The Judas Strain (23 page)

Monk stood on the starboard deck, alone, waiting for Jessie. A mist-shrouded island rose directly ahead. Cliffs climbed steeply out of the ocean, offering no beach or safe harbor, topped by jagged peaks. The whole place looked like an ancient stone crown, draped in vine and jungle.

It appeared especially ominous backlit by the black skies behind it. The cruise ship had been outrunning a storm. Off in the distance, patches of dark rain brushed from the low clouds and swept the whitecapped ocean. The winds had picked up, snapping flags and gusting with shoves to the body.

Monk kept one hand clamped to the rail as the large boat rolled in the rising storm surges, taxing the ship’s stabilizers.

What the hell was the captain thinking?

Their speeds had slowed, but their course remained dead-on. Straight toward the inhospitable island. It looked no more welcoming than the hundreds they’d already passed. What made this one so special?

Ever resourceful and fluent, Jessie had ascertained some details about the island from one of the ship’s cooks, a native of the region who recognized the place. The island was called Pusat, or Navel. According to the cook, boats avoided the place. Supposedly the Balinese witch queen Rangda was born out of this navel, and her demons still protect her birthplace, beasts who rose out of the deep to drag the unsuspecting down to her watery underworld.

Jessie had also offered an alternative explanation:
But more likely it was just bad reefs and tricky currents
.

Or was it something else entirely?

From seemingly out of the sheer rock of the island, a trio of speedboats jetted into view. Blue, long-keeled, and low.

More pirates.

No wonder no one dares come here,
Monk thought.
Dead men tell no tales
.

Monk glanced around him as some men hurried past, shouting in Malay. He strained to make out the words. He checked his watch. Where was Jessie? A little translation right about now would be handy.

Monk studied the island ahead.

From international reports, the Indonesian islands were riddled with hundreds of secret coves. Over eighteen thousand islands made up the Indonesian chain; only six thousand were known to be populated. That still left twelve thousand places to hide.

Monk watched the trio of boats buzz toward them, then split away, spinning sharply with a spray of seawater. They positioned themselves to either side of the cruise ship’s bow and one directly in front. They headed back toward the island, puttering slowly in the chop.

Escorts.

The smaller ships were guiding their big brother to port.

As the island drew nearer, Monk was able to spot a narrow chasm in the cliff face, angled in such a manner as to be easy to miss. The gap appeared too small for the cruise ship, like passing a camel through a needle’s eye. But someone had done proper soundings, compared them to the ship’s dimensions and draft.

The cruise ship pushed its bow between two sheer walls of black rock. The rest of the ship had no choice but to follow. The port side scraped with a screech and tremble. Monk danced back as a spar of cliff on his side ground away a pair of lifeboats, smashing and raining down pieces.

The entire ship squealed.

Monk held his breath. But they did not have far to go. The way opened again. The
Mistress of the Seas
slid out of the chasm and into a wide, open-air lagoon, the size of a small lake.

Monk crossed back to the rail and gaped around.
I’ll be damned. No wonder they call this place a navel
.

The island was really an old volcanic cone with a large lagoon at the center. Jagged walls circled all around and made up the crown of the island. Inside, the cliffs were less steep, lush with jungles, threaded with silver waterfalls, and lined by sandy beaches. The far side of the wide lagoon was littered with palm-thatched buildings and clapboard homes. Scores of wooden docks and stone jetties prickled from the small town. Several boats were pulled up on shore for repair; others were rusted down to ribbings.

Home sweet home for the pirates.

More boats sped out to meet the arriving cruise ship.

Monk expected they weren’t coming to sell trinkets.

He searched upward, noting how the character of the light had grown shadowy when they had pushed into the lagoon. As if the storm clouds had blown over suddenly.

But it wasn’t clouds that shaded the lagoon.

Someone’s been busy,
Monk thought as he craned upward.

Crisscrossed over the open cone of the volcano, a vast net had been strung. It looked fairly patchwork, built piecemeal, surely decades in its construction, possibly centuries. While the main sections were supported with steel cable and latticework, strung from one peak to the next, other areas were formed of rope and reef nets, and even older sections appeared to be merely twined grass and thatch. The entire construct spanned the lagoon like a meshed roof, an engineering marvel, artfully camouflaged with leaf, vine, and branch. From above, the lagoon would be invisible. From the air, the island would appear to be just a continuous jungle.

And now the vast net had captured the
Mistress of the Seas
and hid it forever from prying eyes.

Not good.

The engines cut and the ship slowed to a drift. Monk heard the chug and gentle vibration as the ship’s anchors were dropped.

A commotion toward the bow drew his attention forward.

Monk headed over to investigate. Other pirates were less stealthy and ran past him, assault rifles held in the air, cheering.

“That can’t be good,” Monk muttered.

Keeping back, Monk discovered a large crowd of the pirates gathered on the forward deck, massed around the pool and hot tub. Bahamian music blasted, courtesy of Bob Marley and his Rastafarian riffs. Many had bottles of beer, whiskey, and vodka, reflective of the mix of mercenary and local pirate. It seemed a welcome-home party was under way.

Along with games.

The pirates’ attention focused toward the starboard side of the ship. Assault rifles were shaken in upraised fists; encouraging shouts rang out. Someone had unscrewed the diving board and had it protruding out from the rail, over the water. A man was dragged forward, his arms tied behind his back. He had been beaten, bloody-nosed, split lip.

Shoved around, Monk caught a glimpse of his face over the crowd.

Oh, no
…

Jessie babbled desperately in Malay—but his words fell on deaf ears. He was forced at gunpoint over the rail and onto the diving board. It seemed these were fundamentalist pirates, sticking with tradition.

Jessie teetered on the plank, poked and prodded to the end.

Monk made a step in his direction.

But a mass of pirates stood between him and the young nurse. And what could he do? Plainly Monk could not shoot his way through the throng of pirates here. It would just get them both killed.

Still, Monk’s hand drifted to his rifle.

He should never have involved the kid. He’d come to lean too heavily on him, pushed him too far. Jessie had left an hour ago, searching for any local maps of the region. Someone must have a map or could sketch one. The pirates had to be getting their supplies from somewhere nearby. Monk had urged caution, but Jessie had scampered away, eyes bright.

And look what it bought him.

With a final wail, Jessie fell from the plank’s end and tumbled into the water, striking it hard. Monk rushed to the rail, along with most of the pirates, standing shoulder to shoulder as they catcalled, cheered, and cursed. Bets were placed.

Monk let out a held breath when Jessie resurfaced, kicking hard, on his back, gasping. A pair of pirates near the bow leveled rifles at the struggling victim.

Oh God…

Shots cracked crisp, especially loud under the muffle of the netting.

Spats of splashes marked the impact.

At Jessie’s heels.

More laughter.

The kid kicked harder and writhed, swimming away from the boat.

He would never make it to shore.

One of the blue speedboats aimed straight toward his floundering shape, meaning to run him over. But at the last moment, it dodged away, swamping Jessie with its wake.

He sputtered up, looking more angry than frightened.

On his back, he scissor-kicked and used his bound arms as some sort of rudder. The guy was strong and wiry.

But the speedboat was faster.

It swung around again, sweeping back for another pass.

A laughing gunman in the back of the boat braced himself and aimed his assault rifle. He strafed the water as the boat passed between the cruise ship and the boy.

Monk cringed, knowing Jessie could not have survived this time.

The speedboat buzzed past.

And there Jessie was, coughing and sputtering. He paddled and kicked. A small cheer arose from the pirates.

Monk’s hands clenched on the rail, hard enough to rip it away. Goddamn assholes were toying with Jessie, stretching out the torture.

Although he was unable to act, refusing to turn away, Monk’s fingers tightened into a knot. His face, heated to a red-hot fire, must be glowing through the nut-brown makeup.

All my fault…

Jessie fought toward shore, on his side now, searching for how far he had to swim to reach the beach. The speedboat circled back. Laughter echoed over the water.

Jessie kicked faster. Suddenly he popped up, finding sand under his toes. He ran, fell, shoved, and dove toward shore. Then his legs were high-stepping through the lapping water. He pounded across the beach toward the dense jungle.

Go, Jessie…

The speedboat raced by. Shots were fired. Sand exploded, leaves shredded. Then Jessie dashed the last steps and vanished headlong into the forest, arms still tied behind his back.

More cheers, some disappointed groans.

Money changed hands.

But most were still chuckling, as if at some private joke.

Monk nudged his neighbor.
“Apa?”
he asked.

As the band of pirates here was a mix of locals and foreign mercenaries, Monk had learned that pigeon Malay passed okay. Not everyone was as fluent as the native pirates.

The gentleman at his side was missing several teeth, but was happy to show how many he had left by grinning broadly. He pointed toward shore, but he aimed higher up. A few wisps of smoke could be seen near the ridgeline. Some camp was up there.

“Pemakan daging manusia,”
the pirate explained.

Same to you, bud.

The pirate must have noted his confusion and only smiled wider, showing his decaying wisdom teeth. He tried again.
“Kanibals.”

Monk’s eyes widened. That was one Malay word Monk could translate himself. He stared back toward the empty beach, then up toward the trails of smoke. It seemed the pirates shared the island with a local tribe of cannibals. And like any good guests returning home, the pirates had thrown their caretakers a bone.

Literally.

The pirate at his side continued to babble and pointed toward the water. Monk only caught a few phrases, a word here and there.

“…lucky…at night…bad…” The man pantomimed with his hand, a claw rising up and grabbing something and dragging it down.
“Iblis.”

The last was a Malay curse word.

Monk had heard it enough times, but he was fairly certain the man was using its direct translation.

Demon.

“Raksasa iblis,”
he repeated, and babbled a bit more, ending in a whispered name, drying his grin into more of an ache. “Rangda.”

Monk frowned and straightened, leaning over a bit to stare at the water.

He remembered Jessie’s old wives’ tale. Rangda was the name of the Balinese witch queen, whose demons were supposed to haunt these waters.

“At night…” the man mumbled in Malay, and pointed to the water.
“Amat, amat buruk.”
Very, very bad.

Monk sighed. Just great. He stared with concern toward the forest, toward where Jessie had vanished.

Demons and cannibals.

What’s next? Club Med?

J
ULY
6, 9:32
A.M.

Istanbul

W
ITH THE SUN
blazing across the rooftop restaurant, Gray listened to the threat. It sapped all warmth out of the morning.

“If you don’t follow my directions precisely, I’ll kill your parents.”

Gray strangled Vigor’s cell phone within his grip. “If anything happens to them…”

“Something will. I promise that. I’ll send you pieces. In the mail. Over months.”

Gray heard the simple certainty in the man’s words. He turned his back on the others, needing to concentrate, to think.

“If you attempt to contact Sigma,” Nasser continued in a dispassionate voice, “I will know. You will be punished. With the blood of your mother.”

Gray’s throat had tightened to a strangled knot. “You bastard…I want to know they’re alive…unharmed.”

Nasser didn’t even respond. Gray heard a shuffle of the phone, muffled voices, then his mother came on the line. “Gray?” she gasped out. “I’m sorry. Your father. I needed his pills.” Her words ended in a sob.

Gray’s whole body trembled, teetering between fury and grief. “Doesn’t matter. Are you okay? Is Dad?”

“We’re…yes…Gray—”

The phone was snatched from her, and Nasser came back on the line. “I will be leaving them in the care of my colleague Annishen. I believe you met her at the safe house in D.C.”

Gray pictured the Eurasian woman with the dyed crew cut and tattoos.

Asian Anni.

Nasser continued, “I will be joining you in Turkey. At nineteen hundred hours. You will not move from where you are.”

Gray checked his watch. A little over nine hours.

“I have men closing on your position in the Sultanahmet as we speak. Do not try to be clever. We’ve been tracking Monsignor Verona’s phone since he left Italy.”

Vigor’s sudden departure from the Vatican must have triggered a red flag. Gray wanted to be angry at the monsignor for being so careless, but he knew Vigor did not operate at the same level of paranoia as he did. Few people did. And at the moment, Gray had no room for recriminations, too consumed by his own guilt.

He had left his parents alone.

“I would like to speak with Seichan now,” Nasser said.

Gray waved Seichan over. She went to take the phone, but Gray kept hold of it. He motioned for her to come close so he could listen in on their conversation.

With heads together, ear to ear, Seichan spoke into the phone. “Amen,” she said, using Nasser’s first name, “what do you want?”

“You bitch…for this betrayal, I’ll make you suffer in ways—”

“Yes, and you’ll beat my dog and kick my cat. I get it, sweetheart.” Seichan sighed, her breath tickling Gray’s neck. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to say our good-byes here. I’ll be long gone by the time you arrive.”

Gray tensed and turned slightly to glance at her. She held up a silencing palm and shook her head. She wasn’t going anywhere.

“My men already have you surrounded,” Nasser warned. “You try to leave, and they’ll put a bullet between your cold eyes.”

“Whatever. As soon as this little conversation is over, I’m heading out of this damn
church
.” Seichan glanced significantly at Gray and pointed over the rooftop wall toward Hagia Sophia.

She continued on the phone, “We weren’t making any progress here at Hagia Sophia anyway. Too many damned murals. It’s all yours, baby. You’ll never see me again.”

Gray frowned. She was plainly lying. But why?

Nasser paused, then spoke, fury thawing his icy manner. “You’ll not make it ten steps! I’ve got all the exits to Hagia Sophia covered.”

Seichan rolled her eyes at Gray, indicating her ploy.

“I’m sure you do, Amen,” Seichan finished. “Ciao, baby. Kiss, kiss.”

Seichan stepped back from the phone and held a finger toward Gray, warning him to be careful.

Gray played along. “What did you just tell her?” he snapped into the phone. “Seichan just grabbed her gun and took off out of the church. What the hell are you and that bitch up to?”

Seichan nodded with a tight smile.

Listening to Nasser swear sharply, Gray calculated in his head, struggling to catch up with Seichan’s subterfuge, pushing back his guilt and anger. It would not serve him, or his parents.

He met Seichan’s eyes. The Guild might have traced Vigor’s call, but their triangulation was not perfect. That’s what Seichan had tested with her claim of being at Hagia Sophia. The Guild knew they were somewhere in the old district in Istanbul, but not exactly where.

At least not yet.

Gray stared across a neighboring park toward the massive hulk of Hagia Sophia, with its giant flat dome, surrounded by four spiked minarets.

“What are you doing at Hagia Sophia?” Nasser asked.

Gray judged how much to say. He had to be convincing, and the best way to do that was with a bit of the truth. “We’re looking for Marco Polo’s key. Monsignor Verona decoded the script at the Vatican. It led here.”

“So Seichan told you what we’re seeking.” Another curse. “For letting her escape, I’ll have to teach you how serious we are.”

Gray read the intent to harm his parents.

“Seichan is no longer important,” Gray cut in sharply, protecting his parents the only way he could. “I have what you’re seeking. The angelic code off the Egyptian obelisk. I still have a copy.”

Nasser remained silent. Gray pictured him closing his eyes with relief. Nasser needed the angelic script, more than he needed to punish Seichan.

“Very good, Commander Pierce.” The strain from a moment ago died out of his voice. “Continue cooperating in such a manner and your mother and father will live out the rest of their lives in peace and grace.”

Gray knew that such a promise was as thin as the air he breathed.

“I’ll meet you inside Hagia Sophia at nineteen hundred hours,” Nasser said. “Search the church for Polo’s key if you like. But I have snipers at all the exits.”

Gray forced down a sneer.

“And, Commander Pierce, if you think to set up any trap, I’ll be checking back with Annishen every hour. If I’m late by a minute, she’ll start with your mother’s toes.”

The line clicked off.

Gray snapped Vigor’s phone closed. “We have to get to Hagia Sophia. Before the Guild’s men triangulate our true location.”

They began quickly gathering up their material.

He turned to Seichan. “That was risky.”

Seichan shrugged. “Gray, if you ever hope to survive this, certainly don’t underestimate the Guild. They are powerful, with many allies. Yet, at the same time, don’t
over
estimate them. The Guild will prey upon your fears of their omnipotence. To use that fear to weaken your morale. Just stay focused. Be cautious, but use your head.”

“And if you’d been wrong?” Gray asked with a bite of anger.

Seichan tilted her head. “I wasn’t.”

Gray breathed heavily through his nose, trying to shed his anger. His mother and father would have suffered if she’d been wrong.

“Besides,” Seichan said, “I needed a solid excuse not to be here when Nasser arrives. He’ll keep you and Monsignor Verona alive. You’re both useful. And with your mother and father as collateral, Nasser will believe he can ride you like a well-broken horse. But Nasser would shoot me on sight. That is, if I was lucky. So I needed an exit strategy that saved my life, yet still allowed me the freedom to maneuver on my own. If I’m going to have any chance of helping you.”

Gray finally got hold of his anger. Seichan’s parents weren’t the ones in danger. It was easier for her to be cavalier and take risks. She had made a cold decision, acted swiftly, and the results would serve them all.

Still…

Seichan turned away and pointed. “And I’m going to need that guy.”

“Who? Me?” Kowalski asked.

“Like I said, Nasser will shoot me on sight. Probably Kowalski, too.”

“Why me?” The large man’s face wilted. “What the hell did I ever do to him?”

“You’re useless.”

“Hey!”

Seichan ignored his outburst. “Nasser needs no other hostages, not with Mr. and Mrs. Pierce in hand. He’ll see no value in keeping you around.”

Gray held up a hand. “But what if Nasser already knows Kowalski is here with us?”

Seichan just stared at him, exasperated.

He slowly understood.

Don’t overestimate the Guild
.

Frowning, Gray struggled to rid himself of his view that the Guild was omnipotent. It threatened to cripple him from acting. Steadying himself, considering all the angles, he realized she was right.

He turned to Kowalski. “You’ll go with Seichan.”

“And I’ll put him to good use,” Seichan said, swatting the former seaman on the rear.

“At least someone thinks I’m useful,” Kowalski grumbled, rubbing his backside.

With all their gear gathered up, they headed down. Seichan and Gray went last. Gray grabbed her arm as she tried to pass.

“What are you going to do?” he asked once they were alone on the rooftop. “To help us?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.”

She held his gaze a moment too long, then tried to turn away. She plainly wanted to tell him something more, but she hadn’t quite gotten the nerve yet. It was evident in the tightness of her breathing, the slight waver to her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked softly, concerned.

His tenderness only seemed to make her want to pull away more. But she sighed. “Gray…I’m sorry…” she started, looking away again. “Your parents…”

There was more than worry in her eyes and manner. There was also a measure of guilt. Why? Guilt implied responsibility. But Seichan’s involvement of Gray’s parents had been accidental. Gray had come to accept that. So where was this sudden guilt coming from?

His mind ran through various possibilities, reviewing the recent conversations. With Nasser, with Seichan. What was bothering her—

—then suddenly he knew.

Seichan had practically told him a moment before.

Don’t overestimate the Guild
.

His grip tightened on her arm. He thrust Seichan against the wall beside the doorway. He leaned close, their lips almost touching.

“Oh my God…there is
no
goddamn mole at Sigma. There never was.”

Seichan stammered to explain.

Gray would not let her. “Nasser warned me against calling Sigma, even threatening me. Why? He knew I was aware of a Guild mole in Sigma. So why even bother threatening?” He shook her.
“Unless there was no mole.”

She flinched, struggled for a moment to knock his arm away, but he clenched tighter, bruising to the bone.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asked sharply.

She finally found her voice—and it was angry, unapologetic, defensive. “I was going to tell you. After this was all over.” She sighed in irritation. “But with your parents captured, I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer…not if there is to be any hope of freeing them. I’m not that callous, Gray.”

Seichan tried to turn away, but Gray shifted to keep his eyes locked on her.

“Then if there was no mole,” he asked, “how did Nasser know about the safe house? The ambush he set up?”

“A miscalculation on my part.” Her eyes grew flinty. “And that’s all I’ll say. You’ll have to trust me that I acted in good faith.”

“Trust you,” he scoffed.

His reaction seemed to wound her, the barest lowering of her chin.

Gray did not let up. “If I had Sigma’s support from the start—”

Her face hardened. “You’d have been bogged down, Gray. And I’d be locked in some prison. Useless. I needed both of us out and away as cleanly and as quickly as possible. So I let you believe what you thought.”

Gray searched for some micro-expression, a fleeting glimpse of a contrary emotion indicative of a lie. There was none. She maintained her fixed gaze, clear-eyed, challenging. She did not even bother to hide that there was more left unsaid.

Gray scowled at her, cursing himself for not being more careful with her. “I should just let Nasser shoot you.”

“Then who is going to watch your back, Gray? Who do you have out here? Kowalski? You’re better off alone. You’ve got me. That’s goddamn it. So let’s get past this. We can continue arguing, waste what little time you have left to call Sigma, or we can sort this all out later.”

She nodded to the door. “There’s a phone in the hotel lobby. It’s another of the reasons I wanted Nasser to think we were somewhere else. By now, he probably has a trace on all public phones in Hagia Sophia. The one in the lobby should be safe. Or at least safe enough. And you’ll have to be short. We’re already running out of time.”

Gray let her go, thrusting her away.

Again a wounded expression flashed across her face.

Let her be wounded
.

If he had known there was no mole, he could’ve contacted Painter from the start. At least arranged for his mother and father to be secure.

She must have read the source of his anger. She wiped her face, her voice softening, sounding bone-tired. “I thought they would be safe, too, Gray. I truly did.”

Gray wanted to snap back at her, but no words came out. Both because he was angry, but more importantly because he could not unload all his guilt on Seichan.

There was no denying the simple truth.

He had left his parents alone.

Not anyone else.

3:04
A.M.

Washington, D.C.

“D
IRECTOR
C
ROWE
, I have a secure call coming in from Istanbul.”

Painter glanced up from the bank of satellite feeds and over to the communications chief. Who was calling from Istanbul?

For the past hour Painter had been arguing with the powers that be at the National Reconnaissance Office and the National Security Agency, attempting to gain full access to ECHELON, their satellite surveillance system, to prioritize a search around Christmas Island. But such remote territory, sparsely populated, was designated low risk and not under constant surveillance. Going outside the box, Painter had finally convinced the Australian Joint Defence Facility at Pine Gap to task one of their satellites to the area. But it would still take another fourteen minutes.