was on a quiet residential street. Curious eyes weren’t a problem, especially given that the small driveway was shielded from the street by tall metal gates.
He wasn’t planning on sticking around too long. Now that what he’d come for was lying in the foot well of the passenger seat, he thought he was probably done with Rome. The American historian, Simmons, would soon confirm whether or not that was the case. In doing that, Zahed hoped, the man would also figure out what their next destination would be. Zahed’s instincts told him he’d be on the move again soon, leaving the Eternal City behind as just another blood-soaked entry in his infamous—if anonymous—resume.
He reflected back on his day and felt reasonably satisfied. Things hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d hoped, but all that mattered was that he was here, he was safe, and he had the codex with him.
The agent had been easy to manipulate. Zahed had managed to lure him to Rome. He’d fooled him into believing he was the spineless scholar Sharafi. He’d pushed enough buttons to get the agent to take him into the deepest recesses of his religion’s inner sanctum. Sean Reilly hadn’t flinched then, and he hadn’t flinched in all that followed. He’d done what was needed of him without hesitation. He’d turned himself into a criminal and ridden roughshod across the very epicenter of his faith without worrying about the consequences.
And that unsettled Zahed.
He wasn’t used to seeing such commitment, not in these soft Westerners. Not that he’d taken the man lightly. Even though he hadn’t had much to go on before meeting him, what he had managed to dig up on Reilly had suggested that the man wasn’t a lightweight, nor was he particularly concerned with sticking to the rule book. Which had pleased Zahed. Their joint venture needed someone with a reinforced-concrete spine. But there was a tipping point at which the very qualities he needed the man to have would turn him into a pain in the ass.
They were already way past that tipping point.
He wondered whether he’d made a mistake by letting Reilly live, and frowned at the thought. He’d had his chance. He could have made his move when Reilly ran for the phone, when they’d rushed past each other, but in the heat of the moment, he’d felt a stab of doubt, unsure about whether or not he could take the man in hand-to- hand combat. He’d pulled back. He’d seen something in Reilly, a blaze of determination and self-belief that had made Zahed second-guess his own considerable skills. Which, again, wasn’t something he was used to. Or tolerated.
Mansoor Zahed chided himself at his momentary lapse. He should have taken him down, there and then, and walked away without the worry that was now dogging him: that this FBI agent could well become a
He waited for the gates to swing back shut before getting out of the car, a rented Fiat Croma. It was a common family sedan that wouldn’t attract attention. He’d left it in the Trastevere area, not far from the riverbanks of the Tiber, before taxiing to the airport to meet Reilly. He’d then recovered it once he had the codex in his grips, which was when he’d had to improvise—rushing back down the hill, pulling a hapless teenager off his Piaggio scooter and using it to get back to his car. He wasn’t worried about being tracked. Not in Rome. If he had been in London, things would have been different. That city had unashamedly embraced an Orwellian vision and sported CCTV cameras on every block. Rome was different. Old world. Low-tech. Which suited Zahed—and the Cosa Nostra, who had influence over most City Council decisions—just fine.
He made his way into the house. It had the musty, dank smell of somewhere that hadn’t been lived in for months. The few pieces of furniture that were in there were covered up with old sheets and blankets that Zahed hadn’t bothered removing. He double-locked the door behind him and stepped into the hall, pausing at the mirror in the entrance foyer. He studied the figure that was staring back at him with cool disdain. The plucked-back hairline, the cheap glasses, the drab clothes—they were all necessary for the deception. He was happy to revert to a character in whose skin he felt more comfortable, something he could now do.
He took the stairs down to the basement and unlocked the door to a storeroom. He stepped inside and flicked on the light switch. Simmons was—as expected—just where he’d left him: on the floor of the windowless room, his back to the wall, his mouth taped shut, his right wrist tied to a radiator pipe with nylon cuffs.
JED SIMMONS HEARD THE DOOR squeal open just before the bare lightbulb that dangled from a cord in the middle of the room came on. He glanced up the stone staircase. After the darkness of the last few hours, even the pale glare was painful. Beyond that, just raising his eyelids felt like an Olympian effort. He didn’t recognize himself in this pathetic state—so weak that he could barely move his limbs, his breathing labored, his confused mind adrift in a foggy swell with no ports in sight.
A brief, cruel moment of hope—that it was a rescuer, that somehow, someone had figured out what was happening and was here to end his nightmare—was quickly extinguished as the now familiar silhouette of his abductor came into view.
A spurt of adrenaline shot through him as his anger flared. He felt outraged at being held like this, by someone whose name and intent he knew nothing about. His abductor had been maddeningly disciplined about following his need-to-know code. Simmons didn’t know anything beyond the bare basics: that he was there to help the man recover whatever it was some small band of Templars had whisked out of Constantinople. Beyond that, who the man was, who he was working for, why he was after it—none of that was forthcoming.
He wondered if he’d die without knowing. The thought angered him even more.
A shiver rippled through Simmons as he spotted the codex the man had brought with him. He watched helplessly as the man got down on his haunches in front of him and, with one quick flick, ripped the duct tape off his mouth.
“Good news,” he told Simmons as he set it down on the tiles in front of him. “I have it. Which means that you’re still useful to me.”
“Tess … Where is she? Is she okay?” The words were coming out weak and slurred.
“She’s just fine, Jed. She’s perfectly all right. She helped me, and so she’s free. You see? I’ll do the same for you if you just do what I ask and help me find what I’m looking for. How does that sound?”
Simmons stared at him, a caustic hatred burning his gut. He wanted to believe the man, wanted to believe Tess was all right, but somehow, he doubted it was true.
“What about Sharafi?”
The man smiled. “He’s fine too. I don’t need him anymore, so he was free to go. It’s that simple.” He reached out and gave Simmons’s cheeks a patronizing squeeze. “Now … how about we get you nice and comfortable—and awake—so you can get to work?”
The man’s hand slipped down into his pocket and came back up with a syringe in it. His other hand brought out a small bottle of medication from another pocket. He plunged the needle through the rubber cap of the bottle and sucked the clear liquid up into the syringe, then held it up for the obligatory squirt to clear out any air holes.
The archaeologist stared at the needle and didn’t say anything. He just nodded, his tenebrous gaze dropping down to the ancient book, silently ruing the day that he’d first heard about it and wishing he’d never mentioned the damn thing.
Chapter 10
Tucked away in the Palace of the Tribunal behind St Peter’s Cathedral, the Central Office of the Vatican Gendarmeria was in meltdown. Urgent footfalls were stampeding up and down the medieval building’s cavernous hallways, phones were ringing all over the place, questions and updates were being shouted out across rooms and through doorways, the whole discordant chaos drilling into Tess Chaykin’s ears and echoing painfully inside her skull.
