In less than five seconds, she guessed, he’d be circling the car to close in for the kill. And there was nothing she could do about it.
When Flaherty saw Dumbo-ears step up his pace and pull out a Glock, he pushed down hard on the Chrysler Concorde’s accelerator. The car fishtailed in the snow before finding traction on a patch of rock salt and shooting forward. The slight delay allowed the agile gunman to corner the museum and fire off two shots that kept the archaeologist pinned down behind her car.
Christ, did he hit her? was all Flaherty could think. Then the guy dashed out in the roadway on Forsyth Avenue and managed a third shot.
‘No, no, no!’
Sliding a wide right on to Forsyth Avenue, Flaherty fought the steering wheel to straighten the car on the slick road. He leaned on the horn and depressed the accelerator again. Now he had Dumbo’s attention. The guy planted himself in the centre of the street at twenty metres, levelled the Glock at the Concorde’s windshield.
Dipping below the dashboard, Flaherty jammed down on the brakes while cutting the wheel hard to the left. The round thwunked into the passenger-side doorframe. The Concorde swung into a sideways skid, but the forward momentum kept it along a direct line for the shooter.
Still low, Flaherty reached for his underarm holster and unsnapped his Beretta.
There was a thump that continued over the car’s rear window, then trunk, that was certainly the gunman. Flaherty immediately popped up and saw the Corolla directly ahead. He braced himself for the impact. The huge Concorde’s bumper clipped the side of the Corolla and the car spun another ninety degrees so that he was now looking at the erratic tyre tracks he’d left in the snow.
The downed gunman was already making a move for his fumbled Glock, his right leg hobbling from the car- jumping stunt.
Flaherty threw open the driver’s-side door, thrust the gun between the V opening and pulled the trigger. The shot wasn’t well aimed, but it forced Dumbo to abandon the Glock and go scrambling for cover behind a concrete construction barricade that cordoned off the sidewalk beside the museum’s new American Wing.
While keeping his eyes on the barricade, Flaherty reached across to the passenger door, pulled the handle, and pushed it open.
‘Brooke, it’s me, Agent Flaherty! Get in the car!’
There was a sickening pause that had him wondering whether Dumbo’s third shot had found its intended target.
‘Brooke! Let’s go!’
Finally, he heard feet crunching through snow. She bounded into the seat beside him then pulled the door shut.
‘Stay down,’ he told her.
After confirming in the rearview mirror that the street behind him was empty, Flaherty pulled his door shut, shifted the car into reverse, and pushed down on the accelerator, spinning the tyres. As soon as the car got moving, he flipped the gun to his left hand, powered down his window, and hung his arm out.
Sure enough, Dumbo jumped out over the barricade and began running at the car. Like every tenacious assassin, he was gripping a backup pistol. Flaherty immediately shot at him. His left-handed aim was lousy, and the assassin sensed it - didn’t break stride or deviate to either side, just kept coming.
‘Damn, he’s fast,’ Flaherty grumbled. He fired again and saw the round spit snow close to the assassin’s feet. He pushed harder on the accelerator, trying like hell to keep the car on a straight line. Another quick glance in the rearview showed that the intersection was directly behind. No time for a three-point turn. Blindly racing into traffic wouldn’t be smart, either. That meant another fancy manoeuvre.
‘Keep down,’ he told Brooke.
Flaherty pulled his left arm in and jerked the wheel all the way to the left while at the same time easing off the gas. With the tyres grabbing nothing but ice and powder, the car initiated a wicked spin. At the ninety-degree mark, he cranked the wheel in the opposite direction and pushed down on the accelerator again. The timing was good, but the result was far from perfect. The car slid more than the 180 degrees he intended, caught the kerb and the snow heaped along it. Luckily, it wasn’t enough to stop the car from moving forward. Anticipating the assassin’s next move, Flaherty ducked low, pulled the wheel slightly to the right and gave it more gas.
The rear window clacked three times in quick succession - one round cutting into the top of the dashboard, one drilling into the aftermarket Bose stereo, and one pounding into the steering wheel an inch above Flaherty’s hand.
Flaherty punched the gas and held the wheel straight. When he poked his head up over the dash, he realized that blind steering had put the car on a collision course with a three-car commuter train plodding along the above- ground median railway - the Green Line. And he realized that if he jammed on the brakes, he’d either sideswipe the train, or be crushed by a huge municipal dump-truck-turned-plough that was heading right for his door with its air horn blaring.
‘Hold on!’ he yelled to Brooke.
He hit the gas harder and cut the wheel sharp left. The car cleared the plough and skidded sideways into the train’s path. The conductor had apparently anticipated what was happening, and brought the train to an abrupt stop, just as the Concorde thudded over the rails and continued a sideways slide into a snow bank.
With no time to think, Flaherty got the car moving again and didn’t look back.
22
IRAQ
Despite his years, the elderly monsignor wove deftly through the aisles of the subterranean library. Hazo trailed closely behind him, scanning the amazing collection of manuscripts in the sealed bookcases. There were no windows in sight, making him wonder how deep beneath the mountain they were.
‘I’ve been told that your collection contains some of the world’s oldest books and scrolls,’ he said to make polite conversation.
The monsignor shook his head and swatted his hand at the idea as if it were a fly.
Though Hazo didn’t appreciate the old man’s crotchety disposition, he knew the monk had good reason to avoid the topic. Back in the fourteenth century the monastery’s entire collection had to be clandestinely relocated to avoid destruction by Timur’s invading Mongol army. The monastery itself could not escape partial destruction and remained abandoned until 1795. With a similar threat now brewing outside these walls, Hazo guessed the monks were rightfully concerned about opportunistic looters sacking the library.
‘Here.’ The monsignor stopped at a bookcase. He slid open the glass door, pulled out a leather-bound codex. He eyed Hazo’s crucifix. ‘First, let me ask you: as a Christian you are familiar with the stories of the Bible … the book of Genesis?’
‘I am.’
‘Then I presume you know the Creation story? How the world began?’
Hazo nodded.
The monsignor’s lips twisted into a wry smile. ‘Is that so? Please, tell me what you know.’
Unsure of how this exercise could possibly relate to his query, Hazo conveyed what he could recall: how in six days God created Heaven and Earth then made light to separate day and night across the formless waters … then land and sea, vegetation … then sun, moon and stars … then creatures from the waters and the birds to fly above the earth … then he ordered the land to be covered with living creatures dwelling upon it. And finally he created Adam then Eve. When he’d finished, the monk seemed impressed.
‘Not bad,’ the monsignor said. ‘Like most Christians, however, you have made a critical omission, though I will not fault you for it. It is a very minute detail that is easily overlooked. We’ll get to that shortly. Come, there is a table over here.’ He motioned for Hazo to follow.
Entering a study niche, the monsignor brought Hazo to a work table and set the codex on a bookstand. Using a flat-tipped stylus, he began gingerly leafing through the ancient pages.
Looking on, Hazo admired the book’s wonderful text and drawings complete with gilding and vibrant colours. The pages were deeply stained along the corners by countless fingerprints - oils and contaminants left behind in the vellum, he guessed.
‘The problem with books and scrolls,’ the monsignor explained while turning the pages, ‘is their fragile nature.
