Comes a Horseman (57 page)

He continued: “I'll have to convince the Watchers my judgment was clouded by passion and concern. A small blow to my reputation for managing the resources they've entrusted to me. A small price for the confidence in me it buys.”

“So Brady and I were just flares to light up the serial killings? And the killings were staged to make you appear concerned about a prophecy?”

Scaramuzzi squinted in thought. Then he nodded and said, “Yes.”

He stood. Conversation over.

Alicia wanted to hurl herself at him, to get her hands around his neck and not let go until one of them was dead. A wave of nausea and dizziness kept her down.

He stepped out and shut the door. It clanged and beeped. His smile said he was enjoying her dumbfounded anger.

“Don't feel bad,” he said insincerely. “People die all the time for more frivolous reasons. Whole battalions destroyed trying to take a hill because some general thought the maneuver sounded impressive, something he'd read back in his war-college days.”

He walked toward one of the corridors, stopped, and turned back to her.

“At least
you
know why you have to die.”

73

T
he binoculars were cheap and underpowered, but from the roof of the Gloria Hotel a block away, Brady could make out the identifiers Ambrosi had described. A sloping drive on the south side of the Latin Patriarchate. A wall shielding it from the activity in the seminary's front yard. Immediately to the right of the drive was the Old City wall, rising up, then dropping off into rubble and trees before Jaffa Road and modern Jerusalem took over the terrain. The drive was very private and nondescript; it could have been a utility-access alley, which is what most of the students and faculty probably believed it was. From his five-story perch, Brady was able to view straight down the drive to where the pavement leveled out. He could not see the metal door Ambrosi said was there, leading into a walled-off portion of the seminary's basement and the tunnels underneath. The seminary building was constructed with yellow-gold Jerusalem stone. It was a handsome finish, but its rectangular shape and small, evenly spaced windows gave it the appearance of a prison.

He watched as a figure walked down the drive from the seminary's main parking lot. It paused at the bottom, pulled open a door. When it shut, the figure was gone. The pause meant the door was kept locked.

Brady scoped the vicinity. The drive terminated in a concrete wall roughly ten feet high, which brought the top of the wall to ground level. Bushes overhung the edge.

Leaving the binoculars behind, he pocketed a few pebbles from the roof and descended the stairs to the lobby. He bought a pack of gum from the hotel's gift shop and nodded to the front desk clerk on his way out. He walked briskly up Latin Patriarchate Street until he was in its parking lot. Moving casually, he made it to the last row, twenty yards from the drive's entrance. Elms as tall as the four-story seminary shaded the entire south side of the lot.

He felt cloaked in shadows, but he knew from his own surveillance it was a false security; pedestrians under the trees were darkened but completely visible. A minivan pulled into the lot. He pretended to search his pockets for keys as it cruised past slowly. It pulled into a slot a dozen vehicles closer to the seminary's main doors. Three young men in their early twenties climbed out. They were dressed identically, in dark slacks, white shirts, black ties. They headed for the doors, never glancing Brady's way.

When they were gone, Brady walked to the far side of the drive. He stepped over a dying bush and stood between the drive and the Old City wall. The drive dropped away as he headed for its terminus. He could see the metal door now. Wide and black, with rivets. Heavy looking, like a vault. A keypad was mounted to the stone beside it. Five, six feet.

He reached the drive's back wall. The Old City wall angled in, arcing past the rear of the seminary. The ground here was sodded and trimmed with billowing bushes. The drive was wide enough to accommodate a truck, which would doubtless back down to unload freight. With a quick glance around—no one watching—Brady dropped to his knees, then to his belly behind the bushes. He reached back, touched the butt of the Kimber pistol in a belt holster at the small of his back. At least it had not fallen out: Avi had given him the only holster he had that was open at the bottom so the silencer could slip through, and it fit the Kimber poorly. He opened the pack of gum and stuck two pieces in his mouth.

He waited. Five minutes . . . ten . . . He examined the bandages wrapped around his left hand. They were frayed and dirty and bore a heavy stripe of brown blood over the palm. He closed his hand, opened it. No pain, just pressure, as though a string were wrapped around it too tightly. Still, he was thankful that he had damaged his left hand. His right was his gun hand, and on a
good
day he wouldn't bet on his marksmanship. He
had
nailed Malik—in the shoulder, when he had been aiming center-mass, but hey, the guy was dead and he wasn't. A thought to hold on to as he went forward.

Footsteps on the drive.

Brady pulled back. He parted the branches. Two men coming down the drive, one carrying a box. They were conversing—something funny by their smiles and chuckles—but Brady didn't know the language. They stopped at the door, and the empty-handed man punched a code into the keypad. Too quick for Brady to see. The man pulled open the door and held it until his companion walked through. Then he followed and the door began shutting slowly, as Brady had seen it do through the binoculars. A hydraulic door-shutter attached to the jamb and top of the door made sure the door latched after each opening, but it took its sweet time.

Brady rose to a crouch, stepped over the bushes, grabbed hold of the top of the wall, and swung himself down. He dropped to the pavement, landing on tiptoe. Two seconds later, he had his chest and cheek pressed to the wall beside the door, which had fifteen inches left before it was sealed.

Voices came through the opening. Close.

Brady pulled two pebbles from his pocket, held them to his mouth, and pushed the gum onto them. He kneaded the wad, satisfied at its size and the firmness the pebbles gave it. Without looking, he slipped his hand around the edge of the doorjamb.

No yells . . . yet.

He used his pinky to locate the recess for the door's latch. Stuck in the wad. Retracted his hand.

If a light on the inside confirmed the successful closing and locking of the door, and if the people using it were disciplined enough to watch for it, well, then he'd be up a creek. Security systems were only as effective as the people using them, however, and time begot complacency. He was counting on that now.

The door shut. Didn't click, didn't beep.

He waited thirty seconds. When he pulled on the handle, it held firm. His stomach clenched. He tugged. With a quiet
snick
, the door opened. He quick-peeked around the jamb, saw no one. He stepped in, holding the door with his foot. No keypad on the inside, a press bar on the door. It was designed to keep people out, not in. He dug the gum and pebbles out of the bolt slot, tossed the wad outside.

The room was dim, lighted only by an exit sign over the door. He waited for his eyes to adjust. Musty odor in the air, and rust. Slowly, a room the size of a convenience store came into view. Concrete and stone. An old, monstrous boiler, a matching furnace, and assorted other equipment hunkered like stealthy beasts in the shadows on the far half of the room. Closer to him, crusty paint cans, wooden crates, and lawn tools appeared to have come here to die. The setup reminded Brady of an attraction at Disney World: very well staged. However, nothing lay between him and a door set in the left-hand wall. It was also metal, but rusty and dented. A breaker box was set into the wall beside it.

He went to the door, felt around the edge. A tight seal, despite its appearance. Behind the breaker box door, he found a keypad, its rubber buttons lighted from behind.

A rumbling, as much felt as heard.

He stepped back, thinking the old door was about to burst open. Then he realized the sound was coming from the other door, from outside. The squeak of brakes. A truck had come down the drive. He hurried to the boiler, stepped behind it. The darkness was complete here. The outside door opened wide. The sunlight was blinding. The hazy silhouette of a man filled the opening, then backed away. A chain rattled. Doors creaked on their hinges, banged against the truck's metal sides. The whirl of a small motor—a hydraulic lift.

A single sharp sound that made Brady's skin tighten on his muscles: a bark, deep and vicious.

A man snapped, “Freya!”

Brady backed farther behind the boiler. He squatted down, closed his eyes. No reason he should come to the conclusion he did, but he knew, he simply
knew
: They were here. They had followed him.

Clanging, banging outside.

The same sharp voice: “Careful!”

A muttered apology.

Brady rose and peered between two pipes.

The man walked in, at first only a stocky figure backlit by the sun coming through the opening. He strode to the breaker box, opened it. Brady could make out the knit wool shirt, the fur shawl over massive shoulders, the long, stringy hair. His head turned as the inner door clicked open. An ice cube formed in Brady's heart, chilling his blood. The Viking.

Another man came in, pulling a metal cart. Its wheels clacked over the threshold. The cart carried four dog kennels, the kind used to transport large dogs in airplane cargo holds. Plastic, with holes in the upper halves of the sides. Chrome-plated grille doors.

The light faded as the door slowly closed.

The dogs began growling. One barked. The others joined in. In seconds, they were snarling and snapping and yelping as though fighting over a downed animal.

The Viking held up a hand to halt the man pulling the cart. He looked in at the dogs and pushed his finger into one of the door grilles.

“Er eitthva
a
?
” he said.

He turned to face the boiler, took a step forward. He stopped, slowly panning his gaze over all the equipment.

“Rats,” the man said with an Italian accent. The word came out “Rrrratsa.” “Sometimes cats get in, chasing 'em.”

The Viking did not move. After fifteen seconds, he looked back at the dogs, which were still in a frenzy.

“Hættu ?essu!”
he said. Four sharp syllables.

The animals immediately quieted. One whimpered, then it too fell silent.

Again he faced the boiler. He whispered,
“Er einhver hér?”
Louder, he said, “Give me a flashlight.”

The other man, frustrated: “I don't
have
one.
Affrettarsi!
Arjan is waiting!”

The Viking walked forward. Brady carefully lowered himself to the floor until he was flat against it. He edged his body close to the base of the boiler. It was gritty and greasy and smelled like burned meat. He wiggled farther in, willing himself to meld into the metal. He thought of the promise he'd made on the way to the Oakleys'—Zach's words: “
And you won't let that guy and his dogs get you. Okay?”

Okay, Zach. I'm trying, buddy.

Footsteps. The Viking stopped at the back wall. He looked into the long space behind the equipment, scanning over Brady. The man squinted, moved his head around. It came to Brady that the man was considering stepping into the space, walking along the back wall behind the equipment, just to be sure. He thought of the pistol and wondered how much movement he could get away with. Why hadn't he drawn it earlier? His hands were fisted under his chest. He slid the right one out . . . slowly . . . leaves change color faster.

“Olaf ?
Affrettarsi!
”

The Viking—Olaf ?—grunted, turned, and stalked away.

“Let's go!” he ordered.

The front wheels of the cart banged over the next threshold.

Brady rose and peeked between the pipes. A faint light radiated out from the passageway beyond the rusty door. The rear of the cart was sticking out. The Italian pulled it slowly, in little stops and starts.