Comes a Horseman (53 page)

The first step in their POA was to gather intel about Scaramuzzi's current operations from ancillary players, working from the least likely to have information—area shopkeepers and the community at large—inward, toward the center of the knowledge circle, which was Scaramuzzi himself.

They would pattern their investigation on those conducted by the Bureau's organized crime task force: use surveillance to gather a list of players, then try to ascertain each one's role and level of authority, as well as his or her potential as a source of information and as a possible ally.

The POA would be in a constant state of refinement. With each new piece of information, with each new lead, the plan would shift and flex, sometimes dramatically. That was the nature of the beast they were riding. The only rule: Don't fall off.

Their objective was to gather enough evidence against Scaramuzzi to force Israel or Italy or the United States into taking action against him for one crime or another. If that didn't happen, they hoped to discredit him in the eyes of the Watchers. Ambrosi said a Watcher vote of no confidence always resulted in the disappearance of the Antichrist candidate. Brady had told Alicia he would accept either scenario. However, he had made it clear that should the investigation stall or should it become apparent that Scaramuzzi would likely get them before they got him, Brady would make a serious attempt to “put a slug in that scumbag's brainpan.”

Go, Brady,
she remembered thinking.

Their plan was weak, tissue-paper thin. Holes big enough to fall through. Full of ambiguities and what-ifs and enough optimism to get the whole planet off anti-depression meds forever. But it was all they had—that or rolling over and letting Scaramuzzi kill them and anyone else he wanted to.

Alicia bit her lip and looked out the porthole window. Blue sky. Wisps of cloud.

What are we doing?
she thought.

What we have to,
came her answer.
What we have been thrust into doing.

In the faint reflection of the plastic window, she saw herself smile.

Bring it on. Bring . . . it . . . on.

BEN-GURION WAS much smaller than da Vinci, less concerned with first impressions. No soaring ceilings, no modern art, no sunlight glinting off expensive stone and metals. It reminded her of the countless small airports she'd seen with her travel-obsessed mother. A place of embarking and disembarking, a few stores and eateries—nothing more, nothing less. There was a charm to its no-nonsense, no-frills practicality, not unlike a neighborhood bakery.

At customs, Alicia remembered that an Israeli passport stamp could prevent a traveler from entering certain Arab countries, and sometimes worse. It was what made the PLO hijackers of the cruise liner
Achille Lauro
target and murder American Jew Leon Klinghoffer in 1985. Ink in a passport. Israeli customs often accommodated fretful tourists by stamping a sticky-note that later could be thrown away.

She immediately became Alicia-the-filmmaker and initiated the inspection of the CSD helmet-cum-camera; they skated through without a hitch. Outside customs, she checked her watch against a wall clock, as she had done yesterday in Rome.

“Up an hour,” she informed Brady. “2:23.”

He fiddled with his watch and said, “Breakfast time in the States. I want to call Zach.” He scanned for a pay phone.

“All right,” she said. “I need to find a restroom. I'll meet you at the Hertz counter.”

She shot off toward a corridor that looked promising. She'd walked a hundred yards and was about to backtrack when she saw a pictogram of a woman above a doorless portal. She strode in.

The room was vacant. She chose the second stall from the last. On the toilet, she slipped off her blazer and inspected her arm, touching the bandages gingerly. Her prodding yielded dull points of pain that fanned out like ripples in a pond. A few pokes produced bolts of electric agony that shot up into her shoulder and neck. Even her lower back ached with a kind of aftershock. Still, she prodded some more, as if daring the wound to torment her again.

Footsteps clicked on the tile. The person paused, then went into the first stall and latched the door.

Alicia collected her things and went to the sink. She splashed water on her face, wiped it off with rough paper towels. She kept looking at her arm in the mirror. The blood was soaking through more quickly now. She would have to change the dressing in the car. Maybe put a strip of duct tape over it to prevent the blood from leaking through to her blazer.

She sighed heavily and appraised herself in the mirror. Overall, not too shabby, considering. The cardinal's comfortable guest bed, the morning's long, hot shower and healthy breakfast, the clean clothes had all helped, aesthetically and emotionally. Now, if only they knew what they were doing and she didn't have a gimp arm.

She put the blazer back on, picked up her purse and satchel from the counter, and headed out. She rounded a wall, turned out the door, and ran directly into a man who apparently had been standing just outside the threshold. She took a step back.

“Excuse—,” she started, then stopped. The man was grinning at her. He was movie-star handsome. Square jaw. Large dark eyes. Strong brow and nose. Olive skin that could pass for a deep tan. Where his facial hair would grow if it were not shaved, his skin was a shade darker. Very masculine, with boyish qualities in his eyes and smile.

“Alicia, Alicia, it's nice to meet cha,” he said with a singsong lilt. His voice was seductive.

For a moment, she tried to place him. She could not imagine forgetting this man, but nothing came.

“I'm sorry, do I know—”

Someone stepped up behind her from inside the restroom. She felt a hand pull at the satchel. She started to turn, caught a glimpse of a man. Bald. Severe looking. She drew in a sharp breath, ready to yell an obscene accompaniment to the blow she was preparing to strike with her elbow. A hand came around from the other side. It pressed a cloth over her mouth. Her lungs filled with a sweet, pleasant tang.

An anesthetic!

She tried to jerk away. The hand held her head firmly against the chest of the man behind her. She moved her arms, flailing and striking and causing great damage. But a second later she realized her arms were not obeying. They hung limply. Her eyes rolled up, down—from the ceiling to the handsome man's face. His smile broke as he moved his lips to speak.

What . . . can't hear . . . gotta warn Brady . . . gotta . . .

Everything went dark.

69

A
fter examining the pay phone, Brady used cash to buy a calling card from an exchange counter. He inserted it and dialed, prefixing the Oakleys' number with the 011 country code. The phone on the other end rang. He smiled, almost giddy with the prospect of talking to his son. On the third ring a woman answered.

“Kari?”

“Brady? Brady, how are you? Where are you?”

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah. The kids are getting along wonderfully, as usual. The first day, Zach kind of picked at his food, you know? You could tell he was down. Taylor and Tommy kept trying to cheer him up. Yesterday was better. He started laughing with the others. Ate all his dinner. 'Cept his broccoli. He doesn't like broccoli?”

“No. Can you put him on?”

“Oh. They gobbled down their breakfast and took off. Down to the creek, I think. Something about building a fort.” Pause. “I can go get him . . .”

Brady knew the creek was a good twenty-minute walk over some rugged terrain.

“No, that's okay. Are you expecting them for lunch?”

“You bet. Twelve thirty.”

“I'll try back then. Don't let him take off till I call, 'kay?”

“I'll tie him to the chair,” she said, laughing.

“Thanks, Kari. Talk to you then.”

He hung up, but his hand would not release the receiver. He was glad for Zach's having kids to play with and a project to take his mind off things, but he craved speaking to his son. He closed his eyes and recalled holding him on the couch thirty minutes before they were attacked. He had been squeezing the boy so tight, he could feel his heart beat.

“Hul khalast?”

Brady jumped. A turbaned man in business attire and holding a briefcase stood to one side. He repeated his query, gesturing with his head at the phone.

“Sorry,” Brady mumbled. He hitched the bags over his shoulders, turned the rolling suitcase around, and wheeled it away.

“La termi!”
someone called.

He turned. The man at the phone was holding up Brady's calling card. He walked back, took it with a nod, and pocketed it. He followed the rental car signs to an escalator and rode it to the floor below. He found the Hertz counter, but Alicia had not yet arrived.

He waited behind a couple unsuccessfully bargaining for an upgrade, watched the people coming off the escalator in the distance, checked the time. The couple left, and he stepped up to the counter. The rental process took ten minutes, and when he turned away, keys, agreement, and map in hand, Alicia still had not shown up.

He rode the escalator back to the main level and walked to the spot where they had parted. He had not seen where she went. The restroom, she'd said. Was she sick? Could authorities have stopped her, detained her? Alicia wouldn't have allowed herself to be taken away without getting word to him—probably in the form of a miniriot of broken noses and screams of pain.

He eyed the people and the services in the direction he had taken when he left her. Tourists trickled out of the customs lines, several stopping to wait for traveling companions. On this side of customs, three round pillars quartered the wide room like sentinels, protecting the rest of the terminal from arriving tourists until their presence in the country was approved. Brady's vision scanned past them, then went back to a man leaning his right shoulder against one of the pillars. He was dressed sharply in casual clothes. Chocolate pleated slacks. Royal blue short-sleeved shirt that appeared tailored to the man's tapered torso. His arms were crossed, and he was looking directly at Brady. Smiling. The man nodded in greeting.

Brady looked around, saw no one else paying him undue attention. He headed toward the man, who came off the pillar as he neared.

“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.

“How would I—” And the next word froze in his throat. He did know. His stomach flopped over.

Expect anything, absolutely anything
, Ambrosi had said.

“Where is she?” he demanded. He resisted the temptation to slam his fist into Scaramuzzi's smug face, to get him on the ground and bludgeon him to death with . . .
anything
. The CSD case. A shoe. His hands.

“Halfway to Tel Aviv by now,” answered Scaramuzzi. He studied Brady's features, searching for something.

“What do you want with her?”

“Are you going to waste our time together with stupid questions?”

Brady glared. “All right. What do you want from
me
?”

“Let's go somewhere. I know a room.”

He took a step. Brady grabbed his arm.

“Here's fine,” he said.

Scaramuzzi nodded. “I want the file.”

Brady's mind raced.
File? What file?
He kept his face expressionless. He needed time to think.

“How did you find us?” he said, stalling.
The Pelletier case file? A computer file? The video walk-through?

“Same way we knew where the two of you would be three days ago. What your FBI knows, we know.”

“If I give you the file right now, you'll release her, unharmed?” He patted his satchel with his fingers for effect.

Scaramuzzi cocked his head. “Very funny.”

“You expect me to give you the file without getting her in return? You're as insane as I heard you were.”

Scaramuzzi's eyes hardened. “Just get the file,” he said. “When you have it, bring it to this address.” He handed Brady a business card.

It was thick and silky to the touch. There was an Italian crest on it, Scaramuzzi's name, and “Asia House.” Under that, in small script, was an address in Tel Aviv. The card trembled in Brady's hand. He shoved it into his pocket. He wanted to say something, anything. Maybe,
I have no idea what you're talking about!
But he was afraid that would squash any hope of getting Alicia back alive.

Just stay alive and see what happens,
he thought.

“Instead of doing it this way, we could have tailed you,” Scaramuzzi said. “Killed all of you when you made the pickup.”

“So why didn't you?”

“Pip's a little paranoid right now. Seems someone shot him in the head.” He plunged both his hands into his pants pockets, rocked up on the balls of his feet, and came down again. He appeared completely at ease.

Brady remained silent.
Pip? Who is Pip?

“Even
my
men couldn't sneak up on that old dog in his present state,” Scaramuzzi continued. “No, better to let you go get what you need to get your girl back.”