When an Islamic said 'Geometry is God manifest,' he meant it literally. The first-century mathematician al-Biruni codified geometry, called it geodesy and classified it as a philosophy both natural and religious, dealing with matter and form as they combined with time and space.
The interior of the Zigana Mosque, a beehivelike geodesic dome composed of pointed arches of honey- colored stone, was based on al-Birani's sacred geometry. There was, indeed, a spiral staircase to one side that led up to the minbar, the sacred pulpit. It was constructed of a black wood, perhaps ebony, and was highly polished, shiny as glass.
Bravo stood looking at it for some time. The peculiar geodesy of the interior made the slightest whisper audible from clear across the mosque. He held everyone in his view. There appeared to be no threat, and gradually, as if he were swimming through clear azure water, a profound calm settled over him.
There were few people about. From somewhere, the melodic ululation of a prayer came to him, muffled by the space, further blurred by its own echoes. The door opened at his back and he felt himself stiffen slightly. Too late he realized that he should have immediately moved so as to keep an eye on who entered and exited. Two solemn men, thin and brown and bearded, passed near him. He could smell the spice of their passage. Shoulders touching, they walked down the aisle, away from him. No threat.
Taking a deep breath, he crossed the dusky mosque, through three identical pointed arches. At the elegant ebony corkscrew of the staircase, Bravo stood still as a statue, his head bowed as if he were preparing for the salat. In fact, he was thinking of the second word his father had written on the strip of velvet.
Purpure was medieval English, the heraldic term for purple. However, it was not always possible to use color, so on black and white drawings it was indicated by lines drawn from upper left to lower right or, in heraldic terms, from sinister chief to dexter base. The next cipher was at the base of the spiral.
Jordan had his mother in his sights. Spying on her was an interesting experience; it caused him to wonder if she had ever spied on him. At this moment, he was willing to bet that she had. Through powerful field glasses, he watched her as she crossed the street in front of her hotel. As always, she was impeccably dressed-pin-striped tailored shirt, yellow linen skirt that showed off her long, beautiful legs. She slid into a battered landscaper's truck. Behind the wheel sat Damon Cornadoro, her lover, her coconspirator.
Jordan felt the murderous urge to take a gun from one of his men. He imagined himself getting out of this van with its blacked-out windows, striding down the street. He'd tap on the window of the truck and when Cornadoro wound it down, Jordan would shoot him dead. Blood and brains all over her fashionable blouse and skirt, her makeup ruined. He wondered if she'd have any other reaction…
His cell phone rang.
'The American wants to see you,' Spagna's voice buzzed in his ear.
'I imagine he does.'
'He's extremely upset.'
'I don't blame him.' Jordan hadn't taken his eyes off the couple. Next to him, one of his Knights sat in front of a tape recorder, earphones clamped to his head. 'Tell him I'll see him in due course. In the meantime, tell him I want a token of his fealty.'
'Something of significance to the American,' Spagna said, all ears.
'His daughter.' Jordan made a gesture to the Knight sitting beside him. 'Tell the American I'll take care of her rehabilitation, the best of everything, all expenses paid.'
'He's sure to ask for how long.'
'Tell him she will be with me for as long as I wish it.'
Spagna chuckled. 'He'll scream bloody murder.'
'I am quite certain it will make him even more miserable than he is now.'
He closed out the connection. In response to his signal, the Knight had passed him a set of earphones. Donning them, he heard every incriminating word his mother and Cornadoro said. Plus, they unknowingly brought his field intelligence up to date. The parabolic microphone aimed through the window by one of his Knights was working to perfection.
Bravo kept one eye on the door as, occasionally, someone entered the mosque or left. Each time, he could feel his heart racing. He was not only worried about the Knights, but those who were loyal to Mikhail Kartli. He had offended the Georgian, and though Kartli had allowed him to walk away unharmed, there was no telling if or when he'd change his mind, give the order to have Bravo found and terminated. Bravo had no doubt that Kartli possessed both the power and the will to carry out the directive, and it wouldn't be only his sons who would jump at pleasing him-to anyone in his employ it would be a matter of honor.
As he knelt in front of the ebony spiral, he was never more aware of being alone in a hostile environment. He thought he had developed a kind of sixth sense when it came to the Knights, but as to Kartli's men, anyone and everyone who passed him a bit too slowly, looked at him a bit too long, moved when he did or glanced away when he tried to meet their eye was suspect. Under the heavy burden of these circumstances the only thing to do was to keep moving. If he stayed too long in one place he was surely a dead man.
He could feel the Roman ruins beneath his feet, as if they were tree roots running down into the living rock. He could hear the chanting of the priests in Trapazuntine Greek, see the entrance of the emperor in white silk and golden imperial eagles, crowned in his bejeweled imperial mitra, flanked by his Kabasitai, his imperial warriors, ceremonial golden swords lifted to honor him.
Movement off to his right caught his attention. Without turning either his head or his body, he saw the two bearded men, who looked even more solemn now as they knelt on small prayer rugs they had laid over the mosaic floor. They were on the opposite side of the mosque, just slightly behind where he knelt. Their foreheads were pressed against the rugs, which gleamed richly in the light, their deep colors burnished like polished metal. Something was wrong, something hidden in plain sight he was missing-what was it?
There came now at the nape of his neck a delicate prickling that advanced down his spine like a venomous serpent. All at once, he sensed a trap, its jaws closing around him, but glancing around he could find no imminent threat.
Still, he resolved to find his father's next cipher and get out as quickly as possible. Looking down, he studied the pattern of the mosaic floor at the base of the spiral. At first, it seemed the same as it was in other parts of the floor, but as he knelt down he could see various differences. For instance, here a green tile was blue, over there eight red tiles where elsewhere there were four, and at various intervals what were orange tiles in other areas of the floor were here white. Following these small anomalies outward, he found that they ended in straight lines and that, further, they corresponded precisely to the width and length of the 'Goldenhead' painting, a moire of Mother Mary, coated in gold.
He looked at the color changes-red, white, blue-and pulled out the enameled lapel pin, one of the items his father had left for him in the boat in Washington. He had already examined it, determined that the American flag had the wrong number of stars and stripes.
He looked up, saw that a priest in a hooded robe with a wide cinched waistband-an imam? he couldn't be sure-had appeared and was now talking to the two bearded men, interrupting their prayers. All three of them looked grim as pallbearers. There was something familiar about the priest, either in his physiognomy or in the way he stood, possibly both. Bravo chanced a quick direct look, but the priest had turned his back, and with the hood up he could make out no distinguishing characteristic. Perhaps, after all, he'd been mistaken.
Once again, he returned to his work, though his feeling of unease had increased exponentially. Having determined the area of the color-altered section of the mosaic, he now found the tile at the exact center. From this point, he moved up five tiles, the number of missing stars in the flag pin, then three to the right, the number of missing stripes. He encountered an ocher tile. Nothing there. Now he reversed the direction, went up five tiles, three to the left, where he encountered a green tile. Nothing. Next, down five, right three. This brought him to a black tile. Down five, left three: a brown tile. No red, white or blue tile, as he had been expecting. Now what? He moved, his shadow moving with him. Oblique light played over the mosaic, drawing his eye back to the black tile. Running his fingertip over it, he discovered that it was slightly rounded rather than flat like the other tiles.
With his forehead almost touching the floor in a position not unlike that of the prayerful bearded men on their rugs, he inspected the black tile more closely. It appeared to be made of a different material than those around it.
Inserting his nail into the space between the tiles he was able to pry it up with surprising ease. The stone was shiny, black as midnight. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over its surface for several seconds, then brought it
