A Deceit to Die For (40 page)

“I am aware of the intricacies, Salih. I drew up the plan.” He paused for effect. “The theft is pre-emptive. When a renowned Muslim scholar discovers its absence, and the theft is traced back to the Vatican, the release of their little document can easily be spun to look like they are attempting a cover-up for the theft.”

“But,” said Salih, “If the kidnapping plan works, we won’t need to remove the manuscript from the library in Vienna.”

“Need to? No. We won’t need to, but we’ll do it anyway. Just imagine the mileage we will get out of this in terms of public relations. The Vatican embroiled in yet another scandal, and this time, it won’t be pedophilic priests. I think the West has gotten bored with that anyway, don’t you? This time the scandal will be a plan to destroy and cover-up what the Muslim world has claimed for centuries is the most accurate copy of their beloved Gospel. No, Salih, this plan will be implemented whether we get the document back or not, and if, for some reason, we fail to recover the document, we can say that it’s a forgery. Remember ‘sling the mud, even if it doesn’t stick, the stain will remain.’ You should have received an e-mail from me just now. Read it.”

He tried to imagine Salih’s face as he scanned the email.

“Son of a jackass! May Allah damn his cursed soul. I am going to crap in his mouth! Why didn‘t you tell me this earlier?”

“Because
you
were supposed to be running the operation, not
me
! I only found out two minutes ago, less than an hour after I decided to take over operations. How could you be so damned clumsy, Salih? Our asses are on the line and you cannot be bothered to find out that Zeki is ex-MIT? He’s not only a field operative but a counter-intelligence agent as well! If you had known this, you wouldn’t have lost two good men and the document. In fact, he would’ve never left the country. Pull your head out man and get your mind off of that blonde concubine of yours! You’ve got to focus, damn it!”

“Why in the hell is Zeki helping these guys?”

“Again, if you had done your homework, you would know that Zeki and Ian’s friendship goes way back. Ian visited Turkey on numerous occasions to conduct research on Byzantine history and invariably stayed in Zeki’s home. Listen, you’re still going to do logistics, but I need you to assure me there will be no more mistakes.”

“You have my word.”

There was a click on the other end and Salih turned off the phone. His chances for advancement were all but gone. He knew that. The brotherhood would not easily forgive two failed operations. But this was the least of his concerns. Right now, he knew, as did Ahmet, that his neck, not his career, was what was on the line and a successful recovery was the only way to save it.

CHAPTER
34

S
ATURDAY
M
ORNING,
D
ALLAS
 
Zeki had been watching the silhouette of the Dallas sky-line grow closer for the last twenty minutes. In his rearview mirror, he saw that the spinning globe was about to turn its unveiled face once again towards the sun as a cloudless Texas day threatened record heat. He felt more exposed than he had ever been before. For the first time in his life, he was engaged in a game of hide-and-seek with the world’s most powerful country and no backup. Their first priority was to ditch the car. He veered out of the middle lane to take the exit for 635 North. The plan was simple. They’d leave the car in a parking garage and arrange for lodging at different places. He would stay at Hotel Indigo since he could use one of his many IDs without fear of being caught. She would look for a bed and breakfast reasonably close that didn’t require a driver’s license.

Traffic was not bad, not yet anyway. He looked over at Gwyn. She had been sleeping for over an hour. His heart broke for this young woman robbed of her parents before she had even married or given them grandkids. He had seen the gambit of human depravity in his line of work.
More senseless violence, more senseless bloodshed.
His assessment was subjective and he knew it. ‘Senseless’ was not how the perpetrators would characterize it. He had learned long ago that ‘sense’, whatever it meant, was not something people held in common. As far as he could tell, there was no evil the human heart was incapable of. The clerics did not teach the depravity of man, but he knew it to be true. He saw the DART mass transit station Gwyn had told him about and started looking for a good place to ditch the car. They had a lot to do and not much time to do it.

Two and a half hours later Zeki was standing at 1515 Young Street waiting for Gwyn in front of the Central Library. He had checked into his hotel, grabbed a light breakfast in the hotel restaurant and then placed a call to London. He didn’t really like using a public library for their research. He knew that the people who had come after Gwyn had intercepted Gwyn and Gilbert’s phone calls, that they had been able to triangulate her cell phone signal to find her location in a rural part of East Texas, and that they would have learned by now that he had taken out two of their men. He saw Gwyn walking down the street. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses like he had suggested.

“Hello, Zeki.”

“Hello, Gwyn. The hat is very becoming on you, but I’m afraid even in Texas, it makes you stand out a bit.”

Her voice carried the slightest hint of offense when she answered, “You said to wear a hat that would hide our faces from traffic and security cameras. This is the best I could do. The only thing bigger is a sombrero, and that would have stood out.”

He smiled at the irony of the situation. Everyone in the Middle East viewed cowboys as the oppressors of the Native American Indians. They were the symbol of European imperialism. Yet, here he was in the middle of Dallas, Texas helping a “cowgirl” escape Muslim assassins.

Gwyn looked impatient. “Shouldn’t we get moving?”

Zeki turned and began walking towards the library. “Yes, we should be receiving an email very soon. In the meantime, I suppose we have some research to do.”

><><><
 

S
ATURDAY
A
FTERNOON,
L
ONDON
  
There was a knock at the door. Gary looked through the peephole and saw a man in uniform standing outside.

“Who is it?” asked Gilbert.

“Looks like a policeman, but he’s not one that I recognize from the team McIntosh assigned to us.”

He opened the door.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon. Are you Mr. O’Brien?”

The man was of medium-build with dark hair and a generic, clean-shaven face. It was hard to tell if he had olive skin or a good tan. He had a backpack hung on his shoulder. Then Gary noticed the envelope the man held in his right hand.

“I do hope you have some information about our sister.”

The man’s face was expressionless, but he stuck the envelope towards Gary and said, “I was told to deliver this to Mr. O’Brien.”

“Which one?” responded Gary.

“To Gary or Gilbert O’Brien.”

“Well, I am Gary O’Brien and this is my brother Gilbert,” he said, opening the door to invite the man inside. The policeman held up his hand in a gesture of refusal.

“I must be on my way. Please, take this,” he said, offering the envelope to Gary.

“Did McIntosh send this?” asked Gilbert.

“Sir, I’m just a messenger. My job is to convey this message to one of you in person.”

Gilbert noted that his question had gone unanswered.

“But, you haven’t asked for our ID,” continued Gilbert.

“I was shown a photograph of you both.”

Gary took the envelope hesitantly. It was unsealed. He opened it and pulled out a small slip of paper. It said,

I am safe, at least for now. Do not believe what the police tell you about Z. He saved my life. He’s ex-MIT. Says stop using all communication that is personally identifying immediately. All being traced. Email address for communication is: [email protected]. Pswd hizb19. I will contact you from [email protected]. In our communication, do not use our names or the names of anyone involved.

Is this real? Remember the rooster attack on the farm when we were kids. The lesson with Dad and the lemonade. The scar in the left corner of your lip from a fight in the locker room . . .

G.

Gary looked back up at the man only to find that he was already walking into the elevator. Gilbert impatiently grabbed the slip of paper from Gary’s hand.

“For God’s sake man, what does it say?”

Gilbert read the note quickly and Gary closed the door. Gilbert immediately began verbalizing what they were both thinking.

“How do we know this is authentic? Everything points to Zeki being involved in the murders. Gwyn gets a call from Zeki, who is supposed to be in Britain, saying that he is in Dallas and wants to visit her. In the middle of the night, Gwyn disappears amid a hail of gunfire. The police find a pool of blood on the porch, but can’t find our sister. Now, just few hours later, we get a typed note here in London purporting to be from Gwyn, telling us that Zeki has saved her life. This hardly seems likely.”

He turned to look at his brother and gauge his reaction. Gary’s face was ashen.

“Gilbert,” he said, “If there is a one in a million chance that your mother will develop breast cancer and then she does, ‘unlikely’ becomes a fairly irrelevant concept. Nothing could be further removed from reality than probability.

There are billions of possible and millions of probable outcomes, but there is only one reality. Something tells me that this is real.”

The look on Gilbert’s face remained skeptical.

“Maybe it’s some sort of trap.”

“Look, only Gwyn could’ve known those things. She could’ve been coerced or tricked into giving some details about our childhood, but what would the motive be? If Gwyn is dead and they have the mystery document, why would we get a letter at all? If it’s true though and Gwyn is alive, then I’m afraid reality has just gotten more complicated.”

Gilbert ran his hands through his thick, dirty blonde hair.

“Did you notice how the man left our question about whether or not McIntosh sent him unanswered?”

Suddenly, the color began to drain from Gilbert’s face.

“Oh my God, if this note is real, the call I just made to Ginger a couple of hours ago might have been intercepted.”

This realization struck them both very hard. Instinctively, Gilbert reached for his Blackberry to warn his family. Gary quickly grabbed his hand.

“We can’t do it like that. If this is real, we have to get in touch with her another way.”

“Damn it, Gary, this is bullshit. This note is implying that the people who killed Dad are capable of tracking cell phone calls. My job is security, remember! That’s not something a common criminal could pull off.”

“Yeah? Well, who said we’re dealing with common criminals? Tell me this. How did they find Gwyn? How did they know she had the document and not you? Can you explain that? We don’t know what the document says. We don’t know who is after it. Obviously, we are dealing with state actors or worse.”

Gilbert was silent for a moment, his mind racing down a dozen paths at once.

“The US consulate nearest Otranto is in Naples. I’ll contact someone at my office and see if they can get in touch with my family. Then, we’ll alert both the local authorities and the US consulate.”