The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (18 page)

“We could walk down to Lexington and get the Six train,” said Connor as he and Stew exited the Metropolitan Museum opposite 83rd Street.

Manthey looked uptown on Fifth and raised his right arm. “Let’s take a cab instead.”

Its flashers still blinking, the taxi slowed to a halt as Connor jumped in and Stew followed. “Bowery at Prince,” he told the driver. “Better to go down the FDR and cut across Houston than try to go through the city.”

The FDR …
it brought back unpleasant memories for Mustafa, who nearly three weeks ago had been a passenger in a truck that crashed on the 59th Street exit ramp of the FDR as it tried to escape the police. Mustafa still carried the bruises and sore right shoulder from that crash as a memory.

Mustafa turned off the flashers, checked his rearview mirror, and was about to pull away.

“Don’t go straight,” said the older man in the back. “Go left on 82nd and cross town. There will be less traffic that way. Then you can get on the FDR at 79th Street.”

You give orders like Tarik Ben Ali.

Mustafa edged his cab across two lanes of congested traffic on Fifth and managed to turn left on 82nd. He knew it didn’t matter what route they took: the destination was the same. Only these two would not reach the Bowery Mission. At least not in their current state.

“Hey, you forgot to turn on the meter.”

Mustafa pushed the button to start the fare calculator. “Thank you, sir.”
Just wait.

There was little traffic on the FDR along the East River. But as Mustafa drove his taxi off the ramp onto Houston Street, even on this end of Houston, in Alphabet City, amid the largest public housing project in New York, the street was clogged with vehicles and streaming with people. As Mustafa guided the cab farther west along the wide, four-lane avenue, the traffic and the flow of pedestrians grew heavier. On an August Saturday, with tourists swelling the ranks, it was near pandemonium. Mustafa didn’t care. This was familiar turf to Mustafa and his Prophet’s Guard brothers. And he trusted the crowds would help hide their intent.

The taxi inched to a stop at the traffic light on the corner of Avenue A.

“It might be faster if we walked,” said the older man. Mustafa began to panic.
It’s too soon. They can’t get out now.

“Wait, sir. There must be another way.”

Manthey’s eyes were on the driver, and he was about to suggest they bear right on the other side of the intersection and make the angled turn to drive up First Street, when the back doors on both sides of the taxi opened at the same time. Stew felt somebody push hard against his back, shoving him into the middle of the seat where he collided with Connor’s right shoulder.

Sitting on the driver’s side, Connor’s first thought when the door opened was annoyance that somebody was trying to hop into their cab while they were still using it. That thought lasted about a millisecond as the intruder threw the weight of his body at Bohannon and drove him into the middle of the back seat. It took no great flash of understanding for Connor to know what was happening. He knew his assailants. He didn’t know their intention. But he wasn’t going to wait to find out.

Connor yielded to the driving force against his left shoulder, allowing his right hip to pivot off the seat. His head and right shoulder slammed into Manthey’s chest. Connor quickly pulled his knees to his chest and—with his hands pushing against the seat—kicked out with both feet, hitting one of the intruders in the chest with his heavy Timberland boots, driving the man up and back, half out of the driver-side door.

“Drive!” hissed the man hanging out the door as he reached wildly for something to save him.

As the vehicle sprang to action, Manthey’s body jolted toward Connor. A searing pain punctured Manthey’s right side as the right shoulder strap to his backpack—holding the sprockets—was cut away. His left hand grabbed for the strap over his left shoulder as the pack was pulled away from his back.

Mustafa angled to the right to race up First Street … except the traffic light was still red. He missed the three young men who were halfway across Houston Street, but the
Daily News
delivery truck didn’t miss him. As the taxi bolted into the intersection, the truck slammed into its right front fender, throwing the taxi into a spin and turning the occupants into projectiles.

Hurled back to his right, against his attacker, Manthey heard a sickening crack as the rear passenger-side door of the taxi slammed shut. There was a cry of pain, and the sudden release of pressure against his shoulder.

Connor tried to lift himself off the floor of the cab, but his hand slipped on something wet and he dropped back onto the floor. Connor looked up to see Stew staring at him, his right hand dripping with blood.

“I’ve been stabbed.”

Stew’s eyes shone with the wild fury of a predator about to defend itself, but the backpack was held tightly in his left hand.

Connor quickly scanned the cab. They were alone.

“You’ll be okay, Stew. We can—”

The sirens were already getting closer, the Good Samaritans lining up at both doors.

“I’m a doctor. Please, just stay where you are.”

6:00 p.m., Jerusalem

A sweet aroma of cooking tomatoes, heavy with garlic, drifted into every corner of Kallie’s apartment. The air-conditioning was cranked up, doing battle with the August heat that sucked dry every drop of moisture and shortened every reservoir of patience. Sammy Rizzo was in the kitchen making “gravy,” what non-Italians call spaghetti sauce. Two hours ago, Rizzo stood up, said, “Cooking is therapy,” and walked out the front door. An hour later he was back, a bag-toting taxi driver in his wake. Rizzo retired to the kitchen with his supplies, and the only evidence of his presence was the pungent aroma and a few scattered snippets of Puccini’s
La Bohème
sliced to silence in mid-sentence as if Rizzo’s joy collided with the raw memory of his grief.

Annie was intoxicated by the familiar smell of cooking gravy, visions of her Grandmother Loscalzo’s house on a Sunday afternoon, all eleven sons and daughters and their families arranged around a motley collection of tables as her grandma carried platter after platter of homemade pasta and meatballs into the dining room. It was a struggle for her to remain focused on the conversation … except the conversation was outrageously impossible.