“On two?” I said.
“Sure.”
I counted it down and when I hit zero we both abruptly tilted our pistols to the sky and took our fingers off the triggers.
We stood there assessing each other, then lowered our guns. Neither of us reholstered them, though.
“Hello, Joseph,” she said.
“Hello, Violin.”
She was both similar and different to the image of her that I had constructed partly from memories distorted by the smoke and thunder of the gun battle at Jamsheed’s and partly from how I’d imagined her since that first call yesterday morning. Lean, fox-faced, with erect posture and the slightly splay-footed stance you see in ballet dancers. The MTAR-21 assault rifle hung from its strap, and she held a Ruger Mark III. 22 caliber pistol down at her side. In many ways she reminded me heartbreakingly of Grace, but she was also very different. Younger, taller, with an air of innocence about her-despite her profession-that Grace did not share. I wondered if they could have been friends.
“Come with me,” she said. “Lilith is waiting.”
“You call your mother by her first name?”
Violin shrugged.
“Is it a code name? Like Violin?”
“Nobody I know uses their real names,” she said, and there was sadness in her eyes.
“I do.”
She nodded. “And I find that so strange.”
Chapter Eighty-Five
The Warehouse
Baltimore, Maryland
June 15, 5:15 p.m. EST
Rudy set the coffee cup down where Circe could see it, but she was too focused to notice or care. Her workstation monitors were filled with multiscreen images from the Voynich manuscript and the Book of Shadows. Images came and went as Circe, sitting rock-still except for the hand controlling the mouse and her darting eyes, studied the arcane pages.
The communicator gave a soft bing-bong and Bug’s face replaced one of the screens. He was grinning.
“Hey, docs… I got some good news. Or, at least I think it’s good news.”
Circe looked up and Rudy could see the lines of stress and worry that were etched into her lovely face. That, and the desperate hope in her eyes, made his heart ache.
“What is it?” she asked.
“MindReader came through again. I had my buddy Aziz help me with some search arguments in a couple of different Persian dialects, and that gave us the edge we needed to slip through the security at the National Museum in Tehran. And guess what we found there?”
Circe’s eyes came fully alive and she half rose from her chair.
“You found it?” she demanded.
“Yes, ma’am,” beamed Bug. “I just uploaded it to the server. A complete copy of the Saladin Codex.”
“Is it in the same ciphertext?” asked Rudy.
The question dialed up the wattage on Bug’s grin. “Nope. There are fifty-four separate translations. Persian, Arabic, Pashtun, Farsi, and… wait for it, wait for it… English.”
The change that came over Circe’s face was miraculous. As Rudy watched he could see the weariness drop away, the stress burn itself to nothingness, revealing a refreshed intensity and a predatory glint that was startling and, he had to admit, a bit intimidating. For the first time he could see in her eyes the reflection of her father.
“Now we have a chance,” said Circe fiercely. “Damn it, now we have a real chance.”
“Let’s just hope that there’s some clue in there to help us crack the other books,” observed Rudy and he was instantly sorry he said it because the newfound confidence in Circe’s eyes diminished by half in the space of a heartbeat. He wanted to bang his head against the wall, but Circe set her jaw and almost sneered at the possibility of defeat.
“No, damn it,” she growled. “We are going to crack this. We have to.”
It broke Rudy’s heart to hear her tack on those last three desperate words.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Arklight Camp
Outskirts of Tehran
June 16, 1:50 a.m.
Violin led me to another warehouse two blocks over. The rear loading doors were open and there were several cars and small panel trucks parked inside, out of sight. Ghost sniffed the air and growled, cutting inquiring looks at me. I signaled him to remain calm and alert. Having the signal seemed to calm him-dogs are always at their most content when the pack leader has things under control. Not that I actually did, but it was nice that my dog thought so.
There were twenty-five people in the warehouse, all women. The youngest was about Violin’s age, the oldest was at least seventy. They all looked fit and trim, though, and they were all armed. The women stood in a loose circle around another woman who sat on an overturned packing crate. As we approached, the circle opened to allow us in. The eyes that turned toward me were in no way welcoming. There were no smiles, no acknowledging nods. Twenty-five sets of eyes assessed me as if I were a side of beef, and not a very fresh one.
“I brought him, mother,” announced Violin. She peeled off from my side and went to stand by the seated woman. That gave me a chance to take a closer look at the woman I presumed was “Lilith.” Each of these women looked powerful, but Lilith was different. She was magnificent, with a face that was cold and beautiful, like the death mask of an ancient queen. Sculpted cheekbones and a strong chin, straight nose and a high, clear brow. But her eyes were absolutely compelling. Endlessly deep and intelligent. And totally without mercy.
“These are the Mothers of the Fallen,” said Violin. “And this is my mother, Lilith.”
Ghost whined faintly and looked at me. It was pretty obvious that he was confused in the presence of what was perhaps a much more powerful pack leader.
“Captain Ledger,” said Lilith. “My daughter has risked much to arrange this meeting.”
I stopped about ten feet from where she sat. “So what’s the drill? Do I bow and curtsy?”
“No,” she said, “but you can mind your manners.”
“Yeah, about that?” I said. “Kiss my ass.”
Violin stiffened but before she-or anyone else-could say anything Lilith raised her hand slightly. It silenced all reaction, but I could feel all those eyes burning into me. The Mothers of the Fallen were not lining up to join the Joe Ledger fan club. That went both ways.
“Here’s the thing,” I said, “it’s not that I have any specific disrespect for you-whoever the hell you are-or these fine ladies here. Or your daughter. It’s just that I just had a real bitch of a day yesterday, and I’m tired, sore, and cranky. I’ve been chased, attacked by Sabbatarians and vampires, and people have been very mean to my dog.”
Ghost woofed.
“And,” I concluded, “your daughter put sniper scopes on me to force me into a meeting with Iran’s biggest psychopath who told me that there are nuclear bombs planted all over the Middle East. One of those bombs is in the United States. My boss gave me the impression that you know more about what’s going on, but so far you haven’t told me shit. So, if you’re looking for deference or civility, I’m fresh out. In fact, I’m wondering why the fuck
