The Illumination (14 page)

About the Eye of Dawn.

 

 

 

The woman in the window seat fidgeted, craning her head to scan the inky horizon visible beyond the wing of the plane. As it shuddered on its descent into Rome, she crossed herself rapidly, once, twice, three times, muttering a prayer and giving a small shrug of apology to Natalie.

The woman squeezed her eyes shut as the aircraft jiggled again. “Oh, Madonna mia!”

As the plane leveled off, she opened them again and spotted what she'd been searching for amid the twinkling lights below. “San Pietro! San Pietro!” she cried, beaming at Natalie and gesturing out the window, where Natalie could see the outline of the cathedral's grand dome overlooking Bernini's perfectly symmetrical colonnade and the eternal city that stretched beyond.

“
Grazie di Dio,
” the woman exclaimed, clutching the filigree cross at her throat along with the small golden horn she'd strung beside it to protect her from the evil eye.

Natalie smiled wanly at her, shifting wearily in her seat. She could see that the woman was convinced her cross and her
cornu
charm had brought her safely home. Italians were one of the few Mediterranean people who didn't employ eyes to deflect a malevolent stare, preferring a horn amulet to protect them: a single bull's horn, if worn around the neck—a double
one if formed by the fingers. She'd seen the gesture more than once—the two middle fingers pressed against the palm by the thumb, leaving the index and baby fingers extended to mimic a bull's horns, then jabbed in the direction of the perceived evil to push it away.

This woman wouldn't be the least bit impressed with the supposedly protective powers of the pendant in my shoulder bag,
Natalie decided. She herself wasn't the least bit sure Dana's “treasure”
was
protecting her. It seemed instead to be drawing danger to her. The only thing she knew with total certainty right now was that every muscle in her legs and arms ached from the cramped flight. As the wheels touched down with a dull thump, she fought the urge to spring immediately from her seat and stretch.

“Why don't I call Dr. Ashton while you arrange for the rental car?” Natalie suggested to D'Amato ten minutes later, as they hurried past the throng congregated at a Terminal B baggage carousel.

“You shouldn't use your cell phone here. We'll need to buy new ones in the morning.”

“Why? I switched my phone to international for my trip a few weeks ago—”

“It can be traced, Natalie. By anyone who has your phone number,” he said, lowering his voice. “And by now, it's possible quite a few people have learned it and are on the look-out for us. I'm sure Sean Watson has the FBI eager to hear our story. It won't take long before they know we've left the country. They'll alert Interpol. And don't forget about our Middle Eastern friends from last night. Plus, we still know nothing about that bozo who went after you in the museum—if he's working with them or for someone else.”

“Wonderful.” Natalie kept in step with him as they hurried toward passport control.

By the time they exited the terminal's glass doors and headed out into the cool night air, she felt her adrenaline pumping again.

“So how do you propose I warn Dr. Ashton we're about to burst in on him in the middle of the night?”

“Theoretically, it takes three minutes to track a cell phone in use. It's risky, but if you can keep the call under that, you can give him a heads-up. Otherwise you're broadcasting the whereabouts of your cell phone to everyone who wants to know where you've gone.”

 

Washington, D.C.

 

Elliott Warrick followed the petite gray-haired barracuda Jackson Wright employed as his secretary into the Secretary of Defense's walnut-paneled office.

“Eight minutes. Not a second more.” She glared at him and checked her watch even before he could shake hands with Wright. “He's leaving for the NATO meeting in Oslo in ten minutes. I'll be back to escort you out in six.”

“I thought you said eight.”

“You've just used up two of them.”

Warrick gave her the curtest of nods as he extended his hand to Jackson Wright. Justine Matthews annoyed the hell out of Warrick. She'd been with Wright since his days in the Senate, and she thought she owned him. Rumor had it that her proprietary hold on him extended even to his wife, whose calls were screened just like everyone else's.

“Mr. Secretary, you've received the latest update.”

Wright shoved the photos of Firefly across his desk. “And I've seen the pictures. What I want to know is, what the hell happened to it after Agent Tyrelle took these photos? And how is that MSNBC reporter's murder connected to all this?”

“We're still analyzing the data, trying to pinpoint the connection between Dana Landau's murder, Tyrelle's murder, the bomb that killed the two NSU agents—and another murder. Right before I came up here we got word that Rusty Sutherland, Landau's cameraman, has turned up dead in an abandoned building in New York. I believe every one of these is linked to Firefly—and to Dana Landau's sister, Dr. Natalie Landau.”

“Explain.” Wright's scowl took up most of his face.

“At nearly the same time we lost the NSU agents waiting to
serve Natalie Landau with a search warrant,” Warrick continued, “we now believe she and MSNBC's Jim D'Amato were meeting with FBI Special Agent Luther Tyrelle. Tyrelle took these photos at that meeting and e-mailed them to his computer just before he was killed. Shortly after that meeting, Tyrelle's partner, Sean Watson, got a call from D'Amato and the woman with him, alerting him that Tyrelle was down and that they were being pursued by two vehicles in the area of Grand and Humboldt.”

Wright shifted impatiently in his chair. “The three Middle Eastern males who died in that chase—and the one still in ICU—have you ID'd them yet?”

“Only one with certainty. Khalil Hadi, the driver of one of the two vehicles. He's been on our radar because of his link to the Guardians of the Khalifah. The survivor in ICU is a twenty-two-year-old American citizen, Marwan Younis. Born here but raised in Bahrain. He was one of the shooters.”

“So. Word about Firefly traveled instantly.” Wright drummed his fingers on his desk. The Guardians of the Khalifah were the most unpredictable of the new wave of terrorist groups spawned in Al Qaeda's wake. They were young, educated, and ruthlessly determined to restore the khalifate to Islam in their lifetimes, and to impose Sharia law throughout the world.

“That Khalifah gang got a hell of a lot closer to Firefly than we did,” Warrick admitted.

“You realize what those Islamofascists will do with it if they get their hands on Firefly?”

Wright glared at Warrick, daring him to even try framing an answer. Warrick did not respond. He knew an internal battle was coming within Islam itself. Some factions wanted the new khalifah elected, others insisted he must emerge from the dynastic lineage. Regardless, the next man in line as Muhammad's successor would impose the most hard-line form of Islam on Muslims throughout the world, ruling like a Muslim “pope.” There'd no longer be even a minuscule separation between mosque and state in the Arab nations, and non-Muslims throughout the world would become targets of forced conversions or death. Sanctions be damned—with Firefly in the possession of
the Guardians of the Khalifah, they'd soon be producing a terrifying new breed of supernuclear weapon.

“If Firefly wasn't found in the wreckage,” Wright continued grimly, “and wasn't found on Tyrelle, who has it now—the Landau woman?”

Elliott Warrick straightened his shoulders. “That's the assumption we're working on, especially since she's vanished, too. So has D'Amato. We're trying to determine if they've been taken out or if they're lying low. Either way, we'll find them. I'm personally checking the manifests of every flight out of New York and New Jersey. We're also following up on the report of a witness who saw a man of Middle Eastern descent bolting from one of the wrecked cars.”

“We'd damn well better pray
that
guy doesn't have it. Firefly in the wrong hands makes our worries regarding their nuclear capabilities about as significant as a hangnail.” Wright's face was nearly as red as his tie. “Keep me informed—” He broke off as Justine Matthews gave the door one sharp rap before pushing it open.

“Sir. Your car is here.” She glowered at Warrick. “Good day, Mr. Undersecretary.”

Warrick ignored her, turning to meet Wright's eyes directly. “The Landau woman is key. I'll make sure we find her.”

The Defense secretary came around the desk and hefted his attaché case from the side chair. “Just make sure you find Firefly. Before anyone else does. And next time, don't sit on your hands waiting for warrants.”

 

 

A half moon sailed high in the smoggy Rome sky as most of the city's inhabitants nestled beneath down covers. The daily roar of Vespas had dimmed, there were few pedestrians on the darkened streets, and most of the traffic lights flashed only amber.

The Renault Clio took the small hill on Bruno Buozzi easily, as D'Amato scanned the street looking for the landmark Geoffrey Ashton had given them.

“I see it.” Natalie pointed. “The flower stall. He said we wouldn't be able to miss it, even at night. Turn there.”

The British School at Rome sat at the northeastern tip of the Villa Borghese, one of the most magnificent parks in the city. The Accademia gleamed like a buffed pearl in the moonlight, perched at the crest of a wide, majestic staircase. Most of the tall, opaque windows were dark, as were the surrounding grounds.

Natalie caught the scent of springtime as they made their way in the chill, hushed night, past tall cypresses and rustling olive trees, to the private rear door Ashton had described to her. Their footsteps squishing into the spongy, damp grass was the only sound. Even in the faint wash of moonlight, the building's striking facade was impressive.

A heavy wood door swung open as they made their approach, and Geoffrey Ashton peered out at them. He was a distinguished-looking man in his early sixties, with wispy gray
hair and sideburns and exceptionally long arms and legs. His chiseled features might have seemed aristocratic and intimidating if not for the impish amusement that gleamed from his intelligent, deep-set eyes. Natalie recognized the scent of his citrusy aftershave as she clasped his outstretched hand.

“What an unexpected treat.” Ashton drew her through the doorway. “Delight doesn't begin to describe my pleasure at seeing you again so soon, my dear Natalie.”

“You're very kind, Dr. Ashton, to see us at such short notice.”

“Well, any time such a lovely colleague jets across the pond to ask my help, I'm intrigued.” He shook D'Amato's hand as Natalie made introductions, then gestured toward the hallway at the end of the entry corridor. “Please, come in out of the night, and you'll tell me what this is all about.”

Natalie caught sight of a passing security guard, who paused at the other end of the corridor. She lowered her voice. “May we talk privately, Dr. Ashton?”

“Didn't I tell you in Florence,” he chided, “you really must call me Geoffrey now.”

With a flourish, he led them to the end of the corridor, past the guard, who nodded respectfully, then down the hall to a spacious office that had every light ablaze, highlighting the intricate pattern of a twelfth-century Persian rug. The last to enter, D'Amato shut the door.

The impish amusement in Ashton's eyes dimmed as he studied Natalie's pallid face and the weary way she lowered herself into the olive green damask chair opposite his desk.

His expression grew grave as she told him of her sister's murder and of the unusual pendant Dana had sent her, and, finally, of the terrifying violence she'd just fled.

“Good God. You'd best let me see what we have here.”

As she took the pouch from her bag and handed it to him, Ashton unsteepled his long bony hands and clasped the pouch, then positioned it on his desk. He studied both sides of the old painted leather in silence before finally drawing out the gold chain and pendant. Natalie watched his eyebrows swoop together in surprise. “What indeed . . .” His voice trailed away.

“We're hoping you can tell us.” D'Amato had ignored the
third chair and stood leaning against the door. “We need your help appraising its value, estimating its age—and also your most educated guess where it came from.”

“The man who tried to kill us called it ‘the Eye of Dawn,' ” Natalie said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“ ‘Eye of Dawn'?” Ashton shrugged one shoulder, still scrutinizing the pendant. “I can't say I've ever heard that term before. No, testing these gems won't be a problem—but I must say they look authentic to my naked eye. What's your assessment, Natalie?”

“I agree. They're genuine. And I'm fairly certain the pendant is gold—but it's heavier than one might expect from its size, which makes me suspect there's something concealed inside.”

“Well, if it
is
gold, there's no way we'd be able to determine what's inside without carving it open. You can't see through gold. Not even with the Ion Beam machines. The beams won't penetrate gold.”

Natalie couldn't hide her disappointment. “But will you at least be able to test the age of the stones and determine if the pendant's an antiquity or a more recent piece?”

“Of course, but based on the cut of this lapis and the technique with which the gold was hammered, my educated guess is that this is a very old piece, and almost certainly originated in the Middle East. I'd even wager a pint that it's Babylonian.”

She leaned forward eagerly. “I thought the same thing, since carnelian, jasper, and lapis were a typical combination in Babylonian jewelry and amulets. On the other hand, it could turn out to be a copy.”