The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection With EXCLUSIVE Post-Shiva Short Story (35 page)

After their plane had been downed in Bulgaria, Tok had feared the worst. Neither of them feared death. Each welcomed it if it brought them closer to their Savior, but to think that he had killed his own brother gave him pause. How many times he had wished he could contact him, but they could not take the risk. His deeply hidden mole could only communicate with them using a passive wire loop, not the reverse, not even to make sure he still lived. But now the world was aright. “Did he say where they were headed?”

“The Hagia Sophia.”

It made no sense. If there was one place in all of Turkey that had been explored for ancient remains, it had been that church. What did Lochum hope to accomplish there? What had his own scholars missed that the professor had found?

Normally Tok might brood over such an oversight, but with his brother alive, he only rejoiced. Soon, Lochum’s threat would come to an end, and the Knot’s secret would be safe once again, and their family would be reunited.

* * *

Brandt studied Svengurd’s reflection in the rearview mirror. The man seemed asleep, but he also seemed a lot of things. Like loyal and dependable, but Brandt began to have his doubts.

Granted, the Knot might have been taking potshots at any private planes leaving Budapest, but the sergeant doubted it. So far their strikes had been swift and precise. As much as he loathed the idea, the evidence kept piling up that one of his men was a traitor.

Now it fell upon Brandt to figure out which one. Lopez was nearly immune from scrutiny, since he had pulled their asses out of the fire too many times to count. A second delay in his reflexes would have led to their capture or death a couple of times over. Like now, they were nearly flying over the highway to Istanbul as quickly as they could have in a plane. He could have easily shaved off a few miles per hour and no one would have noticed. Instead they had set some kind of land speed record across Europe.

Which left Davidson and Svengurd. It wasn’t his affection for the kid that eliminated him from suspicion. It was the fact that the private had never been alone. Back at the hangar, Davidson was either with the team or with Monroe. The time he spent suspended in midair by the chain didn’t count. However, after the firefight, Svengurd had gone out alone to secure the perimeter and again when he fetched the getaway car.

So this tall Norwegian was the only one with the opportunity to betray their location. Brandt had tried to keep the corporal under wraps since they arrived in Budapest, but that was a little hard to do with your point man.

Brandt’s fist formed on its own. He yearned to confront the corporal, but how could he? To cast such a shadow upon one of them would doom the entire squad. It was neither skill nor duty that kept them alive, but trust. Even if Svengurd proved innocent, the taint would never fade. Brandt needed hard proof before he spoke his misgivings.

Svengurd must have sensed his gaze, for he opened his eyes. “Need something, Sarge?”

“Nah. Just making sure you were taking some shut-eye.”

“You ordered it, so I did it,” the corporal said as he closed his eyes.

How Brandt wished he could believe that.

* * *

Lochum had allowed the gentle vibration of the car to lull him to sleep, but awoke as Lopez laid on the horn, and laid on it some more.

“Seriously! Goat carts in the streets! Don’t harness ‘em if you can’t control ‘em!”

The professor blinked several times to orient himself. It was early morning, as Istanbul ended its slumber. As always, they had made good time. Approaching from the northwest, they angled toward the city’s historic district.

Turkey could boast of its rich Jewish, Christian, and Islamic influences. It had been the capital of the Byzantine, Roman, and Ottoman empires, but its most compelling attraction was that it was the only country in the world to straddle two continents. Even the city, Istanbul, shared its country’s schizophrenia. The Bosphorus, a narrow finger of water, cut through the heart of the city and divided it in two.

But today they sought only the European section of the city, with its ancient churches and mosques. The other side of the Bosphorus waterline, the Asian side of the city, was mainly commercial with entire swaths of industrial growth. Turkey had embraced Western modernization, and Istanbul was the shining gem in their First World hopes.

As the sun continued to rise, Lochum could make out the Golden Horn in the far distance. The freshwater estuary was named for the beautiful color it reflected at sunrise and sunset. Tall arches from the Galata Bridge glimmered in the early morning light.

This peninsula had been home to populations as diverse as Greek city-states and Jewish refugees from the Spanish Inquisition. Nearly every great Western civilization had at one point crossed the Golden Horn to plant its flag in Istanbul’s fertile soil.

But with any luck they would not have even have to cross that historic bridge. They hoped that everything they needed would be found within the Hagia Sophia. They were still too far to see the high spires or giant dome, but Lochum knew it was there, calling his name.

Why, then, did Lopez just turn left at the intersection?

“This is not the way,” Lochum said as his back complained loudly when he leaned over the Audi’s backseat. The plane crash and subsequent acrobatics had taken their toll.

Brandt shrugged. “We’ve got a stop to make first.”

Anger soothed his aching joints. “There is nowhere that is more important than—”

He stopped mid-sentence as the sergeant turned to meet his gaze. The man had a black eye that extended to his hairline and a lip cut so deeply that Lochum could make out the throbbing of a blood vessel barely beneath the surface. Yet for all his injuries, Brandt seemed the stronger for them.

“We’re going to Misir Carsisi to pick up some supplies, and that’s final.”

Settling back in his seat, Lochum fumed at being spoken to in such a manner, but was wise enough not to test the sergeant’s current mood.

Still his mind chewed on the problem. Misir Carsisi? The Spice Market? Why would the soldier want to go condiment shopping? Granted, the enormous outdoor market embodied the perfect mixture of ancient tradition and modern capitalism, but it was nowhere near the Hagia Sophia.

“What in the world would that man need from the Bazaar?” he whispered to Rebecca. “The Hagia Sophia is the country’s most-visited tourist monument, after all. I am sure they have snacks galore.”

Rebecca elbowed his sore ribs. “He’s got his reasons.”

“Please,” he hissed. “Since you know him so well, would you divine them for me?”

She spoke in a hushed tone. “When is the last time you saw him without a weapon?”

The professor looked up abruptly. The soldiers were unarmed. All their material possessions had been lost in the crash. What good were soldiers without guns?

“Then why risk the most crime-infested part of Istanbul?” Clearly, Brandt had been hit too hard in the head. “Is he an idiot, or simply reckless?”

“Didn’t you just answer the question for yourself?”

The professor opened his mouth, then realized his student was correct. Where better to find a criminal’s tools than where criminals resided? They were not purchasing condiments but semiautomatics.

Satisfied they were not on a fool’s errand, Lochum carefully studied the small fragment of bone they had left. How tragic. Guns could be replaced, but the words inscribed on James were lost to history. He stroked the ragged surface. What else might he have learned of James’ life?

What he held was tangible proof they were all real. They all lived and breathed and eventually died, as any men would.

Rebecca must have misread his mood, for she patted his arm. “No matter what happens, your work will be lauded for generations to come.”

Kind words, only he was no longer concerned with such things. Now, he wished only to tell the true story of Jesus’ life. Good, bad, human, or divine, he wanted the world to know their savior.

It seemed even at his advanced age that he had the capacity to grow.

Rebecca handed him a page of their transcription that she had somehow managed to salvage from the fire. “Rudolph and Martin will be especially pleased with your findings.”

Rebecca referred to the scholars who had diligently translated the Gospel of Judas. Much of the bones’ writings supported the authors’ assertion that Jesus and Judas were closer than brothers and that no betrayal had occurred, only an agreement between the two friends.

Which only supported Lochum’s theory. By choosing the moment of the betrayal, Jesus could have ensured his plan’s success.

“They’re going to go berserk that Judas was present when Jesus cast out the demons from Mary Magdalene.” She read further down the scorched page. “Do you take this to mean that Judas had a congenital limp?”

Lochum shook his head. “No, you misinterpreted the conjunctive verb in the second stanza. The line states he had a childhood injury to the right leg that did not heal correctly.”

But he realized that she already knew that. Rebecca had given him the opportunity to chide her. Something she knew always brightened his mood. He patted her shoulder. “I’m fine. Truly, ‘Becca.”

“Yeah, well, you might be, but she, I’m not so sure about,” Brandt said turning to face Rebecca as Lopez parked the car on the steep hill across from the Spice Bazaar. “At least not after you hear my plan.”

* * *

Rebecca nearly tripped yet again on her shiny new high heels. Davidson caught her elbow. “Remember, you were born to wear Prada.”

She, however, wasn’t so sure as she tried navigating the cobblestones of the open market in three-inch stilettos. Rebecca hadn’t worn heels since Lochum stopped buying them for her. Dressed in a tartan skirt and silk blouse, she felt just as much in costume as Brandt’s gladiator gear, but Davidson looked simply sophisticated in an Armani suit and Gucci loafers.

Acting as rich, naïve Irish tourists, it seemed al-Qaida wasn’t too pissed off at the Emerald Isle, they strolled without fear of a random terrorist attack, making their way through the tangle of stalls.

The market assaulted the senses. Spices filled overflowing bins. Saffron, chilies, and turmeric overwhelmed the scent of fresh lavender, sunflower, and sesame. Adding to the mix were a thousand other spices she couldn’t even begin to name.

Spaced between the condiments were open-air grills that cooked your favorite dish with the spices just purchased from the stall next door. Occasionally visitors would pass a table with the most pungent of odors. Medicinal powders brought from the Far East.

Punctuating the smells were the vendors’ shouts. They called out to shoppers and fought loudly with one another. This was one of the few places in the world where one could buy a Persian rug and freshly cut cinnamon bark right next to one another.

Through all of this, they browsed, feigning interest in some daffodil blossoms for a tea or chopped cloves. As they drew deeper and deeper into the market, Rebecca became more and more tense.

A loud cry carried over the chaos. At first she cringed, but then realized it was just the call to prayers from the
Yeni Cami
, or the New Mosque, just a short block away. From the minaret above, the
muezzin
, or caller of prayer, beckoning all believers to the mosque.

Rebecca looked at her Tiffany watch and was again struck by the number of diamonds surrounding the face. Where Davidson and Svengurd had come up with this expensive bit of couture in such a short time, she didn’t know, but the bejeweled hands told her this was the call to midday prayers.

In a wave, merchants pulled out their small ceremonial rugs and faced toward Mecca. They were deeply religious in Istanbul, but also extremely pragmatic. The bustling tourist trade did not afford five hours a day away from their stalls. Once done praising Allah, the men rolled up their carpets and were back to hawking their wares within minutes.

In this interlude, Rebecca noticed that sprinkled throughout the Bazaar were vendors of kitschy tourist baubles. Davidson guided them toward one.

The private spoke in broken Turkish, even though she knew full well he was fluent in the language. “Do you sell, I mean ‘
tasflyet
.’ Gold. ‘
altin
.’ Ring.” He indicated Rebecca’s fourth finger. “
Cal
.
Cal
.”

The fully bearded man nodded his head vigorously. “No. No.”

Since they both looked confused, the merchant continued. “I no have but my cousin. He have many beautiful rings for the lady.”

“I want
kalite
. Quality.” He pointed to the bling on her wrist. “Expensive.
Pahalilik
.” Davidson winked at the man. “She’s worth it.”

The merchant bobbed his head. “Very nice. Make proud at the club!”

“Excellent.”

Everything seemed routine as the man’s wife took over the stall and he escorted them toward the back of the market, but Davidson grabbed her hand and spoke so low that only she could hear. “Stay close.”

Rebecca nodded as they made their way past a booth specializing in milk. Not cow’s, but camel’s, ox’s, or llama’s. The deeper they went the smaller the booths became until they were crammed elbow to elbow, and the goods became shadier and shadier. Cheap knock-off watches and perfumes that claimed to be Calvin Klein, only the “K” and the “C” were reversed.

Finally the merchant urged them up a steep staircase to an adjacent building. Everything in her body screamed not to enter the darkened storefront. Did tourists really fall for this scam?

Davidson urged her forward. Rebecca followed, but she wished it were Brandt who accompanied her. Forget the whole awkwardness issue, she felt safe around the sergeant. He radiated confidence. Unlike Davidson.

Granted, she’d seen the private in action, but he looked pretty scrawny, which unfortunately, was exactly the reason he had been chosen to be her escort. Who in their right mind would attack Brandt, Svengurd, or even Lopez? Each oozed masculine prowess.

So here she was walking into a trap, knowing it was a trap but walking into it nonetheless.