back for the Glock.
Correctly anticipating what was coming, Bersei reacted on survival impulse, slamming the flashlight against the stone wall behind him. There was a harsh clatter of metal and breaking glass as the element shattered, plunging the cubiculum into utter darkness.
An instant later, Conte squeezed off a shot, the muzzle flash strobing the darkness, just long enough to see that the scientist had already scrambled away on his knees. Conte paused briefly to gauge the sounds of his movement before firing again—another flash, followed by a perilously close ricochet that almost clipped Conte’s ear. Though his intention was merely to scare the scientist, not actually shoot him, he’d have to take better care aiming.
“Fuck,” Conte screamed out loud. “I hate this fucking game.” The game, of course, was the futile attempt of any quarry to survive the likes of a seasoned hunter like Salvatore Conte. He listened again, hoping Bersei would double back to the catacomb entrance. But to his surprise, a sloppy fall and fast-moving steps confirmed that the anthropologist had gone the opposite way—deeper into the maze.
Before Conte began his pursuit, he felt his way back a few meters to retrieve his flashlight and shoes. Slipping them on, he flicked on the flashlight and sprinted along the narrow tunnel, the amber glow of his light swinging with each pump of his arms.
Giovanni Bersei had a good head start, but the uncertainty of the catacomb’s layout, filled with long tunnels that ran hundreds of meters to dead ends, had him panic-stricken. He needed to keep his wits about him, above all to remember the map...or else. He shook the thought away.
Running through the uneven stone corridors, each footfall echoed loudly behind him, an aural trail for Conte.
There was something otherworldly about moving so quickly through pure black; disorienting. With nothing for his eyes to focus on, Bersei held one arm out like he was running a touchdown in an American football game, all the while praying he wouldn’t crash face-first into a wall. To make matters worse, as he progressed deeper, the air was harder to take in, putrid with the acrid smells of wet earth and chemicals he couldn’t quite identify—most likely the noxious gases that were the catacomb’s greatest natural hazard.
His right shoulder bounced off the wall and he spun slightly, almost tripping over himself. Slowing momentarily to regain his balance, he began to move again, only to careen into a wall face-first. Panting wildly, he thrust his arms to the right, groping, searching for an opening, praying that this wasn’t a dead end. Nothing except the hollow niches of loculi. For a split second, he considered hiding in one, but knew his uncontrolled breathing would give him away. He spun a one-eighty and paced over to the other wall. More stone.
Jesus, don’t do this to me.
Feeling his way along the wall and moving right, his hands found a void. The passageway hadn’t terminated; it simply angled hard to the left.
Just as Bersei rounded the corner, he swore he glimpsed a distant light that looked like a star in the night sky. He heard the steady drum of Conte running, louder by the second.
Bersei sprinted through the darkness, running purely on faith that he wouldn’t crash again. Seconds later, his feet tangled on something low to the floor. His legs buckled and he slammed hard onto the stone paving. He’d landed on what felt like paint cans, his head colliding loudly against some kind of metal case.
A blinding light shot into his eyes as intense pain racked his skull. He swore furiously, thinking the flash was a by-product of the head blow. But opening his eyes, he stared directly into an illuminated work light. Blinking, he saw that he had run directly into a section of the tunnel where restoration was still underway. Tools, brushes, and cans were strewn throughout the passage. A thick cord had lassoed his ankles and downed the pole light onto its switch. He yanked the mess away, snapping back to his feet, barely glimpsing the magnificent frescos that were in the process of repair.
The footsteps behind him were faster now, closing in.
The toolbox that he’d collided with lay open, a ball-peen hammer sitting in its top tray. He grabbed it and ran.
Conte rounded the corner where a mysterious light spilled out into the tunnel. He was beginning to feel a bit light-headed, not from the run, but from the acrid air now filling his lungs. Slowing to navigate the mess of tools blocking the passage, he planted a firm kick on the work light and it fizzled out.
Up ahead, the passage forked in three different directions. Racing to the intersection, he paused, striving to control his breathing, and listened.
Conte leveled the flashlight straight ahead. It appeared to be a dead end. Then he spun right and shone the light down the passageway, which curved gently out of sight. The left tunnel was also curved.
He listened again. Nothing. Finally he had to make a choice.
52
******
Jerusalem
Inside Station Zion’s cramped detaining cell, Graham Barton stared hopelessly at the solid metal door. Somehow he’d been framed as the mastermind behind the Temple Mount theft. Deep down he knew that the powers were aligned against him for a reason—perhaps an expedient political one.
Early that morning, Israeli police had finally permitted him to call his wife. Given the seven-hour time difference she’d been agitated when woken from a deep sleep. But after he explained his predicament, she quickly softened.
In Jenny’s voice, Barton sensed something that he thought was long dead—concern. She readily believed him when he insisted that he was innocent. “Come on Graham, I know you’d never do something like this.” Reassuring him that she would immediately formulate a plan of action, she’d ended the call by saying, “I love you, darling. I’m here for you.” The words had almost brought tears to his eyes, and in a moment when everything seemed dark and uncertain, he had regained something more precious than his freedom.
The door opened and he looked up at a familiar figure.
Razak.
Clearly upset, the Muslim crossed to the remaining chair as the door
closed behind him and was locked from the outside.
“Quite a predicament you’re in, Graham,” his tone was disappointed.
Razak had always been a good judge of character. Yet the police had presented such strong evidence against the archaeologist that he couldn’t help
