concealing the scansion behind his back.
When the stranger’s head raised, his gloved hands rose, and were now holding long curved daggers.
Caleb reached behind him, gripping the cool metal. “Wait, let’s talk a sec.”
The attacker leapt. Caleb ducked and spun around, hauling the heavy scansion up with him and taking his unaware foe in the chest.
A dagger dropped as he grunted, fell, but then sprang right back up. Only two feet away, the dagger beckoned within Caleb’s reach as he let go of the scansion, but he had already made his move toward the door and the long passage.
He ducked and lunged forward, just as something clanged off the granite wall where his head had just been. Then he was sprinting, weaving slightly side to side. Panting, passing each window and getting a glimpse of the towers and walls, the trees, the hills.
Come on, somebody take a shot.
The footsteps behind him were gaining. Maybe preparing another knife for the back of his head. Caleb crossed in front of another window, the last one before the next doorway and a steep winding staircase inside the German tower.
He lunged like an Olympic sprinter at the finish line just as he heard the distant pop and, as he skidded into the tower, angling for the stairs, he heard a grunt and a flopping sound.
Behind him, his pursuer was down, his mask half-blown off, brains and bits of skull obscuring what was left of his face.
Caleb turned, biting his hand and wheezing for breath. He reached for the cell phone, flicked it open. “Good shot,” he said when he finally found his breath. “Thanks.”
“That’s it. We’re getting you out of there. Sit tight, there may be more.”
He glanced out the windows where he half-expected to see the Sultan and half the Moslem army massed at the front gate. “I’ll be back in the Centaur room. Give me cover and another ten minutes.”
“It’s not safe, we have to-”
He hung up, then was about to redial Phoebe when he saw something on the assassin’s neck, above the collar and the torn mask: a gold tattoo that looked like a trident, except with nine flowing things attached to the staff. Frowning, Caleb stared at the configuration for a moment before positioning his phone, pressing the camera function, lining up the shot and taking a picture.
He stood up, then called Phoebe as he stepped over the body and headed back down the hallway. “Sis?”
“Yeah, you okay? Feared we lost you there.”
“I’ll be better if you tell me you’ve got something.”
“About the centaurs? Hang on.”
He kept walking, past the windows where now he saw agents converging, running over the ramparts, seeking out hiding places, working their way toward him.
“Big brother?”
“Yeah?” He entered the room and stepped back to the bas-relief of the Centauromachy.
“Orlando’s just coming out of it, and-what? Ah, all right, here.”
“Hey, boss. You there?”
“Yeah, Orlando, but as I said before, I’m not your boss.”
“You pay me for this gig, so that makes you a boss in my book.”
“Then I’m going to fire you if you don’t tell me what you saw.”
“Okay, do you see the main centaur, the big one raising his arms?”
“Yep.”
“Is the head still intact?”
“Yes, but not all of the body. Rear legs are broken off.”
“Not a problem. I think you’re good to go. See his right horn?”
“Yes.” Caleb moved in closer and stared. It was slightly larger than the left, about the width of two fingers, and maybe six inches in length. But it was a little darker, greener than its mate, as if the sculptor had used a different material, something only noticeable up close. “Wait, this frieze was originally on the second tier, rather high up if I recall. Even if visitors came to admire it, they’d need a ladder to see the discoloration.”
Orlando coughed. “You need to trust me here.”
“Go on.”
“Twist the horn clockwise; it should release.”
Footsteps approached, agents with submachine guns drawn, coming from both entrances. Caleb moved quickly, turning the horn, which at first refused to budge. But then it gave, turned and screwed off. Caleb turned it upside down, looked into the hollow space inside. He held the phone between his ear and his shoulder, then tapped the horn against his palm.
“Is the key in there?” Orlando asked.
Agent Wagner came to a skidding halt, leading two agents from the eastern passage. She held a gun with both hands and wore a bullet-proof vest. “You find it?”
Caleb showed her his palm, which held only a single rolled up piece of paper. He tugged at the edge and flattened it out. Then his heart sunk, along with his hopes to save Alexander, as he saw the words written there in fresh red ink.
No prize for second place.
10
“They were here,” Caleb told her. “We missed them.”
Renee holstered her gun, a black Walther. 45 with a walnut grip, a weapon Caleb had noticed earlier and thought was a little flashy for an FBI agent. “So,” she said, “Montross managed to do in minutes what Alexander the Great failed to do all his life?”
Caleb offered a weak smile. “The Great Conqueror didn’t have our gifts.” Well, at least Phoebe and Orlando still have access to those gifts.
Renee led Caleb back to the dead body. Her men had removed the assassin’s mask. “Recognize him?”
“You mean by what’s left of him.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. He’s Asian. We can tell that much, but he’s got no ID.”
“Nothing but that tattoo,” another agent pointed out.
“Wait,” Caleb said. He took out his phone, brought up the photo and sent it as a picture message to Phoebe’s phone. Then he called her.
Renee frowned. “What are you doing?”
Caleb held up a hand. “Following a hunch.”
“Another one?”
“Yeah. This thing looks familiar, and I’ve got a weird feeling that it’s important. Phoebe?”
The phone crackled. “Yeah, we’re packing up here. Did you get it?”
“We got screwed. Again. Montross and Nina beat us to it. But listen, I just sent a picture to your phone. Load it into Orlando’s tablet and have him do his magic on it. Find a match.”
“We’re on it,” she said. “Call you right back.”
“What are you thinking?” Renee asked as they walked back to the room with the weaponry and the ancient ship reproductions. “Isn’t this guy just another one of Montross’s thugs, like those he used back at Sodus?”
“I don’t think so,” Caleb replied. “There was just something about the killer’s demeanor. He actually bowed to me before he attacked.”
“He what?”
“It was reminiscent of how someone else treated me when I was trying to uncover the secret of the Pharos. Someone who had been sworn to protect it. It was the same. Like he admired my efforts, but couldn’t let me get any closer.”
“Okay, but why would he have been protecting something that Montross had already taken?”
