of them?”
“I don’t think they will. Its broad daylight and they won’t risk a full-out raid, and they won’t risk a room-by- room search. Especially since they can’t know what happened to the knight who attacked you. They’ll circle for a while and then they’ll break off and fall back to wait for fresh intelligence.”
“You seem to know a lot about them.”
“We know enough.”
“We?” I asked again. “Who’s team are you on? Mossad, MI6?”
“No.”
“AISE?” I asked. With her accent she could easily be with the Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna, Italy’s version of the CIA.
“No, and stop trying to guess,” she said. “You won’t.”
Impasse.
“What can you tell me?” I asked, fighting to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “If you’re on my side, Violin, then help me out. What am I facing here? That bastard had incredible strength and fangs. Tell me something that makes sense of that.”
“The knights are extremely dangerous. That’s all I’m prepared to say right now. Just be glad you’re alive.”
“I’m always glad I’m alive. I leap out of bed singing Disney songs. But look, I know a little bit about genetics and I can’t see how gene therapy accounts for his strength. He threw me all over the place and he simply did not have the mass for it. That guy was spooky strong.”
Again she evaded the question. “Be glad he didn’t bite you.”
“I’m also always glad when people don’t bite me.” I checked the trace. It was still running but it was clearly getting nowhere. According to the meter the call was coming from Antarctica, which I somehow doubted. “If I tell you what the knight said to me, will you tell me what he meant?”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Let’s try. The knight asked me to give him what Rasouli gave me.”
“What did Rasouli give you?”
“Indigestion and a feeling like my right hand will never be clean again.”
“You won’t tell me?”
“Maybe later. My question is, why was the knight looking for that. Or, better yet, who sent the knight?”
“I’m not sure, because it doesn’t make much sense for the knight to be working against Rasouli.”
“Do they work for him?”
“No. They work for his allies. That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”
But as she said that her words slowed as if she was suddenly thinking that it did make sense. When I tried to get her to explain, she stonewalled me again. So I came at her from a different angle. “I think he told me your name. Maybe it’s a last name or a call sign, or maybe it’s your organization.”
“He didn’t know my real name.”
“Well, I’m just telling you what the knight told me.”
“What name did he say?” she asked cautiously.
I said, “Arklight.”
She gasped, very high and sharp, and then she took a long time before she spoke. “That’s not my name.”
“Then who-?”
She hung up.
“Damn it.”
It was so frustrating because I wanted more information. I wanted to know about that freak that shook my cookie bag back at the hotel. What the hell was he? How could anyone be that strong? Nothing I know could explain what just happened.
That really and truly scared me. It kept the adrenaline pumping through my system, and my hands still shook.
Ghost whined and rubbed against my leg. His eyes were glassy.
I stripped off my bloody shirt, opened a dryer that had about half-finished its cycle, and stole a white long- sleeved shirt that was damp and a bit too small. The buttons gapped but I could get it closed. My jeans were bloodstained, but there’s just enough of an artsy-cum-punk crowd in the capital to suggest that the red splotches were some kind of statement. Yeah, that statement was “Holy shit, I’m still alive.”
My hair was still dyed black from the police station raid, and I finger-combed it straight back and pulled on a painter’s cap I found that looked like it was a thousand years old. I rolled up my bloody shirt and wrapped it in a bath towel that I also stole from the dryer.
My phone rang again. Her.
“They’re gone,” she said. “It’s safe.”
And she hung up again.
I looked at Ghost. “Women, y’know?”
He whuffed.
Then I opened the back door, saw that the street was clear, and we went out.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
On the Streets
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 10:34 a.m.
I cut through the streets in a random pattern. I used glass storefront windows to check behind me and across the street. I went into stores and out the back, I cut through alleys. If there was a tail I did not see it.
My cell rang and when I saw who it was I ducked into an alley to answer the call. Bug doesn’t speak Persian.
“About frigging time,” I growled into the phone.
“Hello to you, too, man,” said Bug.
“What the hell have you been doing? Playing Halo?”
“No-though the new version of Halo is pretty badass. They got this one level that-”
“My whole body is a lethal weapon, you know,” I said. “I know more ways to kill you than you know how to die. Are you aware of that?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I promise I’ll faint when I take my coffee break. I wanted to get back to you on those books you had me look up. Are you sure you have the correct titles?”
“It’s word of mouth from an unreliable source.”
“I know, Rasouli. King Dickhead of all the world.”
“That’s the one.”
“The thing is, I can’t see how the Saladin Codex can be connected to the nukes or anything related to nuclear science.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s a math book that was written in the twelfth century based on an even older book, and I’m no physicist, but I’m pretty sure the whole nuke thing came later than that.”
“Shit.”
“And,” added Bug, “it’s not even a good math book.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s a rewrite of a classic book called Al-Kitab al-mukhtasar fi hisab al-gabr wa’l-muqabala.”
Bug murdered the pronunciation, but I could make out what he meant. “The Compendious Book on Calculation by Completion and Balancing,” I translated.
“Right. It was written by some dude named Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi, who was a noted
