already been authenticated, and while some of the diehards called it a forgery and a Western trick, others—many, many others—were heeding the Imam turned pirate turned peacenik’s words.
No one kidded themselves, least of all Juan Cabrillo, that terrorism was about to end, but he was optimistic that it was on the wane. He’d have no problem with that, even if it meant that the
Everyone followed Hali as he was wheeled into the ship except for Max and Juan. They lingered over the fantail next to the Iranian flag their ship sported. Water churned in the big freighter’s wake as she started to get under way again.
Max took out his pipe and jammed it between his teeth. The fantail was too windy and exposed to light it. “Couple pieces of good news for you. A team of NATO commandoes raided the new base Ghami’s people were building in the Sudan. With their leader imprisoned, they put up only token resistance. Not so, however, the ones still in Libya. The last of them tried to storm the prison where he’s being held.”
“And . . .” Juan prompted.
“Shot dead, to a man. A single guard was killed by a suicide blast when he tried to take one of them prisoner. Oh, hey,” Max exclaimed, suddenly remembering something, “I read your final report this morning about this whole fur ball. Question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“On the
“Mansour.”
“Right, him. You wrote you kneecapped him. Is that true?”
“Absolutely,” Juan said without taking his eyes off the horizon. “Marquis of Queensbury rules, remember? Those are the restrictions we’ve placed on ourselves. Come to think of it, actually, I could have been a little more detailed in the report. I didn’t mention that Mansour was bent over one of his men trying to get his weapon in such a way that his head was on the other side of the knee I blew out. I don’t believe the good Marquis ever said anything about bullets overpenetrating.”
Max chuckled. “I think that’s true. Say, what was it Hux told you just before Hali arrived?”
“I’m not sure if you want to know.” There was an odd undercurrent in Juan’s voice. “I’m still trying to get my mind around it.”
“Go ahead, I can take it,” Max said in a way to lighten the suddenly somber mood.
“She managed to analyze the fluid that leaked out of the jewel. It was pretty degraded, and there was only a minute amount, so she can’t verify her findings. Her official report states ‘inconclusive.’ ”
“But . . . ?”
“It was human blood.”
“Could be anybody’s. Al-Jama might’ve made that jewel himself and used his own.”
“Carbon dating puts the sample between fifty b.c. and eighty a.d. The real kicker is, she only found female DNA.”
“It’s a woman’s blood?”
“No, the chromosomes proved the blood came from a man, only he had one hundred percent mitochondrial DNA, even outside the mitochondria, and please don’t ask me to explain. Hux tried and just gave me a headache. Bottom line is, the mitochondrial DNA is only passed on to us through our mothers.”
Max felt a chill despite the balmy weather. “What does it mean?”
“It means that the mother of whoever that blood belonged to provided all his DNA. One hundred percent. The father made zero contribution. It was almost as if he didn’t exist.”
“What are you saying?”
“Her words were something like if she were to imagine the blood work of a person who was of virgin birth, what we found was it.”
“Jesus.”
Max said it as a blasphemous expression of awe, but Juan responded to his comment anyway. “Apparently.”
