they came out. And there were others. Maybe some of it was her imagination. Maybe all of it. Kurt had said as much, but he didn't know the history. He didn't understand what Nick did for a living. He didn't know what Katy had been through already.

She was jet-lagged. She missed her husband. She told herself these things were making her paranoid. She needed to let go and start enjoying herself.

Katy squeezed her sleeping son, took a deep cleansing breath, and focused on her father-in-law's lecture, but Kurt was droning on about a broken oil lamp preserved in the shelter of the Jericho wall. She sank a little in her seat. Maybe she could start enjoying herself later.

—

When the lights came up, a short, stocky individual stretched in his seat and picked up his pile of books. He started up the stairs with the rest of the students rather than hanging around to wait for Dr. Baron to pack up. That would be far too obvious. Besides, he knew where the professor and his daughter-in-law would exit, from the green room backstage. He could pick them up in the hall.

The woman came down the stairs on the other aisle as he went up. She did not see him this time, but this time he was more cautious. He wore a yarmulke. It was amazing how a little cultural item could become camouflage. He had also shaved, removing the beard of stubble, and he carried a thick pile of books under his arm, naturally raising his shoulder and ruffling his jacket to disrupt his form and cover his face.

He examined the woman with his peripheral vision only. She looked wary, alert. Baron had trained her well.

Out in the upper hall, he found a dark alcove and dialed his phone. The man who answered spoke German—a courtesy to him and a way to minimize the risk of inadvertent exposure.

“How was the lecture?”

“Enthralling.”

“Any further problems?”

The short man glanced over at the lecture-hall doors, watching the last of the students filtering out. In a minute or so he would need to reposition to keep tabs on his quarry. “No, we've adjusted.”

“I told you not to underestimate her.”

“Yes. You did. I assume you want me to remain hidden?”

“For now, but be ready to move in if I need you.”

The man reached into his coat and felt the butt of the Glock 42 holstered in his waistband. “Always.”

London, United Kingdom

A
lthough common sense seemed to have taken a backseat, Nick had enough of it left to keep Chaya with him when he and Drake split up. Between his teammate and the girl, it was hard to tell who was the wolf and who was the prey. Either way, Nick knew leaving them alone together was a bad idea. Amanda could thank him later.

To keep Drake out of trouble, Nick sent him up to Cambridge in the Peugeot to chase down a hunch. Meanwhile, he took the unscrupulous lawyer to her father's office to see what they could dig up. Without a car, that meant twenty-five awkward minutes on the Tube's Central Line—great place to sit and be a target, in multiple senses of the word.

“I take it you're single too?” asked Chaya, breaking the silence as they left Kensington Station on their way to Holborn.

“No.”

The monosyllabic answer shut her down, but not for long. Passing through Oxford Circus, she gathered her courage again. “Sooo, you leave the wedding ring at home then?” She glanced pointedly down at his bare hand.

Nick took in a long breath. He didn't like her tone, and she was way off. He missed his wife and son, and he worried about them—constantly. Katy and Luke made up the part of his life that he could never fully compartmentalize. Everything else—the mortgage, plans for the future, even his other family members—he could pack in mental boxes to save for when he came home. Most of his day-to-day life did not exist when he was out on the mission, but Katy and Luke could not be tucked away so easily. He had learned that the hard way more than a year ago, while hanging by his wrists in a Chinese interrogation room.

Nick put his hand in his coat pocket, out of sight. “It's not like that. It's . . . policy. When things get heated in the field, jewelry causes issues. Rings can get hung on clothes or weapons.”

Chaya looked up at him with those big almond eyes. “Do things often get
heated
in the field?”

“No.”

Like a gift from heaven, the word Holborn emerged from the left side of the car's LED display and moved to the center. The train slowed to a stop. Nick got up and headed for the doors.

—

The sloped glass facade of International Biological Engineering stood as a modernistic affront to the stark gray Edwardian style of the rest of Kingsway and the Strand. The echoing lobby with its concrete walls and aircraft-aluminum trim continued the theme. Everything screamed high-tech. Nick's badge got them past the security desk and up the elevator to the third-floor research section. There, a curving hallway walled with faceted aluminum panels led them to a faux redhead, bunkered behind a concrete reception desk.

“How can I help you?” she asked in Estuary English, covering the receiver of her cell phone as Nick and Chaya approached. Then she recognized Chaya and the plastic customer-service smile fell away. “I'll call you back, love,” she said into the phone. She put it down and folded her hands on the desk, staring Chaya in the eye. “Dr. Maharani is on leave, same as I told you this morning. He lef' strict instructions tha' he was not to be disturbed.”

Chaya grabbed the ID wallet from Nick's hand and thrust it in the receptionist's face. “And I told you I'd be back. This man is from Interpol. You
have
to tell him where my father is.”

Nick gently but firmly pulled Chaya's hand back and reclaimed the badge, using the pressure from his fingertips to tell her,
You're not helping
. Confrontation rarely worked with witnesses. As Walker once told him, no matter how loud you shout, you can't argue a fish into your boat.

Nick quickly shifted the mood, baiting his hook. “What Miss Maharani is trying to say is that her father may have vital information relating to a counterterrorism investigation.”

The receptionist's eyes widened.
“Counterterrorism?”

“Yes, counterterrorism.” Nick slowly turned the reel, bringing the bait to life. “Of course, I must inform you that anything we discuss from this point forward is strictly classified. You cannot share our conversation with anyone.”

The receptionist glanced down the hallways on either side of her pill box and then leaned forward on her elbows, brushing back the ragged strands of mauve that fell about her face. “You can count on me, love. How can I help you?” This time the question sounded much more sincere. The fish was on the line.

Unfortunately, the fish knew very little. She explained that Maharani's leave of absence was nothing unusual. Bioengineering was a high-stakes, high-pressure field, and minds like his needed the occasional respite. IBE had a generous leave policy, and all of its researchers took full advantage, Chaya's father included. The receptionist handed Nick the researcher's leave request. “He only lef' me his home address,” she said. “No resort or vacation house.”

“Then shouldn't you be concerned that he isn't
at
his home address?” asked Chaya.

The receptionist pursed her lips. “They
all
put down their home addresses. I've got a department full of regular absentminded professors who can make a rat grow purple hair but can't remember the name of the resort they're headed to.”

Nick examined the form. There was a list of equipment at the bottom. It appeared the doctor had signed out assorted beakers and containers, a pair of laptop computers, and some culturing solution. “What's all this?” he asked, pointing out the list to the redhead. “Did Dr. Maharani indicate that this was a working vacation?”

The girl bobbled her head, making the mop of red flop back and forth inconclusively. “Not really. The professors of'n take a few supplies along, 'case they get ideas halfway through their holiday.” She raised her penciled eyebrows and took on an expression she must have thought looked quite intelligent. “A true genius does not choose his moments of inspiration.”

Nick scanned the list of supplies again. “There's a lot of glass here. More than an older gentleman like the doctor can carry.”

“Oh, he had help, love.” The receptionist's eyes drifted and she smiled to herself. “Tall, dark, and handsome help—with a bit of a prison vibe, but the kind a girl likes if you know wha' I mean.” She winked and poked Nick in the arm with a press-on nail.

“No, ma'am. I don't know what you mean.”

“He had a
tattoo
, love. Right here.” She pointed to her pasty white forearm. “But not a cheesy set of flames like the boys at the pub have.” She looked around again and lowered her voice. “It was a proper marking. You could tell it meant some'n serious.”

Nick flipped over the paper between them and drew the circle with the crescent and star. As soon as he finished, the receptionist jabbed her finger at the paper. “That's it, love. That's the one.”

“Are you certain?”

“Do I look like I'm blind?
'Course
I'm certain.”

Nick glanced up at the security camera behind the desk. This might be the break he needed. He tucked his badge into his coat. “Thank you, ma'am. You've been most helpful.”

“Have I?” asked the receptionist, her cheeks beginning to flush.

“Yes, but remember, our conversation here was strictly classified.”

She waved her hand in a slow arc, fluttering her fingers. “You were never here, love.”

—

On the elevator back down to the lobby, Chaya tugged at Nick's elbow. “How could you know to draw that tattoo unless you already knew who took my father?”

Nick watched the red numbers tick by above the elevator door. “I didn't know, I suspected. We've been tracking a terrorist group with similar tattoos since the bombing in Washington, DC.” There was a loud
ding
and the doors slid open. He stepped out into the lobby at a quick pace.

Chaya was right on his heels. “And when were you planning to tell
me
that the people who bombed your capital had my father?”

“I'm telling you now.” Nick reached the security desk and loudly slapped the polished concrete surface, startling the college dropout behind it nearly out of his chair. He flashed his badge. “I need to see yesterday's video files.”

I
n one hundred meters, turn left on Lensfield Road.”

“This one?” asked Drake, putting on his blinker.

“No. Keep going. That one was thirty meters. I said one hundred meters to Lensfield.”

“There are no street signs. How do these people find anything?”

“You're there. Turn now!”

Drake missed the turn.

Scott exhaled loudly into the comm link. “Stand by. I'm recalculating.”

“Something wrong?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe I'm upset because you've taken one of the most brilliant technical minds of our time and reduced him to a TomTom. Make the next available U-turn.”

Drake followed Scott's directions deeper into the Cambridge University campus, crossing from modern to old to Old World. He stared up at the brownstone faces of the long renaissance buildings as if he might enter the maze within and never find his way out again. He hated the endless dusty halls of academia, and Nick knew it. Yet Nick had sent him up here anyway.

“CJ's databases won't have anything on a terrorist group that's been dormant for eight hundred years,” Nick had explained as he peeled Drake away from Chaya and stuffed him into the Peugeot. “I need you to go up to Cambridge and consult Rami.”

“What kind of database is Rami?”

“Rami isn't a database. He's a professor—my professor. Dr. Rami Fuad taught Middle Eastern Studies at the Air Force Academy. A few years after I graduated, he abandoned that program as a lost cause and moved to Pembroke College, at Cambridge.”

The interior of the college was as nightmarish as Drake had feared. Long, echoing halls, stairwells that only led down when he needed to go up, room numbers with no decipherable pattern to their order. He made several wrong turns and backtracks before he finally stumbled upon a half-open door with a frosted glass pane that read:
DR. RAMI FUAD, MIDDLE EAST HISTORY, EGYPTOLOGY.

Drake rapped lightly on the glass and then pushed the door open and peered inside. He heard voices, but he saw no sign of the professor, only a narrow L-shaped room that might have once been Shakespeare's broom closet. The leg of the room ahead of him was lined with books, most on shelves, some in precarious stacks on the floor. What he could see of the back wall sloped downward with the roof, except for a recessed window where sunlight held the dust of centuries past suspended in a thin beam.

A flustered student marched around the corner, clutching a heavy stack of loose pages and sending the dust flying in wild swirls. As the young man brushed past Drake and fled into the hall, a Middle Eastern voice called out from the inner sanctum in impeccably articulated English. “Next! And be quick about it. I have an important meeting.”

With trepidation that his subconscious dragged up from his Notre Dame years, Drake crept around the corner. There, he found an aging Egyptian with neatly trimmed gray hair seated behind a desk cluttered with papers and more stacks of books. If there was a computer, Drake could not see it. The professor's eyes, partially hidden behind square-rimmed glasses, remained buried in a thick volume. “What do you need?”

“Dr. Fuad . . . um . . . ahem.” Drake tried to banish the twenty-year-old student from his voice. “My name is Drake Merigold. Nick Baron sent me.”

Rami abruptly looked up. His stern expression melted into a warm smile. “Ah, Mr. Merigold. I apologize.
You
are the important meeting.” He stood and took Drake's offered hand, pumping it up and down. “Welcome to my castle.”

Drake had to bend forward to accommodate the handshake. The professor's head barely came up to his chest. The rapid change in the Egyptian's demeanor left him off balance. “Um . . . was I interrupting something?”

“Hmm? Oh, you mean the student.” Rami flicked a thick hand at the door as if he were shooing away a mosquito. “I just gave Mr. Wentworth my review of his dissertation. He still has a lot of work to do.” He gestured to a wooden chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit down and tell me your tale. Nicholas did not give me much information over the phone.”

Drake unlocked the screen of a tablet computer and passed the device over the stacks of books into Rami's hands. “Nick took these photos in what we believe to be a Hashashin catacombs,” he said as he settled into the chair, “under the Ankara Citadel.”

“There is nothing under the Ankara Citadel,” argued Rami, taking the tablet. “Over the years, the Turkish National Museum has pelted that hill with enough sonar to raise a Russian submarine. They find it is solid rock every time.”

“We beg to differ. In light of our recent intelligence, I'd say the museum was bought off.” Drake shook his head. “But that's beside the point. Professor, those symbols may be the key to stopping a terrorist group planning to release a bioweapon. Can you identify them?”

Rami squinted at the screen in his hands, flipping back and forth through the photos. “You are certain these were taken beneath the citadel?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“If that is true, then you've made a discovery of historic proportions. I must go and see it for myself.”

Drake grimaced. “Not advisable. Not all the Hashashin in that tunnel are dead.” He forced a smile. “The symbols? Please, professor.”

“Right. Of course.” Rami glanced through photos one more time and then handed the tablet back across his books with a definitive nod. “Yes. You can tell Nicholas that these are, in my opinion, Hashashin.”

“Is that all you can tell me about them?”

“Oh, no.” The professor stood and pressed himself against the sloped ceiling to get out from behind his desk. He gave Drake an excited grin. “There is more, my boy. Much, much more.”