13th Apostle (11 page)

Later that afternoon
Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv

“First, some ground rules. Give me your cell phone,” Sabbie demanded.

“Why? It doesn't even work outside the U.S.”

“So you won't miss it.”

“It's got all my phone numbers on it,” he argued.

“You'll live.”

“I hope so,” he retorted.

He could barely keep up with her giant strides. “Look, it really would help if you would just take a second and explain some of your more bizarre actions,” Gil suggested.

She sighed, rolled her eyes, and slowed to a moderate pace. “
You
may not be able to use your cell phone here, but it's got a Global Positioning System in it, right?”

“So what?”

“Didn't it ever occur to you they work in two directions?” she asked. “You might as well have one of those little chips implanted into your brain. Anybody with big bucks can find out where you are anytime they want.”

“Who'd care?”

She held her free hand out. “Give me your credit card.”

“Why?”

“You really have trouble with this trust thing, don't you?” she asked.

“Yes, when I'm running to keep up with a woman with a gun who's got my cell phone and has me call in a bomb scare to a world renowned museum and is now demanding my credit card without explanation, yes, I do have a problem with that, I guess.”

She stopped and turned to look at him. “Listen, I'm going to say this one time and it's going to have to last. This isn't a game. We're playing with the big kids now. There's more at stake than you can ever imagine. We're not just talking about a mate to The Cave 3 Scroll. We're probably looking at something far greater than a firsthand-account of Jesus' life and death.”

Her words would have been enough to communicate the seriousness of the situation, but the look on her face brought it home.

“These people have probably already killed three times, four if you count Ludlow's wife, Sarah, and that's without knowing what the diary says about the scroll. Imagine what they'll do when they find out what we know.”

If he hadn't been certain she was overreacting, Gil might have been truly frightened. She was beautiful and convincing but she was, at the same time, more than a little paranoid. She suspected a connection between the mugging and the suicide that claimed the lives of two faculty members several months before Ludlow's tragic death. No matter that the police saw no association. She claimed the police were blind and too busy with more political concerns.

While she and Ludlow might have considered Nathan McCullum to be a big, bad scary man, Gil had seen the man's name inscribed in large bold letters right there in the lobby, on the Museum's Wall of Benefactors. Obviously, not a man the Museum considered a major threat to security.

Her conspiracy theory pointed to a ring of villains whose identities changed from moment to moment and, at last count, she'd even begun to suspect George.

Why not add the strange little guy who picks up the Museum trash to your list of subjects. After all, if we're going to make it a paranoia free-for-all, we might as well go all the way.

From the little he remembered from Psych 101, she was an example of classic post-traumatic syndrome. Almost certainly from the rape. On the other hand, she was the only game in town and, if he didn't want to go with DeVris, which for some reason he didn't, he'd better stick with her. Eventually, her conspiracy theory would fall apart and she'd come to see how crazy the whole idea was. At least, he hoped it would.

They were approaching the El Al counter for flights to the U.S. He handed her his credit card, and she booked two first-class seats to New York.

“Aren't we going to Weymouth?” he asked as he signed away half his checking account balance.

She stomped on his foot. Hard but deftly so that the attendant did not notice.

“Yes, dear. But I thought we'd spend a few days in Manhattan before heading for Weymouth, Massachusetts.” She smiled at the agent and helped Gil limp toward the boarding gate.

“Lucky for you there's a city in the States with the same name. From now on, let me do all the talking,” she said.

Sabbie handed him the ticket receipts. “Hold onto these. You'll need them to get your refund,” she said, then tossed his cell phone in the open trash can.

He knew she was up to something but this was not the time to ask for an accounting.

“Can't they trace the phone back here?” he asked.

“I'm betting on it,” she said.

With only forty minutes before boarding time they had to hurry. They made it to the British Airways counter, this one selling seats for Europe-bound flights. She talked her way to the front of the line, using a sob story about her dying mother-in-law. Gil figured that his look of distress probably did much to add to the believability of her performance.

“Give me your credit card again,” she said.

Without even bothering to protest, Gil handed over his American Express card and watched in disbelief as she pulled a ballpoint pen out of her jacket pocket, then dragged the tip of the ballpoint pen across the magnetic strip on the back.

“Now watch and learn,” she said, as they stepped up to the counter.

The airline ticket agent, unable to process the card, apologized profusely.

“I am so sorry. Once a card is rejected, we are prohibited from entering the numbers into our systems. It's for your own protection,” the agent added. “Do you have another card?”

Sabbie frowned and shook her head. “But it was working five minutes ago!” she said loudly. “I don't know what you did to it. What are we supposed to do now?”

Timidly the agent asked if Sabbie and Gil might have the cash necessary for their first-class seats. Sabbie explained that they had traveler's checks that could be cashed in for coach fares. She added that she kept the traveler's checks for emergencies and was quite unhappy with not being able to use their credit card. She made a point to call the agent by name and to repeat her feelings of dissatisfaction. Five minutes later they were walking away with first-class seats on a flight to London, having been graciously upgraded from coach.

“The first-class seats were just an afterthought,” Sabbie explained. “I figure we're going to need to get some sleep while we can. The real goal was to pay cash but not have them realize we
wanted
to pay cash. When it comes to airline tickets, cash payments on the day of departure are red flags and more than enough reason for investigation. Since we requested a credit card charge that
they
couldn't comply with, we're not considered suspicious.”

“But we're holding seats on two different flights bound for two different countries,” Gil pressed. “I know how these systems work. When they pick up our double booking, the computer could cancel all of our reservations and leave us with no seats at all.”

“You give them too much credit. Our bookings are with two different airlines. They never exchange info unless the flight is a code share or something like that.”

They had only twenty minutes to get through security and make it to the U.S. bound flight, she said.

“But what about our flight to England?” Gil asked.

“Trust me, there's a method to my madness,” she said with a mischievous grin. “No time to get into the details, just give me your N.S.A. card.”

She took his hand and pulled him to a near run. “C'mon,” she urged.

Gil struggled to talk in a near whisper, pull out his N.S.A. card, and run beside her at the same time. “Its authorized cyber-entry only. Unless you plan on accessing someone's database before we get onboard…” He reached for his wallet to prove the limits of the pass.

“For crying out loud, Gil!” She grabbed the wallet, located the card, and returned his wallet in less time than it took him to slide it back into his pocket.

The security line was at least a half hour long. Sabbie cut past the obedient passengers and pulled an airport security inspector aside.

“Who's your immediate superior?” Sabbie asked authoritatively.

The young agent looked around frantically and signaled to a short, round woman. Sabbie propelled Gil by the elbow and met the supervisor halfway. She flashed Gil's N.S.A. card and handed the supervisor their passports and their boarding passes.

“I'm Agent Sabra Karaim from the U.S. National Security Administration,” she said, “and I need your help.”

The supervisor snapped to attention, which added a good two inches to her less than five-foot-tall frame.

“We need to get this man on board with as little fuss as possible,” Sabbie explained. “He shouldn't give us any trouble, it's a white collar crime and he knows that I'm trained in Lotar. I would like to get him to his seat without alarming any of the passengers.”

The supervisor glanced down at Gil's free hands and at the stronghold Sabbie had on his elbow. Sabbie's explanation seemed to resolve any remaining concerns.

Sabbie continued her reassurances. “If you can accompany us to the gate and arrange pre-boarding, I won't have to place him in handcuffs. I'll hand off my weapon to you at the gate and if you place it in your Safe Box, I can retrieve it once we land,” Sabbie added. “Needless to say, we have no luggage.”

“Aren't there supposed to be two of you when you transport?” the supervisor asked, hesitantly.

“There are,” Sabbie answered, nodding toward a tall, well-dressed middle-aged man at the front of the line. In response to Sabbie's smile, he nodded back, and confirmed the illusion.

“Well, you folks are supposed to clear this with my boss,” the security agent said over her shoulder, as she moved toward the outside aisle.

“He's just been apprehended,” Sabbie explained, “and we have sixteen hours to get him back to the states before our extradition warrant expires.”

“I guess it'll be okay, as long as you turn over the gun.” Seemingly satisfied, the little round supervisor marched ahead, leading the way for this, her most important task of the day. Gil and Sabbie were seated immediately.

“See? No problem,” Sabbie said with obvious satisfaction. “If we were trying to get the gun into Israel it would be a different story, but taking it out of Israel presents no difficulty. Besides, they're always impressed as hell when a foreigner knows Lotar.”

“I don't know Lotar,” Gil complained. “What the hell is it anyway?”

“Israeli Martial Arts. It works on the idea that the simplest instinctive method of self-defense is the most effective,” she explained. “And I didn't say
you
knew it, I said a foreigner did. That's me, the American N.S.A. agent with the pass, remember?”

“But it has my name on it,” Gil whispered loudly. “You could have gotten us both arrested as terrorists!”

“They never read the passes. An N.S.A. card with the official seal can get you past almost any roadblock.”

“I'll remember that next time I plan to hijack a plane or need to cut a security line,” he said. “Wait a minute, doesn't your passport say you're Israeli?”

“Shhh. Here come the passengers.”

There was no time to force her to answer even if he had had the will to do so, which he hadn't.

“Clean cup, clean cup,” he muttered to himself. He was at the Mad Hatter's tea party and he was never going to get a straight answer. With a shrug to himself, he put all logic behind him and put his life in her hands.

The flight for New York took off on time and without a hitch. Gil started to doze, even as the engines were revving. The soft sound of Sabbie's voice on the airline phone was comforting in the background. He was asleep by the time they taxied out to the runway and didn't wake until they had returned to the gate and the flight attendant had initiated instructions on exiting the aircraft in this time of emergency.

“Don't tell me. Bomb scare,” he said.

She shrugged.

“You really need a more extensive repertoire,” he whispered.

“What can I say, you work with what you got,” she retorted.

“It's a good thing both planes are leaving from the same terminal,” she added more seriously. “We couldn't have made it if we had to go through security again. We have less than twenty minutes to get to our next flight.”

“Of course, we do,” he said flatly. “I should have known.”

As Gil breathlessly raced to keep up with her strides, Sabbie explained that the reason for the airline marathon was simple and surprisingly logical. Anyone following their trail would be sure to spot the American Express charge for their flight to New York. The airline's records would show that they had boarded the plane for the U.S., so there would be no need to check any other flights. Their tickets to London, on the other hand, had been paid in cash and were untraceable.

“But won't the airline be suspicious that we didn't reboard the U.S. flight?” Gil asked.

“Are you kidding? One little bomb scare and half your passengers cut bait and run. Especially…”

“I know, especially in Israel.”

Once settled into their seats aboard their England-bound flight, Sabbie filled him in on a setup she'd put in play earlier in the day.

“Early this morning, I stopped at DeVris' office supposedly to give him an update. I said you weren't making any headway in decoding the diary.”

“And he believed you?”

“No problem. He said from the start you'd never get past square one. He only agreed to take you on in order to satisfy Ludlow.”

“Oh, really?”

She hesitated, then continued. “Anyway, I told him I thought you needed a break, that I'd take you to the library in the afternoon to do some research on Weymouth.”

“Wouldn't he figure we could do that in the office on the Internet?”