The Messiah Code (22 page)

T
he next morning brought one of those perfect blue-sky days in March that promise an early summer but herald spring. Tom took little comfort from the beauty of the day. On the contrary it mocked his despair, as if nature were telling him that the fate of one little girl, his little girl, was incidental to the passing of time and the seasons.

The watery sun felt warm through the glass as he sat in the conservatory with Jack. His friend had come around for breakfast and they had finished eating some time ago. Now they were watching Holly outside in the garden making giant bubbles with her two school friends. It was Megan's turn, and she was dipping a huge loop of pink fabric attached to a wand into a bowl of soapy water. He watched as she lifted out the pink loop, while at the same time retracting the slide on the wand. This action slowly broadened the opening, so the film of detergent spanning it didn't break. Then she waved the loop like a matador sweeping a cape over a charging bull, and a grotesquely bulbous, multicolored bubble billowed out behind her. The vast bubble, now complete, seemed to tremble in the cool morning air for a moment, then rose slowly up into the blue sky above.

He thought again of yesterday's results on Project Cana and that feeling of helplessness returned to his stomach. Ironically, when he'd checked on Hank Polanski in the ward that evening, the young man appeared to be making good progress with the HIV-delivered gene therapy. But although this delighted Tom Carter the scientist and doctor, it frustrated Tom Carter the father. If only he could find a similar treatment for Holly--one that offered at least the same 15 percent chance of a cure.

All last night he had lain in the dark willing Olivia to tell him what to do. But he was on his own. He had reread all of the literature specific to brain tumors. Apart from the groundbreaking work by Blaese in the mid-nineties, using pro-drug therapy to slow the advance of glioblastomas, there was still no prospect of a cure for at least five or six years. In effect nothing had changed since DAN had given his verdict three months ago in December, and time was fast running out.

He turned to Jack and said, "Perhaps I should try and accept the inevitable. And make the best of my time with Holly. It's just that I feel like I'm giving up."

Jack watched the bubble make its quivering ascent, and released a sigh. "Tom, the issue isn't whether you're giving up or not. The issue is whether you're doing what's best
for Holly
, not just what's best for you. If you feel better keeping yourself busy, avoiding having to think of Holly's situation, that's fine. But if it means you hardly ever see her, then that can't be good for either of you."

Tom nodded slowly. Jack was right, and he was beginning to realize he didn't have much choice anyway. "Even if the Lanciano sample is a fake, then finding an authentic sample of Christ's DNA--assuming against all the facts one even exists--could take me longer than the trials and experiments our teams are working on anyway."

Jack turned from the window and looked at him. "Perhaps now's the time to try and accept what's going to happen as inevitable. And try to come to terms with it."

"But it's so goddamned
hard
."

"The thing is, Tom, there's no one alive who's more passionate about saving Holly, or better equipped than you.

And if you can't help her, my friend, then no one can. As for Project Cana, it's at best an academic exercise if we can't find a sample. So the decision is made for you. All you
can
do now is try to speed up the conventional cures, and make the best of the time that's left."

Tom watched glumly as a laughing Holly deftly manipulated the loop to create an even larger bubble. He sat silently as Holly and her friends giggled and ran around it. Suddenly Holly turned to the house and ran to the door of the conservatory where she rapped on the glass. "Dad, Uncle Jack, look! The biggest ever," she shouted, her eyes bright with excitement.

Tom smiled at her and made a thumbs-up sign. Jack and he both stood and walked to the glass to gain a closer look. Holly waved and then turned to run back to her friends and the bubble, which seemed to hover just out of reach of the jumping girls. In the sunlight its surface acted like a prism, giving the obese structure a ponderous, rainbow beauty. Despite his black mood, Tom felt a small, but genuine smile crack the patina of his despair. He was so caught up with watching the girls that he didn't notice Marcy Kelley come into the conservatory behind him with the morning mail. It was only when she left that he turned and saw the pile of envelopes by the yucca plant.

Almost without thinking, he strolled over and picked them up. Walking back to watch the girls playing in the garden he idly flicked through the mail. There were two buff envelopes containing bills; a couple of invitations to talk at seminars; a letter from his cousin in Sydney; and a small black envelope bearing his name and address in red ink. This last envelope was sealed in red wax, stamped with a cross.

He turned the envelope over in his hand and looked at Jack. His friend raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Tom broke the seal and opened the envelope, revealing a black card, a plane ticket, and two photographs. Photographs of him.

The card was clearly an invitation, which he read with growing shock. When he'd finished he was so incredulous he had to read it through again. And only after the second

reading did he allow his mind to consider the implications and possibilities of the words in front of him.

"What is it?" said Jack, seeing his shock. "You look like you've been hit by a thunderbolt."

Tom nodded numbly. That was how he felt. Trying to keep his voice steady, he read the invitation out loud, exactly as it appeared on the card.

"So these are the bastards who've been snooping around IGOR," said Jack, taking the card from him. "I don't suppose it's signed?"

Tom shook his head. "There's no clue at all to who sent it, apart from the seal, which isn't exactly unique." Tom turned his attention to the photographs: him leaving the small white church in Cittavecchia, and a more grainy one of him and Jack on the boat with Dutch and Irish. He opened up the plane ticket revealing an El Al Business Class voucher to Tel Aviv.

"Obviously you aren't going," said Jack, studying the wax seal on the envelope.

"I damn well am."

Jack looked up and frowned. "But this could be a trap from the Preacher. Think about it, Tom. Maybe she's been watching you since Stockholm, worked out what you're searching for, and then rigged this trap."

"I don't care. It's the chance I've been looking for. If it can help Holly, then I've got to take it."

"But this chance could get you killed. And making an orphan out of Holly won't help her."

Tom pointed to the invitation in Jack's hands. "Without a chance like this, she won't be an orphan for long."

"C'mon, Tom, what if it is the Preacher? What then?"

Tom felt his anger boil, remembering the hologram image of the Preacher he'd seen on his return from Sardinia. "Frankly, I'd welcome it."

"What?"

"Aside from saving Holly there's only one thing that I think about all the time: catching the witch who killed Olivia and making her pay."

"Okay. Okay. But then let's set a trap of our own. You don't have a hope in hell against her by yourself. Karen Tanner knows her job. We could tell her about this and together with the Bureau we could finish her for good."

Tom thought this through for a second as he watched his daughter laughing with her friends on the lawn. "But what if it's not the Preacher? What if the offer's genuine? Then I lose the one chance I might have to save her."

Jack groaned. "Tom, look at the odds. It must be the

Preacher. Let's at least check it out with the FBI."

Tom turned and looked Jack straight in the eye. "It's decided, Jack. I don't want them involved. They could jeopardize everything. I'd rather die trying to save Holly than live to see her die. Particularly if I can avenge Olivia. Don't you see, as far as I'm concerned this is a win-win situation?"

"You're being fucking stupid now."

"I don't care, Jack. Are you going to help me or what?"

Jack shook his head and released a sigh of resignation. "I don't suppose I can persuade you to carry a gun. I'd teach you how to use it."

"No way. If the letter's genuine, then a gun could wreck everything."

Jack groaned and fell silent.

Out of the window Tom saw the bubble burst over the three excited and screaming girls. Despite Jack's reservations he felt a sudden rush of excitement. His despair of only moments ago had gone. He had something to work at and hope for again.

He heard Jack say, "At least let me keep track of you, so if anything goes wrong I know where to find you."

"Can you do that without them knowing?"

"No," said Jack, allowing his face to break into a weary grin. "But I know a guy who can."

T
om Carter changed his watch to 1:58 P.M. local time and breathed a sigh of relief as the El Al 747 taxied to a stop on the sun-drenched tarmac of Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion Airport. He was only slightly better at traveling by plane than he was by boat. After slipping away from his police protection he had kissed Holly good-bye at Logan Airport and spent the whole flight in a state of escalating apprehension. None of which had eased his travel sickness. He was still worried that if he were ill he would throw up the low-frequency tracker Jack had insisted he swallow. Jack had already taken an earlier flight out here to brief a "friend" on setting up a monitoring center to track Tom wherever his hosts decided to take him.

The intercom crackled into life, "Thank you for flying El Al and please remember to take all your personal belongings with you when you leave the aircraft. On behalf of Captain David Ury and his crew we hope..."

Tom ignored the announcements as he unbuckled his belt and got ready to leave. His only luggage was a small shoulder bag he'd carried with him in the cabin. At the plane exit the flight attendants said their practiced good-byes, and he walked via an enclosed walkway into the main terminal building. He felt a nervous prickle on the back of his neck

and tried to loosen the already open collar of his white linen shirt. As he reached the tiled floor of the main terminal building, a tall man suddenly appeared beside him.

"Dr. Carter, welcome. My name is Helix, Helix Kirkham. Would you please step this way?"

The stranger was a well-preserved man of about fifty, balding, with thick round glasses and intelligent eyes. He looked more like an academic than a killer.

Helix smiled and extended a slender hand, which was firm when Carter shook it. "I trust you had an enjoyable flight. If you give us your passport, we can ensure you avoid all the tedious immigration procedures."

He spoke with an English accent but there was a trace of something else, as if he had originally come from elsewhere.

Numbly, Tom reached into his cotton jacket for his passport. "Where are we going?" he asked.

Helix took the passport from his hands and passed it quickly to one of two large men who had appeared behind him. Helix barked out orders in a language Tom didn't understand and the man scurried off in the direction of the other passengers.

Helix turned back to him and smiled. "You do not need to know where we are going. But don't worry. You won't be there long, just long enough to conduct our business."

Then before Tom could ask any more questions Helix turned, breezed past two armed airport security guards watching the steps down to the runway, and descended onto the tarmac in the direction of a Chinook helicopter.

"Come!" Helix said. "We will answer all your questions when we get there."

The third man walked beside Tom as he followed Helix. Neither man was introduced to him, but Tom sensed they were here to ensure he didn't waver and try to leave. The man who had taken his passport was medium height and featureless. But the man on his right was different. He held himself with an air of importance, and was clearly more than just a guard. He was tall, almost as tall as Tom, and powerful too. His blue-black hair was cropped close to his head, and his smoky green eyes looked out from a fine