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Authors: Eric Van Lustbader
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terrorists.”
“Jesus. And McClure is cozy with the granddaughter.” Jonatha drummed her fingers on Krofft’s desk. “That can’t be good.”
“No,” Krofft acknowledged. “In fact, it’s very, very bad.”
Jonatha pointed. “Let me see the girl again.” When the close-up of Annika returned to the screen, she said, “Is the rest of her as erotic?”
Krofft raised his hand and another shot of Annika appeared, this one shot from a distance. Though it was slightly grainy, her long, powerful legs were clearly visible.
Jonatha nodded. “If you know about the relationship, Paull must have as well.”
“What I can’t figure out is why he didn’t put a stop to it.”
Jonatha spread her hands. “Maybe he tried.”
“And maybe he didn’t. McClure was his golden boy. I think that’s what cost him his life.”
“But we know that the Syrian is running the mole.”
“What if he was running McClure through the Dementieva woman?”
Jonatha nodded slowly. “That makes perfect sense, but as of now it’s just speculation.”
“Not all of it,” Krofft said. “Everything fits.”
“Neat as a pin.” Jonatha considered a moment. “How d’you want to play the Dementieva angle?”
“It’s clear Dickinson blew his chance to capture McClure. McClure’s on the run. Where d’you think he’s going to go?” He inclined his head toward the image on the screen. “We find the Dementieva woman, we find McClure.”
“That presupposes she’ll be easier to find than McClure.”
A thin, predatory smile split Krofft’s face. “I have a line on her. I know where she is, or, rather, where she was forty-eight hours ago.”
“Who have you tasked with the mission?”
“Better for you not to know.” Krofft’s forefinger stabbed out and the screens went black.
P ART T WO
T WO H EADS A RE B ETTER THAN O NE
S IX
T HE S ÜMELA Monastery, built into an immense ledge carved into a steep cliff of Melá mountain, in Turkey’s Trabzon Province, reached its height in 1204. Legend had it that it was founded by two priests who discovered an icon of the Virgin Mary in a massive cave set into the ledge. A crumbling ruin now, the buildings were still the site of pilgrimages from the Greek and Russian Orthodox faithful.
As she looked out at the inner edge of the Altindere valley, Annika wondered about the origin of the legend. From the time she was a little girl, she had been fascinated by myths and legends, not the least this one, for she had been making her own private pilgrimages to this valley for years.
The Assumption of Mary Clinic, through whose gates the car that bore her was now proceeding, spread its wings on either side of the green-gravel driveway that swept through lush stands of towering pine trees. The clinic was situated just inside the southern perimeter of Altindere, which nowadays was a national park.
The city of Trabzon lay along the southern curve of the Black Sea. In centuries past, it had been a major port, where merchants from Greece, Italy, and Belgium met with their brethren from the east, buying and selling all manner of goods. The rise of the Ottoman Empire brought this brief, highly lucrative golden age to an abrupt close. From that time forward, the line between east and west had been indelibly drawn in the blood of Crusaders and Janissaries alike.
The late afternoon was cloudless. The sun struck the stone structure of the clinic at a sharp, raking angle, turning it a deep bronze color, as if it were made of metal. An odd, purplish tint stained the vault of the sky, below which the black crosses of vultures silently wheeled.
Iraj Namazi, the large-framed, charismatic man sitting beside Annika in the backseat, had been speaking about the philosophy of terrorism. “It’s a matter of dislocation,” he was saying now. “After the bomb goes off, the gas is released, the plane or train is blown up, what is your real and lasting accomplishment? Beyond the immediate carnage, you
“Jesus. And McClure is cozy with the granddaughter.” Jonatha drummed her fingers on Krofft’s desk. “That can’t be good.”
“No,” Krofft acknowledged. “In fact, it’s very, very bad.”
Jonatha pointed. “Let me see the girl again.” When the close-up of Annika returned to the screen, she said, “Is the rest of her as erotic?”
Krofft raised his hand and another shot of Annika appeared, this one shot from a distance. Though it was slightly grainy, her long, powerful legs were clearly visible.
Jonatha nodded. “If you know about the relationship, Paull must have as well.”
“What I can’t figure out is why he didn’t put a stop to it.”
Jonatha spread her hands. “Maybe he tried.”
“And maybe he didn’t. McClure was his golden boy. I think that’s what cost him his life.”
“But we know that the Syrian is running the mole.”
“What if he was running McClure through the Dementieva woman?”
Jonatha nodded slowly. “That makes perfect sense, but as of now it’s just speculation.”
“Not all of it,” Krofft said. “Everything fits.”
“Neat as a pin.” Jonatha considered a moment. “How d’you want to play the Dementieva angle?”
“It’s clear Dickinson blew his chance to capture McClure. McClure’s on the run. Where d’you think he’s going to go?” He inclined his head toward the image on the screen. “We find the Dementieva woman, we find McClure.”
“That presupposes she’ll be easier to find than McClure.”
A thin, predatory smile split Krofft’s face. “I have a line on her. I know where she is, or, rather, where she was forty-eight hours ago.”
“Who have you tasked with the mission?”
“Better for you not to know.” Krofft’s forefinger stabbed out and the screens went black.
P ART T WO
T WO H EADS A RE B ETTER THAN O NE
S IX
T HE S ÜMELA Monastery, built into an immense ledge carved into a steep cliff of Melá mountain, in Turkey’s Trabzon Province, reached its height in 1204. Legend had it that it was founded by two priests who discovered an icon of the Virgin Mary in a massive cave set into the ledge. A crumbling ruin now, the buildings were still the site of pilgrimages from the Greek and Russian Orthodox faithful.
As she looked out at the inner edge of the Altindere valley, Annika wondered about the origin of the legend. From the time she was a little girl, she had been fascinated by myths and legends, not the least this one, for she had been making her own private pilgrimages to this valley for years.
The Assumption of Mary Clinic, through whose gates the car that bore her was now proceeding, spread its wings on either side of the green-gravel driveway that swept through lush stands of towering pine trees. The clinic was situated just inside the southern perimeter of Altindere, which nowadays was a national park.
The city of Trabzon lay along the southern curve of the Black Sea. In centuries past, it had been a major port, where merchants from Greece, Italy, and Belgium met with their brethren from the east, buying and selling all manner of goods. The rise of the Ottoman Empire brought this brief, highly lucrative golden age to an abrupt close. From that time forward, the line between east and west had been indelibly drawn in the blood of Crusaders and Janissaries alike.
The late afternoon was cloudless. The sun struck the stone structure of the clinic at a sharp, raking angle, turning it a deep bronze color, as if it were made of metal. An odd, purplish tint stained the vault of the sky, below which the black crosses of vultures silently wheeled.
Iraj Namazi, the large-framed, charismatic man sitting beside Annika in the backseat, had been speaking about the philosophy of terrorism. “It’s a matter of dislocation,” he was saying now. “After the bomb goes off, the gas is released, the plane or train is blown up, what is your real and lasting accomplishment? Beyond the immediate carnage, you
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