The Sign (34 page)

“We’ve got to go,” Dalton told her, his voice hollow.

“What about Finch? We can’t leave him here like this.”

“We can’t take him with us,” he replied softly. “We just can’t.”

After a brief moment, she nodded, still reluctantly but with a hint of clarity seeping back into her. “You’re right,” she said. She looked over at the abbot. “Can you . . . ?”

Sparing her the need to say it, the abbot nodded solemnly. “Of course,” he told her. “We’ll take care of him until we can send him home . . . properly.” He paused, as if to make sure she was all right with that, then glanced over at the Previa and the men huddled around it. She followed his gaze. The faint drone of the radio was still there, threatening like a malevolent siren.

“You should go now,” he added, “as planned.”

AS
THEY
GATHERED
THEIR
GEAR
, Gracie and Dalton watched as a few monks, aided by the driver, lifted Finch’s body onto a makeshift stretcher—an old door that they’d lifted off its hinges—and carried him inside the main chapel. Four other monks picked up the rest of the news crew’s gear, and the small troupe followed the abbot out of the sun-soaked courtyard and into the cool darkness of the monastery.

They trudged past the entrance of the Church of the Holy Virgin and the refectory, until they reached an ancient, unlit stairwell.

“You’ll need the lamps from here on,” the abbot instructed. The monks lit up a succession of small, camping gas lanterns, casting a cool white pallor across the stone passage. Slowly, they descended a narrow staircase, kicking up a fine mist of pungent dust, and landed in another passage that led them past a couple of olive-oil cellars, where some of the world’s earliest dated books—brought to the monastery by monks fleeing religious persecution in Syria and Baghdad in the eighth century—had been discovered in the mid-1800s, and on to the entrance of Saint Bishoi’s cave.

The abbot pushed the crumbling timber door open and led them in. The cave was dark and narrow, no bigger than a small bedroom. Gracie held her lantern up for a closer look. The cave’s floor was begrimed with dirt, its ceiling vaulted with rough-hewn stone. She saw nothing to support the legend she’d read about during the downtime on their journey over—the legend that Bishoi’s devotion to his faith was so powerful that he used to tie his hair to a chain that dangled from the roof of the cave, to make sure he didn’t fall asleep for days on end while awaiting the vision of Christ that he was praying for.

“It’s this way,” the abbot said.

Gracie swung her lantern in his direction. In a corner of the cave, to the left of the doorway, skulked another rotting timber door, this one even smaller than the one leading into the cave. Two monks helped the abbot pull it open, smothering the tight space with more dust. Gracie edged closer and spotted the entrance to the narrow, low tunnel. It was no more than five feet high and three across, a black hole that sucked in the dim gaslight just as it had barely made it inside.

“God be with you,” the abbot told Father Jerome as, one by one, they dropped their heads and clambered into the tight passage. Gracie was the last one in. She hesitated for a moment, still choking inside at the thought of abandoning Finch, before nodding a parting half smile at the abbot, clenching her jaw with stoic acceptance, and disappearing into the tunnel’s oppressive darkness.

Bedford, Massachusetts

M
att slowed the Camry right down as the woods on either side of the two-lane road gave way to a handful of low office buildings that dozed behind snow-dusted lawns.

He slid a sideways glance at Jabba and said, “Heads up,” before scanning the surroundings.

There were no other cars on the road, and the area seemed very sedate. They cruised past the entrance to a small air force base that was tucked away to their right. A lone, bored guard manned its flimsy red-and-white barrier. The base shared its runway with the adjacent civilian airfield, but little else. From what they could see, it seemed austere and outdated, a stark contrast to the two swanky flight services buildings farther down the road that catered to the well-heeled clientele who favored flying their private jets into Hanscom Field to avoid the air traffic delays and heavy-handed security at Boston’s Logan Airport—the twin wonders of twenty-first-century air travel.

The approach road led to the civilian air terminal, which wasn’t exactly a hotbed of activity either. There, it doglegged left, then looped back on itself, ringing a disproportionately large, trapezoidal, asphalted central space that served as the visitors’ parking lot. Matt counted less than a dozen cars parked there, and none that he recognized.

The hangars and planes were to his right, on the outside of the ring road, across the street from the parking lot. The high-pitched whine of a taxiing jet could be heard behind one of the two main hangars. Given that we lived in a post-9/11 world, the low-level security was surprising. A pretty basic chain-link fence, seven feet high at best, with an extra foot on top canted outward, was all that separated the road from the apron. You could practically reach through the fence and touch the planes that were dotted around the hangar area. As he drove around the return leg of the road, Matt saw two entry points to the airfield. Again, surprisingly basic: chain-link rolling fences, two cars wide, that slid sideways on small metal wheels. No guardhouses. No guards. Just a swipe-card reader and an intercom on a stalk for those who weren’t regular visitors.

“Check it again,” Matt told Jabba. “We need a tighter fix on the bastard.”

“I don’t know, dude,” Jabba replied warily. “We’re too close.”

“Just don’t break your forty-second rule and we’ll be fine, right?”

Jabba studied him with a wry look. “You think that cocky optimism of yours might have anything to do with your getting that priority pass to prison?”

“Nah. Back then, I was just reckless,” Matt quipped.

“Didn’t really need to know that right now,” Jabba groaned as he fired up his laptop and phone. He zoomed right in on the linked Google map, then killed the connection. The tracker was about four hundred yards ahead, at the far edge of the apron, just before the tree line, beyond the second hangar and what looked like a smaller outbuilding.

“What’s he doing in there?” Jabba asked.

“Either dropping someone off or, more likely, meeting someone who’s flying in.” Matt twisted around, scanning the perimeter. He glimpsed a small private jet crossing from behind one hangar to another. It was rolling toward the tracker’s position.

Matt’s pulse quickened with a jolt of urgency. His instincts told him he needed to be in there—fast. He frowned at the near gate, giving his options a quick run-through, then saw the other gate, the one farther down and closer to the tracker, open up. He tensed—but it wasn’t the Merc, or the 300C, coming out. Just a silver Town and Country minivan, idling as the gate rolled back.

He nudged the throttle, propelling the Camry forward, its narrow tires giving out a tortured squeal. The car accelerated down the ring road, the airfield’s perimeter fence to its right. He was eighty yards away when the gate had rolled back far enough for the minivan to nose forward. Sixty yards away when the minivan had cleared the gate, turned right, and was driving off. Forty yards away when the gate had clicked to a stop and started to roll back. Twenty yards away when the gate was halfway shut—and closing. Which, given that it was two cars wide, meant the math wasn’t on his side.

Matt didn’t lift his foot. Fifteen yards from the gate, he twisted the steering wheel left to send the car swerving wide before flicking it right again while giving the gas pedal a violent kick. The Camry’s soft shock absorbers went into cardiac arrest as the rear end swung around and the small car leaned dangerously to the left, the momentum shifting its entire weight onto its two left tires—but Matt got what he wanted. The car had fishtailed into a position perpendicular to the gate and was now rushing toward it. Matt kept his foot down and threaded the Camry in, flying past the gate’s fixed post, while scraping the car’s right side against the incoming edge.

They were in.

THE
BULLET
WATCHED
attentively as the Citation X veered left on the wide apron and pulled up between the outbuilding and the edge of the tree line, by the parked Merc and the 300C.

The X was a fabulous piece of engineering. Its Rolls-Royce turbofan engines took it to within a whisker of Mach 1, which meant it could fly twelve passengers from New York to L.A. in under four hours and in the height of luxury. Little wonder, Maddox mused, that it was the private-jet-du-jour for the lucky Forbes-level big-hitters who weren’t even aware there was a credit crunch going on: the biggest Hollywood stars, free-spending Russian tycoons—and evangelist preachers. Humble servants of the Lord like Kenneth and Gloria Copeland, who got their megachurch’s army of faithful followers to stump up twenty million dollars for their customized X to help them follow God’s personal directive and spread His word more efficiently.

The Bullet had used the spot before: It was tucked away at the far end of the airfield, away from prying eyes. It was well suited for whisking certain camera-shy clients in and out of the city unnoticed—usually, post-operative or post-scandal celebrities, or masters of the universe putting together sensitive transactions.

In this case, things were different.

As the plane’s tail-mounted engines whined down, a voice crackled in his earpiece.

“A white Camry just snuck in through the south gate,” the operative said. “I think it’s our boys.”

Maddox casually raised his wrist to his mouth and spoke clearly into his cuff mike. “Got it. Stay with them. And take them down once the package is in the car.”

He stepped closer to the plane as its door snapped open, his eyes casually sweeping the environment. He didn’t see anything suspicious, and turned his attention back to the plane, where Rebecca Rydell and her two bodyguards were now coming down the stairs.

MATT
TURNED
LEFT
and hugged the back of the first hangar. He reached its corner and stopped, then edged forward slowly, looking out. He whirred his window open, and he could hear the plane in the distance, powering down, but he couldn’t see it, so he feathered the throttle again and crossed over to the second hangar. From what he could see on the frozen map on the laptop’s screen, there was nothing but open tarmac from there to the tracker’s position.

He edged forward. In the distance, about a hundred yards ahead, was the outbuilding, a low, concrete structure with no windows. He could see the tail of the jet sticking out from behind it, as well as the tailgate of a black Dodge Durango. A couple of private jets and a handful of smaller propeller-driven planes sat idly between the hangar and the outbuilding. They provided some kind of cover—which he needed if they were going to get closer without being spotted.

He decided to cut across and get behind the outbuilding. From there, they would be able to see what was going on—and, if feasible, Matt could make his move. He pulled out his handgun. Sat it on his lap. Noticed Jabba looking at him warily.

“You do realize it’s empty, right?” Jabba said.

“They don’t know that,” Matt replied. “Besides, I don’t plan on needing it.”

Which, judging from Jabba’s expression, didn’t seem to reassure him much.

“You can get out here and wait for me, if you want,” Matt told him.

Jabba looked left and right at the deserted area behind the hangar, then turned back to Matt. “I think I’ll stick around. It’s not exactly Grand Central Terminal out here, you know what I mean?”

Matt nodded, sat the gun in his lap, and eased the car forward.

They shadowed the parked aircraft and pulled in behind the outbuilding. It was a power substation and had a low, metal fence around it. Matt nosed forward, just enough to give them a view of the plane without exposing any more than the side of the car’s A-pillar.

Two men were escorting a young, tanned blonde off the plane.

Jabba leaned forward, his jaw dropping with surprise. “Whoa.”

Matt slid a reproachful glance at him. “Not now, tiger—”

“No, dude,” Jabba interrupted urgently. “She’s Rydell’s daughter.”

Matt studied her with more interest. She stepped off the stairs and glanced around uncertainly as the two men led her over to Maddox, who spoke to her briefly before leading them to the waiting Durango. As he opened the SUV’s rear door, he glanced across the tarmac and over in Matt’s direction, and their eyes met. Matt flinched slightly, but Maddox didn’t. In fact, he didn’t seem rattled at all. Which, given that he’d spotted them, could only mean one thing.

The hard steel muzzle that suddenly nudged Matt just above his ear confirmed it.

Deir Al-Anba Bishoi Monastery, Wadi Natrun, Egypt

Half an hour after climbing into the tunnel, Gracie, Dalton, Father Jerome, Brother Ameen, and their four black-robed sherpas all emerged into a musty old cellar at the neighboring monastery. A few anxious monks, led by the local abbot, were there to greet them.

Gracie laid her backpack down, dusted herself off, and stretched her back as the abbot fussed over Father Jerome. He looked haunted. A compact, elderly man by the name of Antonius, the abbot seemed completely awed by the miraculous monk’s presence as well as rattled by the turn of events—which was expected. She watched his wrinkled fingers as they trembled while clasping Father Jerome’s hand tightly. “Praise God that you’re all right,” he was telling him as he fired off a nervous prattle of words and led them up a stone stairwell and into the monastery’s refectory.

They were offered cold water and took a moment to catch their breath before heading out into balmy daylight. The monastery had the same beige, Tatooine-like feel as the one they had just left, and although it was smaller, it was no less venerable. Many Coptic popes had started off as monks there, including the current pope, Shenouda
III
. It also enjoyed its share of religious myth. The body of Saint Bishoi himself—his name was the Coptic word for “sublime”—was kept there, sealed inside a wooden container that was wrapped in clear plastic. He was believed to be lying perfectly preserved and uncorrupted by time, even today, a claim that was hard to verify given that the container was locked away in a coffin and the faithful told stories of his reaching out from inside it and shaking their hands, seemingly undeterred by the limitations of physics. The magic wasn’t limited to him either. Nearby and similarly sealed were the remains of another monk by the name of Paul, a fellow ascetic who was rumored to have committed suicide—successfully—seven times.