Текст книги "The Judas Strain"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Why wasn’t I told about this?” Gray asked, surprised.

Vigor sighed. “We supposed it was local thieves…or possibly some corruption among the Italian police. There had been many priceless antiquities in the traitor’s library. And because of Alberto’s interest, there were many books of arcane knowledge.”

As much as Vigor despised the former prefect, he also recognized Alberto Menardi’s brilliance, a genius in his own right. And as prefect of the archives for over thirty years, Alberto knew all its secrets. He would have treasured and been intrigued by such a discovery, an edition of Marco’s The Description of the Worldwith a hidden extra chapter.

But what had the old prefect read? What made him steal it away? What had piqued the interest and attention of the Guild?

Vigor stared at Seichan. “But it wasn’t ordinary thieves who cleared out the library, was it? Youtold the Guild about the treasures to be found there.”

Seichan did not even have the temerity to flinch at his accusation. “I had no choice. Two years ago, the library bought me my life after I helped the two of you. I had no idea what horror it hid.”

Gray had remained silent during their exchange, watching, eyes narrowed. Vigor could almost see the gears turning, tumblers falling into new slots. Like Alberto, Gray had a unique mind, a way of juggling disparate fragments and discovering a new configuration. It was no wonder Seichan had sought him out.

Gray nodded to her. “You read this text, Seichan. The true account of the return voyage of Marco Polo.”

As answer, she shoved her chair back, leaned down, and unzippered her left boot. She removed a sheaf of three papers, folded and tucked into a hidden inner pocket. Straightening, she smoothed the papers open and slid them across the table.

“Once I began to suspect what the Guild intended,” she said, “I made a copy of the translated chapter for myself.”

Vigor and Gray shifted closer, shoulder to shoulder, to peruse the sheets together. The large seaman leaned over, too, his breath spiced with anise from the raki.

Vigor scanned the title and the first few lines.

CHAPTER LXII.

Of a Journey untold; and a Map forbidden

Now it came to pass, a full month beyond the last port, we sought to restore our waters from a fresh river and repair two ships. We ported in small boats, at which time the abundant bird and thickness of vine astounded. Salted meat and fruit were also depleted. We came with forty and two of the Great Kaan’s men, armed with spear and arrow; and as nearby islands were populated by naked Idolaters who ate the flesh of other men, such protection of body was considered wise.

Vigor continued reading, recognizing the cadence and stiffly archaic prose from The Description of the World. Could these words truly be Marco Polo’s? If so, here was a chapter only a few eyes had ever laid eyes upon. Vigor craved to read the original, not fully trusting the translation – but more importantly, he wanted to peruse the original dialect, to be that much closer to the famous medieval traveler.

He read on:

From a bend in the river, one of Kaan’s men shouted and pointed to a steep rise of another peak from out of the valley floor. It lay a score of miles inland and deep within the thickness of the forest; but it was no mountain. It was the spire of a great building; and other towers were now spotted, half hid in mists. With ten days to idol in repairs and as the Kaan’s men wished to hunt the many birds and beasts for fresh meat, we set off to seek these builders of mountains, a people unknown and unmapped.

After the first page Vigor sensed a palpable menace growing behind Marco’s simple narrative. In plain words, he related how “the forest grew quiet of bird and beast.” Marco and the hunters continued, following a trail far into the jungle, “trampled by these mountain builders.”

At long last, as twilight neared, Marco’s party came upon a stone city.

The forest opened upon a great city of many spires, each covered with the carved faces of Idols. What devilish sorcery were employed by such a people, I would never discover; but God in His merciful vengeance had smote this city and the forest proper with a great blight and pestilence. The first body was a naked child. Her flesh was boiled to bone and covered with large black ants. Everywhere one turned, the eye came upon another and another. A count of several hundred would not match the slaughter here; and the death was not constrained to the sin of man. Birds had fallen from the sky. Beasts of the forest lay in twisted piles. Great snakes hung dead from branches of trees.

It was a City of the Dead. Fearing pestilence, we sought to leave with much haste. But our passage was not unwatched. From the deeper forest, they came: their naked flesh was no more hale than those strewn across the stone steps and plazas, or floating in the green moats. Limbs were rotted to expose the flesh beneath. Others bore bubbling welts and boils that covered most their skin; and still more carried bellies heavy with bloat. All around, wounds wept and steamed. Some came blind; and others scrabbled. It was as if a thousand plagues had blighted this land; a legion of pestilence.

From out the leafy bower, they swarmed with teeth bared like wild animals. Others carried severed arms and legs. God protect me even now, many of those limbs were gnawed.

A chill washed over Vigor, despite the growing heat of the morning. He read with numbing horror as Marco described how his party fled deeper into the city to seek refuge from the ravening army. The Venetian described in great detail the slaughter and cannibalism. As twilight fell, Marco’s party retreated to one of the tall buildings, carved with twisting snakes and long-dead kings. The group set up a final stand, sure their small party would be overwhelmed as more and more of the diseased cannibals entered the city.

Gray mumbled under his breath, no words audible, but his disbelief was plain.

Now as the sun sank, so did all our hopes. Each in his own way cast prayers to the heavens. Kaan’s men burned bits of wood and smeared the ashes on their faces. I had only my confessor. Friar Agreer knelt with me and offered our souls to God through whispered prayers. He clutched his crucifix and daubed my forehead with Christ’s suffering cross. He used the same ashes as the Kaan’s men. I looked upon the other men’s marked faces and wondered: in such trial, were we all the same? Pagan and Christian. And in the end, whose prayer was it that was finally answered? Whose prayer brought the Virtue against this pestilence into our midst; a dark Virtue that saved us all.

The story stopped there.

Gray flipped the paper over, looking for more.

Kowalski leaned back and made his only contribution to the historical discussion. “Not enough sex,” he mumbled, and attempted to hold back a burp with a fist and failed.

Frowning, Gray tapped a name on the last page. “Here…this mention of Friar Agreer.”

Vigor nodded, having spotted the same glaring error. Surely this text was false. “No clergymen accompanied the Polos to the Orient,” he stated aloud. “According to Vatican texts, two Dominican friars left with the Polos, to represent the Holy See, but the pair turned back after the first few days.”

Seichan collected the first page and refolded it. “Like this secret chapter, Marco edited the friar out of his chronicles. ThreeDominicans actually left with the Polos. One for each traveler, as was custom for the time.”

Vigor realized she was right. It was indeed the custom.

“Only twoof the friars fled back,” Seichan said. “The presence of the third was kept hidden…until now.”

Gray shifted back and tugged at his neck. He pulled free a silver crucifix and placed it on the table. “And you claim this is actually Friar Agreer’s cross? The one mentioned in the story.”

Seichan’s firm stare answered his question.

Shocked into silence at the sudden revelation, Vigor studied the crucifix. It was unadorned, with the barest representation of a crucified figure. Vigor could tell it was old. Could it be true? He gently collected it from the table and examined it. If true, its very weight gave substance to Marco’s harrowing words.

Vigor finally found his voice. “But I don’t understand. Why was Friar Agreer cut out of the story?”

Seichan reached over and collected the scattered papers. “We don’t know,” she said simply. “The remaining pages of the book were ripped out and replaced with a false page, stitched into the binding, but the quality and age of the new page dated it centuries later than the original binding.”

Vigor frowned at such strangeness. “What was on the new page?”

“I was never able to see it myself, but I was told what it said. It contained a rambling rave, full of references to angels and biblical quotations. The writer clearly feared Marco’s story. But more importantly, the page spoke at length of a map included in the book, one drawn by Marco himself. A map they deemed to be evil.”

“So what happened to it?”

“Though they feared it, whoever edited the book also worried about destroying the map completely. So the writer, along with a handful of others, rewrote the map in a code that would protect and bless it.”

Gray nodded his understanding. “So they buried it in angelic script.”

“But who inserted the page?” Vigor asked.

Seichan shrugged. “It was unsigned, but there were enough references on the page to suggest that the Polos’ descendants had handed Marco’s secret book over to the papacy following the ravage of the Black Plague in the fourteenth century. Maybe the family feared the plague was the same pestilence that struck the City of the Dead, come at last to destroy the rest of the world. It was then the book was added to the archives.”

“Interesting,” Vigor said. “If you’re right, it might explain why all trace of the Polo family vanished about then. Even Marco Polo’s body vanished out of the Church of San Lorenzo, where he’d been buried. It was as if there was a systemic attempt to erase the Polo family. Did anyone ever date that rambling new page?”

Seichan nodded. “It was dated to the early sixteen-hundreds.”

Vigor squinted his eyes. “Hmm…another great outbreak of bubonic plague swept Italy at about that time.”

“Exactly,” Seichan said. “And it was also at that time that a German named Johannes Trithemius first developed the angelic script. Despite his claim that it was a script from before man walked the earth.”

Vigor nodded. He had performed his own historical study of angelic script. Its creator believed that by using his angelic alphabet – supposedly gained from deep meditative study – one could communicate with the heavenly choir of angels. Trithemius also dabbled in cryptography and secret codes. His famous treatise, Stenographia,was considered to be of occult nature, but it was actually a complex mix of angelology and code breaking.

“So if you wanted to hide a map during that time,” Gray concluded, “one you deemed evil,then locking it up inside angelic script might seem a good way to ward against its dangers.”

“That is exactly what the Guild came to believe. There were clues in that secret page as to the location of this coded map, a map now carved onto an Egyptian obelisk and hidden in the Gregorian Museum of the Vatican. But the obelisk had vanished, lost in time, shifted around. Nasser and I played a cat-and-mouse game searching for it. But I won. I stole it from under Nasser’s nose.”

Vigor heard the bitter pride in her voice, but he frowned and searched the others’ faces. “What obelisk are you all talking about?”

7:42 A.M.

In sketchy highlights, Gray explained about the Egyptian obelisk that was used to hide the friar’s cross and described the code painted in phosphorescent oils.

“Here is the actual text.” Gray handed over his copy.

Vigor studied the complex jumble of angelic code and shook his head. “It makes no sense to me.”

“Precisely,” Seichan said. “The rambling letter in Marco’s text also references a keyto the map. A way to unlock its secret. A key hidden in three parts. The first key was tied to the inscription in the room where the secret text was originally hidden.”

“In the Tower of Winds,” Vigor said. “A good hiding place. The tower was under construction during that century. Built to house the Vatican Observatory.”

“And according to the false page in Marco’s book,” Seichan continued, “each key would lead to the next. So to begin, we need to solve that first riddle. The angelic inscription in the Vatican.” She turned fully to Vigor. “You claimed you’d succeeded. Is that true?”

Vigor opened his mouth to explain, but Gray placed a hand on his arm. He wasn’t about to give Seichan all of their cards. He needed to hold at least one ace in the hole.

“Before that,” Gray said, “you’ve still not said why the Guild is involved in all this. What gain is there in pursuing this historical trail from Marco Polo to the present?”

Seichan hesitated. She took a deep breath – whether to lie or steel herself for telling the truth, he wasn’t sure. When she spoke, she confirmed Gray’s own growing fears.

“Because we believe Marco’s disease is loose again,” she said. “Freed from some ancient timbers of Marco’s original galleys found among the Indonesian islands. The Guild is already on-site, ready to follow the scientific trail. Nasser and I were assigned to follow the historical trail. As was custom for the Guild, the right arm was not supposed to know what the left one was doing.”

Gray understood the cell-like compartmentalization of the Guild, a pattern taken to heart by many terrorist organizations.

“But I stole some information,” she said. “I learned the nature of the disease, and its ability to alter the biosphere forever.”

Seichan continued with the Guild’s discovery of a virus – something called the Judas Strain – and its capability of turning all bacteria into killers.

She quoted from Marco’s text. “‘A legion of pestilence.’ That is what struck Indonesia. But I know the Guild. I know what they plan to do. By harvesting and harnessing this pathogen, they hope to create a slew of new bacterial bioweapons, an inexhaustible source born of this virus.”

As Seichan related details about the disease, Gray had gripped the edge of the table. His knuckles ached. A greater terror had taken hold of him.

Before he could speak, Vigor cleared his throat. “But if the scientific arm of the Guild is pursuing this virus, what is so important about this historical hunt along Marco Polo’s trail? What does it matter?”

Gray answered, quoting the last line of Marco’s text. “‘A dark Virtue that saved us all.’ That sounds like a cure to me.”

Seichan nodded. “Marco survived to tell his story. Even the Guild wouldn’t dare unleash such a virus without some means of controlling it.”

“Or at least to discover its source,” Gray added.

Vigor stared out toward the city, his face limned against the rising sun. “And there are other unanswered questions. What became of Father Agreer? What scared the papacy?”

But Gray had a more important question of his own. “Exactly where in Indonesia did this new outbreak happen?”

“At a remote island, luckily far from any large population.”

“Christmas Island,” Gray filled in.

Seichan’s eyes widened in surprise.

Confirmation enough.

Gray shoved up. Everyone stared at him. Monk and Lisa had gone out to Christmas Island to investigate the same disease. They had no idea what they were about to confront – or of the Guild’s interest. Gray’s breathing grew heavier. He had to get word to Painter. But with Sigma compromised, would his alarm put his friends in more danger, paint a bull’s-eye on them?

He needed more information. “How far along is this Guild operation in Indonesia?”

“I don’t know. It was difficult learning what I did.”

“Seichan,” Gray growled at her.

Her eyes narrowed with concern. In his agitation, he almost believed it was genuine. “I…I truly don’t know, Gray. Why? What’s wrong?”

With a hard exhalation, Gray crossed to the railing, needing an extra second to think, to let everything he’d learned settle through him.

For the moment, he knew only one thing for certain.

He needed to get word to Washington.

1:04 A.M.

Washington, D.C.

Harriet Pierce struggled to calm her husband. It was especially difficult as he’d locked himself in the hotel bathroom. She pressed a cold damp rag to her split lip.

“Jack! Open the door!”

He had woken two hours ago, confused and disoriented. She had seen it before. Sundowner’s syndrome. Common with Alzheimer’s patients. A condition of heightened agitation after sunset, when the familiar surroundings become confusing in the dark.

And it was worse here. Away from home.

It didn’t help that the Phoenix Park Hotel was their second accommodation in less than twenty-four hours. First, Dr. Corrin’s apartment, and now here. But Gray had been firm when he whispered his good-byes and added a private instruction to her. Once Dr. Corrin left them at the apartment, she had been told to leave, cross the city, and check into another hotel, paying cash, using a false name.

An extra precaution.

But all the moving had only worsened Jack’s status. He had been off his Tegetrol mood stabilizer for a full day. And he had finished the last of his Propranolol, a blood pressure medication that reduced anxiety.

So it was no surprise that Jack had woken earlier in a panic, disoriented. The worst she had seen in months.

His shouts and heavy-footed blundering had woken her. She had inadvertently fallen asleep, seated in a chair in front of the hotel room’s small television. The channel had been tuned to Fox News. She had the volume on low, just loud enough to hear if Gray’s name was mentioned again.

Startled awake by her husband’s shout, she had hurried to the bedroom. A foolish mistake. One didn’t surprise a patient in his state. Jack had slapped her away, striking her in the mouth. With his blood up, it took him a full half minute to recognize her.

When he finally did, he had retreated to the bathroom. She’d heard his sobbing. It was the reason he had locked the door.

Pierce men didn’t cry.

“Jack, open the door. It’s okay. I’ve called a prescription into the pharmacy down the street. It’s all right.”

Harriet knew it was a risk, calling in the prescription. But she couldn’t take Jack to a hospital, and if untreated, his dementia would only grow worse. And his shouting threatened to draw the wrath of the hotel’s management. What if they called the police?

With no choice, her teeth aching from the blow, she had made a decision. Using the phone book, she had called a twenty-four-hour pharmacy that delivered and ordered a refill. Once the medication arrived and her husband was treated, she would check out, move to a new hotel, and disappear again.

The doorbell chimed behind her.

Oh, thank God.

“Jack, that’s the pharmacy. I’ll be right back.”

She rushed out of the bedroom and across to the front door. Reaching for the dead bolt, she paused. She leaned forward instead and peeked through the door’s peephole. It offered a fish-eye view of the hallway. A lone woman, black hair cut into a bob, stood outside the door. She wore a white jacket with the pharmacy logo on the lapel and carried a white paper bag, stapled with a clutch of receipt.

The woman reached out of view. The bell chimed again. The woman checked her watch and began to step away.

Harriet called through the door. “Hold for a moment!”

“Swan Pharmacy,” the woman called back.

To be extra cautious, Harriet crossed to the telephone on an entryway table. She caught a look at herself in the wall mirror above it. She looked haggard, a melted wax candle of a woman. She tapped the button on the phone and rang the front desk in the lobby.

It was answered immediately.

“Phoenix Park. Front desk.”

“This is room 334. I wanted to confirm a pharmacy delivery.”

“Yes, ma’am. I checked her credentials three minutes ago. Is there a problem?”

“No. Not at all. I just wanted—”

A crash sounded from the bedroom behind her, followed by a spat of cursing. Jack had finally opened the bathroom door.

The receptionist spoke in her ear. “Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am.”

“No. Thank you.” She hung up the phone.

“Harriet!” her husband called, a note of distress behind the anger.

“I’m here, Jack.”

The doorbell chimed again.

Frazzled, Harriet undid the door’s dead bolt, hoping Jack would not fuss about taking his pills. She pulled open the door.

The delivery woman lifted her face, smiling – but there was no warmth, only a feral amusement. A shock of recognition froze Harriet. It was the woman who had attacked them at the safe house. Before Harriet could move, the woman kicked the door the rest of the way open.

Startled, the edge struck Harriet in the shoulder and knocked her into a stumbling fall onto the hard tile. She tried to absorb the impact with an outstretched arm – but her wrist exploded under her with a sharp snap. Fiery pain shot up her arm.

Gasping out, half on her hip, she rolled away.

Jack stalked out of the bedroom, only in his boxers.

“Harriet…?”

Still addled, Jack took too long to register the situation.

The woman stepped over the threshold and raised a thick-barreled pistol. She pointed the weapon at Jack. “Here’s your medication.”

“No,” Harriet moaned.

The woman pulled the trigger. A snapping popof electricity exploded from the barrel. Something spat past Harriet’s ear, trailing wire. It struck Jack in the bare chest, sparking and crackling blue in the dim light.

Taser.

He gagged, arms flying out – and crashed backward.

He didn’t move.

In the stunned silence a Fox News announcer whispered from the half-muted television: “Metro police are still continuing a manhunt for Grayson Pierce, wanted in connection to the arson and bombing of a local D.C. home.”

8:32 A.M.

Istanbul

Alone at the roof rail Gray struggled to think of some secure channel to communicate to Washington. About the dangers at Christmas Island. He would have to be circumspect, some private communication that would not spread beyond Painter. But how? Who was to say that the Guild was not monitoring all manner of communication?

Seichan spoke behind him, back at the table. Her words were not directed at Gray. “Monsignor, you still have not explained why you called us to Istanbul. You claimed to have understood the angelic inscription.”

Curiosity drew Gray back to the table, but he could not sit. He stood between Seichan and Vigor.

The monsignor swung up his backpack and settled it in his lap. He fished through it and pulled out a notebook, flipping it open on the table. Across the page was a charcoal-etched line of angelic letters.

“Here is the inscription on the floor of the Tower of Wind,” Vigor said. “Each letter of this alphabet corresponds to a specific tonal word. And according to the father of angelic script, Trithemius, when combined in the right sequence, such groupings could open a direct line to a specific angel.”

“Like long-distance dialing,” Kowalski muttered from the other side of the table.

With a nod, Vigor flipped the sheet to the next page. “I went ahead and marked the name for each letter.”

Gray shook his head, not seeing any pattern.

Vigor slipped out a pen and drew a line under the first letter of each name, reciting as he did so. “A. I. G. A. H.”

“Is that some angel’s name?” Kowalski asked.

“No, not an angel, but it is a name,” Vigor said. “What you have to understand is that Trithemius based his alphabet on Hebrew, claiming power in the Jewish letters. Even today, practitioners of Kabbalah believe that there is some form of divine wisdom buried in the shapes and curves of the Hebrew alphabet. Trithemius just claimed his angelic script was the purestdistillation of Hebrew.”

Gray leaned closer, beginning to understand the direction of Vigor’s track. “And Hebrew is read opposite from English. From right to left.”

Seichan traced a finger across the paper and read backward. “H. A. G. I. A.”

“Hagia,”Vigor pronounced carefully. “The word means ‘divine’ in Greek.”

Gray’s eyes had narrowed – then widened with sudden understanding.

Of course.

“What?” Seichan asked.

Kowalski scratched the stubble on his head, equally clueless.

Vigor stood and drew them all up. He walked them to face the city. “On his journey home, Marco Polo crossed through Istanbul, named Constantinople at the time. Here is where he crossed from Asia and finally reentered Europe, a significant crossroads of sorts.”

The monsignor pointed out to the city, toward one of the ancient monuments. Gray had noted it before. A massive flat-domed church, half covered in black scaffolding as restoration work was under way.

“Hagia Sophia,” Gray said, naming the structure.

Vigor nodded. “It was once the largest Christian church in all the world. Marco himself commented on the wonders of its airy spaces. Some people mistake Hagia Sophia to mean ‘Saint Sophia,’ but in fact, the true name of the structure is the Church of Divine Wisdom, which can also be interpreted as the Church of AngelicWisdom.”

“Then that’s where we must go!” Seichan said. “The first key must be hidden there.” She swung away.

“Not so fast, young lady,” Vigor scolded.

The monsignor returned to his backpack, reached inside, and drew out a cloth-wrapped object. Gently resting it on the table, he peeled back the layers to reveal a flat bar of dull gold. It appeared very old. It bore a hole at one end, and its surface was covered in a cursive script.

“Not angelic,” Vigor said, noting Gray’s attention to the lettering. “It’s Mongolian. It reads, ‘By the strength of the eternal heaven, holy be the Khan’s name. Let he who pays him not reverence be killed.’”

“I don’t understand,” Gray said, crinkling his brow. “Did this belong to Marco Polo? What is it?”

“In Chinese, it is called a paitzu. In Mongolian, a gerege.”

Three blank faces stared back at Vigor.

Vigor nodded to the object. “In the modern vernacular, it’s a VIP passport. A traveler bearing this superpassport could demand horses, supplies, men, boats, anything from the lands governed by Kublia Khan. To refuse such aid was punishable by death. The Khan granted such passes to those ambassadors who traveled in his service.”

“Nice,” Kowalski whistled – but from the glint in the man’s eyes, Gray suspected it was the goldmore than the story that had won the man’s awe.

“And the Polos were given one of these passports?” Seichan asked.

“Three of them, in fact. One for each Polo. Marco, his father, and his uncle. In fact, there is an anecdote concerning these passports. A famous one. When the Polos arrived back in Venice, it was said no one recognized them. The trio came worn, tired, in a single ship. Looking little better than beggars. None would believe them to be the long-vanished Polos. Upon stepping to shore, the trio sliced open the seams of their clothes, and a vast wealth of emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and silver spilled out. Included in this treasure trove were the three golden paitzus,described in great detail. But after this story, the golden passports vanished away. All three of them.”

“The same number as the map’s keys,” Gray commented.

“Where did you find this?” Seichan asked. “In one of the Vatican museums?”

“No.” Vigor tapped the open notebook with the angelic script. “With the help of a friend, I discovered it under the marble tile upon which this inscription was written. In a secret hollow beneath the marble.”

Like the friar’s cross,Gray realized. Buried in stone.

Seichan swore slightly. Again the prize had been right under her nose all along.

Vigor continued, “I believe this is one of the very paitzusgranted to the Polos.” He faced them all. “And I believe this is the first key.”

“So the clue leading to Hagia Sophia…” Gray began.

“It’s pointing to the secondkey,” Vigor finished. “Two more missing passports, two more missing keys.”

“But how can you be so sure?” Seichan asked.

Vigor flipped the gold bar over. Inscribed in great detail, a single letter adorned the back side. An angelic letter.

Vigor tapped the letter. “Here is the first key.”

Gray knew he was right. He glanced up, toward the massive church. Hagia Sophia. The second key had to be hidden there, but it was a huge structure. It would be like finding a golden needle in a haystack. It could take days.

Vigor must have read his worry. “I already have someone scouting ahead at the church. An art historian from the Vatican who helped me back at the Tower of Wind with the angelic riddle.”

Gray nodded. As he studied the single letter, he could not shake a deeper worry. For his two friends. Monk and Lisa. Already in harm’s way. If he could not contact Washington safely, perhaps there was another way he could help his friends: by beating the Guild to whatever lay at the end of this mystery.

To find the City of the Dead, to discover the cure.

Before the Guild did.

As he stared toward the sunrise, Gray remembered Vigor’s words about Istanbul being the crossroad of Marco’s journey. In fact, since its founding, the ancient city had been the crossroads of the geographic world. To the north lay the Black Sea, to the south the Mediterranean. The Bosporus Strait, a major trade route and seaway, flowed between them. But more important to history, Istanbul straddled two continents. It had one foot in Europe, the other in Asia.

The same could be said about the city’s place in the gulf of time.

One foot in the present, one in the past.

Forever at a crossroads.

Not unlike himself.

As he pondered this, a cell phone chimed to the side. Vigor turned and fished his phone out of the backpack’s front pocket. He studied the caller ID with a frown. “It’s a D.C. area code,” Vigor said.

“Must be Director Crowe,” Gray warned. “Don’t mention anything. Stay on as short as possible to avoid any trace. In fact, we should pull the cell’s battery afterward so it’s not passively tracked.”

Vigor rolled his eyes at his paranoia and flipped his phone open. “Pronto,”he greeted.

Vigor listened for a few moments, his brow growing more and more furrowed. “Chi Parla?”he asked with a bit of heat. Whatever he heard seemed to shake him up. He turned and held the phone out for Gray.