Half-Past Dawn (25 page)

“You really don’t have a choice, Jack,” Cristos said as he held out his cell phone.

“You expect me to help you break in?” Jack finally said, trying to put aside the fragility of his mind.

“Oh, I expect you to do so much more than that. You’re not only going to lead us down there, but you are going to steal the box from under the noses of the agents who are protecting that room.” Cristos paused. “And Jack, you know, if you don’t, your wife’s death will be your fault.”

Jack took the phone from Cristos, flipped it open, and quickly dialed. The phone hadn’t made it through half a ring when—

“Evidence,” Charlie Brooks answered.

“Charlie?” Jack asked in surprise.

“Holy shit,” Charlie said, immediately recognizing his friend’s voice.

“Don’t say a word,” Jack said quickly.

“I wouldn’t know what to say. Oh, my God.”

“Charlie, who’s down there with you?”

“And your wife?”

“She’s alive, but you can’t react. No one is to know what’s going on.”

“You know the feds are down here looking at everything.”

“I know. How many people you got down there now?”

“Three feds and an accountant. Seems I’m not the only one with nothing to do on a Friday night. Does Frank know?”

“Yeah.”

“That son of a bitch, He let me go on and on. I’m going to kick his little fireplug ass—”

“Charlie.” Jack cut him off. “Remember the case Mia and I dropped off the other day?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, especially every time the feds ask about it.”

“You’re a good man. Smart. Don’t let them tell you any different.”

“Good thing you said not to log it in.”

“Well, that box you have no idea about? I’m coming to get it.”

C
RISTOS STUDIED THE
hand-drawn map that Jack had sketched out of the lower level of the Tombs, looking at the bottleneck entrance to the evidence room, the small administrative office, and the oversized warehouse-like space where tens of thousands of evidence cases, boxes, and bags lay in wait to be shepherded through the judicial system.

“I will get you the box, but you don’t harm anyone, do you understand?”

“You don’t really think you’re in charge here, do you?” Cristos said. “We’re all going downstairs except Josh here.” Cristos pointed
to the third man, his brown hair slicked back, his jacket a size too large. “He’ll watch the guard and the lobby and keep us posted.”

“Those people downstairs have nothing to do with this.”

“Then their lives are in your hands. You get us the box without incident, no one dies. But if you try to warn anyone or take control, their deaths will be on your conscience.”

As Jack sat there in the limo, he did everything he could to stay focused, to keep his mind off of Mia, as any fear he felt for her would only distract him from the task at hand. He had to get that case but had to stay alive in the process if he was to have any chance of saving her. He finally turned back to Cristos and asked the question that had been burning in his mind since he first heard his voice.

“How did you survive? I watched you die.”

“Yes, you did,” Cristos said. “But do you remember what I said? Death is not always final, not always permanent. Death is never the end.”

“You’re trying to tell me you came back from the dead?”

“Where I come from, life and death stand side-by-side; the divide is blurred. Our priests say they can communicate with the dead.”

“Really?” Jack said, his voice filled with cynicism.

“You act as if that sounds so far-fetched. Everyone talks to those who have passed away in one way, shape, or form. How many people do you know who will talk to their deceased mother or father, hearing their voices in their ears during times of stress or anguish? Mothers hearing the cry of a child who has passed away. Or seeing people in our dreams, people who have come back to haunt or guide us. The priests from the village where I grew up have traditions thousands of years old concerning life, death, resurrection, just like any other religion.”

Jack stared at him.

“They believe in magic. In not only communicating with the afterlife but also seeing the future, predicting what’s to come as if they could read your fate. They say they can remember the future in much the way we remember the past.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Spoken like a man who can only see life in terms of black and white, right and wrong. Spoken like a scientist who can’t wrap his mind around things he can’t understand or … just like an attorney.” Cristos tilted his head, as if assessing. “You look like a Catholic to me.”

Jack didn’t answer.

“The priest during mass, turning water into wine, Christ rising from the dead. Miracles, healings, divine intervention. Every religion has and embraces its own beliefs, the kind that some might call magical. Who are you to question their validity?”

“You’re telling me the priests of your religion can see the future?”

“The head Cotis priest can look into someone’s heart and see his fate and, in some cases, even help to shape it.”

“If they have such a third eye, why didn’t they see the horrors you would commit and try to stop you?”

“Who’s to say they didn’t try?” Cristos paused. “Do you believe your future is preordained? That we were always destined to meet again even though I died?”

“We shape our lives,” Jack said. “Not some divine intervention.”

“Really? If your mother called you in the middle of the night with a premonition of your house burning to the ground from a fault in the toaster, you’d unplug that toaster. Or if someone was to tell you that you were to die in a car accident on I-95 tomorrow and they said it with certainty, would you take a different road or perhaps avoid getting into a car?”

Jack pondered the logic of Cristos’s words. He hated when people lectured him but there was a glimmer of truth to their words. “Are you telling me you weren’t supposed to die that day? That some kind of magic intervened?”

Cristos let out a dry laugh. “No magic involved that time. I only needed to own two people: the technician who administered the drugs and rigged the heart monitor and the coroner.”

Jack was instantly shocked. “How could you get to them from prison?”

“Once I was captured, the people who hired me were the ones who insisted on my speedy trial. They knew that if I was ever captured, I could choose to name names during the trial about who hired me and tell them about the list I had of all of the jobs I’ve done worldwide. And most particularly, who my employer was. They were easily swayed to my cause. We came to the conclusion that if I was convicted and executed, I’d have even more free rein to carry out future assignments.”

“How could your employer manipulate our system so easily?”

“Because my employer is the system. My employer was your government.”

C
RISTOS

T
HE SOUNDS OF THE
jungle came alive at night: birds in sweet song and raptor screech; monkeys and small mammals on their nocturnal activities in the enormous trees; snakes and reptiles slithering in the underbrush, taking up positions to lie in wait and snatch their unsuspecting prey as it meandered by. The sudden howl of a macaque echoed through the mountains, its deep growl hushing all other sounds of the night, all bowing in fear and respect. And it was that moment of silence that frightened most, for it felt as if the world was waiting for death.

Cristos lay under the thick green canopy of the jungle, just on the outskirts of the Sapre estate. He had embraced his new name, Suresh having died along with his heart four months earlier. The fiery pain in his skin was still there, the grafts taut like an ill-fitting garment. All of it reminded him of why he was finding pleasure in this moment.

He had surveyed the property, performing reconnaissance for the last month under cover of darkness. He knew every inch of the grounds as if it were the land of his birth and the interior of the home as if it were his own skin, able to walk it blindfolded without a
sound, without running into a single wall or piece of furniture in the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion.

It was built to resemble a Swiss chalet. The prime minister had modeled it on the lodge he frequented in Gstaad. Made of large pine timbers, it was a multistory log cabin with large picture windows affording views of the lake in front and the Parshia Mountains in back. Cristos found it pleasantly ironic that the upper reaches of the peaceful mountains the prime minister had looked upon for all of these years was not only the birthplace of his assassin but would also be the last place he gazed on in his final day.

Raj and Nadia were scheduled to be married the next day in a lavish ceremony by the lake. Three large white tents were in place, the seating for five hundred already set. The marriage was viewed as the dynastic merger of the century, the politically powerful family of Prime Minister Wahajian Sapre joining with the family of Kartic Desai, one of the wealthiest industrialists in the country. The marriage was arranged more than ten years earlier, before Nadia and Raj had met, before they had even finished grade school. Their fathers had laid out their lives for them, lives that they rebelled against in their own ways but fell in line with as they grew up.

But come tomorrow, there would be no wedding, there would be no grand merger to be covered in the
New York Times
, the London
Times
, or the
Times of India
. The headlines in the coming days would only be of death.

Cristos had formulated his plan. He would be acting on his own. His employers had already transferred five million dollars to an account in Prague, with the balance to be paid out upon completion. He requested a list of supplies and was surprised when it had all arrived ahead of schedule to the small warehouse he had rented in the slums three miles away from the estate.

A small stag party was held earlier in the evening, more akin to a Wall Street board of directors meeting than a stripper-filled, gin-mill extravaganza. Only men were on the estate at this time; the mothers, sisters, bridesmaids, and bride weren’t expected until morning.

While some of the small group headed upstairs to the six guest rooms and others had left the main house to rest in the guest houses on the other side of the lake, PM Sapre, Desai, and Raj had retired to the library for an impromptu ceremony. It was a gentleman’s den filled with books, leather furniture, and a fully stocked mahogany bar. The three men sat in large captain’s chairs, clutching glowing Cuban cigars, as if they were gods discussing the fate of mankind.

Cristos watched it all through the high-powered scope of his sniper rifle, listening to their every word through his earpiece, which picked up the signal from bugs he had placed earlier.

Desai placed a large wooden box on the table before Raj. The two older men smiled as he lifted the lid and drew out a long golden dagger, its hilt sparkling with precious gems.

“It belonged to my great-grandfather,” Desai said. “He was a prince in the times of the Maratha Empire. His father had it made for him as a symbol of purity, virility, and command. It is called the Shiant Dagger. It is said that those who possess it will attain great power over mankind. I now pass it to you.”

Cristos clutched the long Galil sniper rifle, smiling as he watched the exchange. Not a word was mentioned of Nadia, the wedding, or love—just daggers, business, and politics. Cristos reached over, picked up his bottle of water, and took a long, slow swig, savoring the coolness as it poured down his throat.

Without further delay, he grasped the rifle, lined up his sight, and swept the gun back and forth between his targets. Assured of his aim and without fanfare, he exhaled and pulled the trigger. The three-inch copper bullet exploded out of the gun, traveling the two hundred yards in an instant, shattering the large picture window in the library before exploding the PM’s head. Within half a second, the barrel was swung to the right, the cough of the rifle echoed along the mountain, and Desai’s head was nearly torn from his body.

Cristos swung the rifle again, lining up the sight on Raj, but he had a change of heart. He adjusted his aim and fired off two
quick shots. The first bullet hit Raj in the stomach, tearing out his back, while the second bullet shattered his knee, driving a hole clear through the cap and cartilage.

Cristos abandoned the rifle and broke into a full-out sprint. Covering the grassy two hundred yards in less than twenty-two seconds, he leaped through the now-empty window frame into the library. He looked at his handiwork, at what was left of the corrupt PM Sapre, at Desai, inwardly smiling that the country’s richest man was felled by a two-dollar bullet.

He finally turned his eye to Raj, walking over and looking down on the dying twenty-year-old. He waited a moment for his face to register in the young man’s fading mind.

“What was it you said about erasing me from existence? I just wanted to say thank you.”

And as Raj’s eyes began to drift, Cristos pulled out an EpiPen—an auto-injector of epinephrine—and jabbed him in the thigh with it. Raj’s eye’s flew open as his heart began to race.

“I want you to be fully awake.” Cristos smiled. “Fully aware of the pain as you die.”

Suddenly, the twin doors exploded open. Cristos spun around, a pistol instantly in hand aimed at the intruder. But he did what he swore he would never do again. He hesitated, for he was looking into the eyes of Nadia.

And despite her unforgivable betrayal, his heart still skipped at the sight of her. Cristos had declared his heart dead, replacing the pain and hollowness with rage and vengeance, but that all melted away as his eyes fell upon Nadia.

She raced to Raj, taking him in her arms, screaming in agony as she looked at the carnage around her.

“What have you done?” she cried, the same words she had said four months earlier. She glanced at what was left of her father and nearly retched. Turning her attention back to Raj, she pressed her hand on his wounded stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.