“What else?”
“Those are my only connections in London, I swear.”
“Your mission?”
“I’m in academia. My job is to write and teach objectively about the virtues of Islam.”
“That explains why you went to such great lengths to cover up the fact that your organization rewrote the Christian Bible, I suppose. What’s your real job?”
“That’s it.”
Zeki picked the plastic bag off the floor and stood up with a sigh.
“I thought you were going to tell the truth. If that were your only duty, Cairo wouldn’t have contacted you about Professor O’Brien.”
Brown spat out the words as if they were poison.
“I contacted them. O’Brien has been under surveillance for several years. His obsession with the Moriscos concerned us.”
“What did you do besides babysit O’Brien?”
“Disinformation.”
“I see. Professional bull-shitter. And, your modus operandi?”
“Influencing opinion leaders, building a reputation and following in academia, long-term social integration, image management . . .”
“How many of you are there in London?” asked Zeki, sitting back down in his chair.
“I don’t know . . . Honest.”
“Guess.”
“A hundred maybe.”
“So, probably closer to five hundred. Give me some names.”
“I told you we don’t have contact with each other.”
“No contact with operations. Believable. No contact with the other bull-shitters like yourself. Impossible.”
“Give me twenty names, or the bag goes back on.”
Brown started rattling off names. Zeki wrote them down without a word. When he was finished, the interrogation continued.
“So, you weren’t on the team that took out Professor O’Brien?”
“I only heard about it later.”
“Salih. Is he the head of the organization in London?”
“As far as I know.”
“What about Cairo?”
“I have no contact with Cairo.”
“I thought we had agreed you would tell us the truth.”
“I swear. I have no contact information for the Cairo operations.”
“But, you spoke with Ahmet.”
“He called me. Encrypted line, no caller ID. I’ve never met him.”
“What did you discuss?”
“He asked about the document. I told him what it was. He said they would take care of it. I had no idea there would be any physical harm done. I thought they just wanted to secure the original order. We believe in reason, not violence.”
“What about the fifteen thousand dollars he wired you?”
Brown’s eyes popped with astonishment.
“I . . . I don’t . . . I’m not . . .”
Zeki cut him off.
“What was the money for?”
“It was a grant to fund the work of certain scholars.”
“I’m sure you’ve confused scholarship with propaganda, but let’s not get into semantics. I need a name.”
“It was not an individual. It was a group, the UN Committee for the Protection and Promotion of Diversity in Cultural Expression.”
“Interesting,” said Zeki, refolding the paper and placing it in his pocket. “I was hoping you knew enough to save yourself, enough to be useful, but you’re a pathetic pawn in this game. I’m tired of playing.”
He stood up with the bag in his hand.
“You are the person who told the organization about the document Professor O’Brien discovered. He was a true scholar and gentleman who never thought ill of anyone. You are the one I hold responsible for his death. Your time is up.”
“Wait! We can help each other. You don’t want me anyway. You want the real killers.”
“But, you don’t know them, remember?”
“That’s true, but I know how they work. I can tell you everything you want to know about recruitment, the psychological profiles they run on high-level diplomats, who they target and how they get people on the inside. Surely, that is worth something,” he said, his eyes pleading.
Zeki sat back down, tossed the bag on the floor and pulled out pen and paper.
“I doubt it’s worth your life, but I’ll give you a chance,” he said, happy that his plan was working. “I’m listening.”
For the next half hour, Brown talked non-stop about everything he had learned during his six-month orientation in Germany. Money laundering, influence peddling, educational initiatives, cultural awareness programs, inter-faith dialogue, business acquisitions through capital infusions, sleeper cells, immigration, population growth strategies . . . When he finally paused, Zeki raised his hand.
“I think that’s enough for the authorities to work with.”
He picked the bag up. Brown immediately began shaking his head from side to side.
“But, I’ve told you everything.”
“Indeed, you have. Fear seems to have been quite the antidote to your faith.”
“So, why the bag?”
Zeki didn’t respond. Instead he found the corner of the bag and tore the tip off, leaving a hole about one centimeter in diameter.
“If my calculations are correct, this should provide just enough oxygen to keep you alive. Be careful not to collapse the bag though. Otherwise, you will certainly suffocate before the authorities arrive.”
Now, he was standing at the desk behind Brown, who was sweating profusely. He took a long piece of cloth and put it in front of Brown’s face.
“Open your mouth.”
Brown complied silently. Zeki tied the gag tightly behind his head. Then, he slipped the plastic bag down to his neck and tied it securely in the back.
“While you’re sitting here waiting for the police, you might just pray that I get to Ahmet before he gets to you.”
CHAPTER
82
McIntosh was standing in front of the collapsed building, talking with the head of the search and rescue team when his cell phone rang.
“McIntosh.”
“Superintendent, it is nice to finally hear your voice.”
“Who is this?”
“Allow me to offer my condolences for the loss of your men. I’m truly sorry. I would have called earlier, but I was helping you with another part of your investigation.”
“What investigation?”
“The O’Brien murder. If you’ll send a team to Professor Brown’s house, you’ll find the man restrained and waiting eagerly for your arrival. There is a taped confession on the desk as well as copies of documents you will need to continue your investigation. If you want him to stand trial, he’s going to need serious protection.”
“And, to whom do I owe this debt of gratitude?”
“A friend. That should be enough for now.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because today’s events have already proven my email was accurate. Good day, Superintendent. Watch yourself.”
The line went dead. McIntosh looked at the devastation in front of him. There was no hope that any survivors would be found here. He turned to the rescue team leader.
“Mark, I’ve got a very important arrest to make. Please carry on without me.”
CHAPTER
83
V
IENNA
Zeki heard the shuffling steps coming up behind him on his left. It was one of the library attendants in Prunksaal, an elderly man who had spent the entire day muttering to himself in German as he arranged and dusted the ancient volumes housed in this splendid room. Zeki shouldn’t have been there at all, and he felt a tiny bit guilty for indulging his passion for history.
The original plan had been to meet Patrick early that morning, give him the Gospel of Barnabas and then supervise its return to Augustinerlesesaal from a safe distance in the reading room. When that was done, he was supposed to catch a flight to Amsterdam for a meeting that afternoon. He had promised himself that he would return in the near future and treat himself to a full week in General Eugene Savoy’s library. But, on his way out of the reading room, he had passed by the Prunksaal entrance and decided life was too uncertain to postpone his intimate acquaintance with the General. He had cancelled his appointment in Amsterdam and spent the entire day browsing through the library, marveling at Savoy’s mind and the vast assortment of books the man had managed to collect.
In his study of European military history, Savoy had always been the general he admired the most in terms of tactical and logistical skill on the battlefield. As a younger man, Zeki had often wondered why Allah had given the infidel such a brilliant general when the Ottoman Turks had been so close to expanding their empire. He knew now that the reason was in the question itself.
A little after noon, he had found a copy of
History of the Wars
on the library shelves, the same book Ian had given him as a gift shortly before his death. The lady at the desk had been kind enough to let him examine it, which was how he had spent the rest of the afternoon.
The shuffling feet stopped behind Zeki and to his left.
“Excuse me,” the man said apologetically. “We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes, so you’ll need to return your book to the desk.”
Zeki raised his eyes in a smile for the wizened old man.
“I thought the Prunksaal was open until five o’clock?”
“Normally it is, but there is a special state function here tonight, so there are preparations to be made.”
“That’s too bad. It’s not easy parting with such a wonderful manuscript especially when one has the pleasure of reading it in the library of the general himself.”
“What is it you’re reading?” asked the old man politely.
“
History of the Wars
,” replied Zeki.
“By Procopius of Caesarea?” returned the old man.
“Why yes, it is.”
Zeki could barely hide his shock. “I’m surprised to find someone who knows anything about it.”
“The wars of empire, be they Christian or otherwise, should be known by all, don’t you think?”
“I do. I do indeed.”
The old man shuffled off. Zeki picked up the book and a massive manila envelope sitting on the chair beside him. It was time to go.
A few minutes later, Zeki was on the ground floor of the building, sitting on the bottom step of the massive stone stairway that led up to Prunksaal and Augustinerlesesaal. He put the manila envelope beside him on the step and began to wait. A number of people walked past on their way up the steps, but he didn’t like the look of any of them. Fifteen minutes later, he was starting to get impatient when he saw a tall, young man with blonde hair approaching the door. He looked about eighteen. When the youth headed for the steps instead of turning right to the rooms on the ground floor, Zeki stood up, coughed violently, and put his hand on the wall as if to steady himself.