He took a deep breath and released it as a prayer.
Show the world Your Kingdom is not of this world.
Now that the book was sitting in front of him, the question that had consumed every idle thought over the last week came flooding into his mind.
Who was this secret group? Who was behind Gülben? Who had given the order to take Ian? Who had planned and sponsored the G.O.B. in the first place?
The question he did not ask was why. He had long since answered the why of religion, though he normally framed the question as, Why not? Why shouldn’t rulers take advantage of mankind’s profound yet inexplicable yearning for eternity? Why not exploit the ineffable yet inexorable certainty that evil existed and, consequently, so did virtue? The answer was simple. There was no reason not to.
The only why question raised by the G.O.B. was why such a major undertaking had been shelved? It made no sense.
Why not use it? Why had the perpetrators tried to hide it?
He opened the gray card stock to reveal the original protective box the manuscript was kept in. It was black and shaped like a book with intricate gold leaf borders and fake gold leaf for the pages. The spine was ribbed, and on the front, it said,
L’EVANGELIO DI GIESU CHRISTO DAS BARNABAS
Zeki opened this box and saw a red compartment, like a cloistered crypt where the manuscript lay hidden from the world. A strip of paper had been placed underneath it and stuck out on either side. He held the two ends between his thumb and forefinger and gently pulled the manuscript out of the close fitting coffin where it had been entombed. Once it was free, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands.
It was approximately two inches thick, bound in dark olive-green leather without text or title on the front or spine. The only marking was an oval-shaped floral pattern embossed on the cover with the same pattern on the back. It certainly resembled the artistic style of Islam, which prohibited the depiction of anything except plants. He continued to examine the binding. The centuries had creased the leather ever so slightly. Now, numerous tiny fissures ran the length of the spine.
Zeki opened the manuscript and began to leaf through it. The light tan paper was supple and remarkably well-preserved. The handwriting was clear and legible. Pages three to seventeen were blank except for margins outlined with a hand-drawn red square, probably intended for an introduction that somebody never wrote. The same red ink had drawn narrow, horizontal rectangles in the middle of the text for subheadings, which he quickly realized had only been filled in up until page twenty-nine.
So, the manuscript was never finished.
The text of the manuscript was written in black ink inside large hand-drawn red squares located in approximately the middle of every page. These red lines were meant to form a margin. On the first page, he saw that the first three instances of the word
Dio
, which was always written in red ink, had been crossed out. The word Allah was written over it in Arabic. What caught his attention more than anything were the abundant Arabic notes written in the margins with red ink.
His telephone vibrated in his pocket, announcing the arrival of a text message. He pulled it out.
Schematics ready. Where and when?
There would be no time for a detailed examination of the text this time. He closed the book, slid it under the reading light so that the picture he snapped would be clear and began writing his answer.
Statue of Eugene of Savoy in half an hour.
He hit the send button, but continued to move his fingers back and forth as if writing a text message. In fact, he switched the cell phone to camera mode and began taking pictures of the book. When he was finished, he coughed again loudly, got up from his seat, walked over to the lady in the turquoise shirt and in a whisper said, “I don’t suppose the air-conditioner could be turned down. I have a bit of a cold and have forgotten my jacket.”
“I’m sorry, but the temperature and humidity is centrally controlled. I’m afraid I can’t change the settings.”
“I understand,” replied Zeki. “Can I leave my things on the table while I run back for a jacket?”
“No, sir. You must return them to the reception area and pick them back up when you return.”
“That’s fine. I understand.”
Ten minutes later, a white Fiat pulled up in front of the statue of Eugene of Savoy. Zeki opened the door and said, “Do you have room for a passenger, Patrick?”
A man in his mid-fifties with blonde hair and a red beard looked at him in surprise.
“You didn’t say you were going to be in costume. If I hadn’t recognized your voice, I might have shot you. Who are you supposed to be?”
“Need to know only,” replied Zeki.
“I see. Well, it’s good to see you. I thought you and MIT had parted ways, and you were out of the spook game.”
“I am.”
“So, this is a private contract?”
“Not private. Personal.”
“Personal?”
“That’s the only thing that makes it worth the risk.”
“Makes more sense too. I never figured an idealist like you would stoop to mercenary work. Still, personal makes it sound pretty damn serious. You’re the last person I would want holding something personal against me.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s just make sure this is clean and tight. I’ve walked into the lion’s den; make sure you don’t get dragged in with me. Keep your distance. Who are you working for these days?”
It was Patrick’s turn to smile.
“You know I can’t answer that, but suffice it to say the whole world seems to be outsourcing intelligence and security, so business has never been better. Even the Cold War didn’t have this kind of turnover.”
“Working iron doesn’t rust. I suppose it keeps you on top of your game.”
Patrick took the first right and pulled over to the side of the road.
“Are you using your phone for time?” he asked Zeki.
“Yes.”
Patrick took the phone and checked it with his own to make sure they were both retrieving time data from the same server. They were.
“Alright, you want this to happen at 2:19?”
“Unless I give you an alternate time before then. How much warning would you need?”
“Five minutes. This is a simple job. We did one just like it two weeks ago in the business district for a corporation that needed a trading office to be offline for ninety seconds so they could create a flash crash in a particular stock. We took out the in-house generator first. Too bad that’s not possible here. If you’d have given me another day’s notice, I could have arranged it.”
“Did you get the pictures?” asked Zeki.
“Yep, Sally confirmed receipt of your email just before I picked you up. She is working on the cover right now. Should be ready by one o’clock.”
“How is she doing? I heard what happened.”
The smile vanished from Patrick’s face.
“She’s better now.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” replied Zeki. “Are you going to be able to help with the tail tomorrow?”
“Yep, we’ll be there. Sally’s coming to.”
Zeki looked surprised.
“She doesn’t need to.”
“She wants to.”
Zeki grabbed his bag, opened the door and said,
“I’ll see you in front of Albertina Museum at 1:00.”
“No, you’ll see Sally. She’s bringing the book.”
CHAPTER
58
I
STANBUL
Ginger and the kids had finished their lunch of cheese, bread, black olives and tomatoes. It was the same every day. The white bread and cheese were starting to give her youngest son constipation, so this morning he was restricted to tomatoes. The constipation wasn’t just caused by the cheese and bread though. The container was unbearably hot. The poor kid wasn’t drinking enough water to keep up with the sweat pouring out of his body.
She couldn’t help thinking of the reports she had seen on TV about illegal immigrants in Arizona and Texas being found dead in semi-trailers, and now she knew why. It was like living in a sauna. The stench of soured sweat combined with the odors coming from the five-gallon bucket they used as a toilet was beyond insufferable. There was one positive outcome though. She felt like the guard was becoming more and more disgusted at their appearance every time the door opened. This was a relief because when they first arrived, he had looked at her with such hungry eyes that she had feared sexual assault. This morning he didn’t have that look in his eyes. Apparently, even body odor had a positive side.
This morning when the guard opened the door, she could tell it was going to be another hot day, so she had insisted that the guard go back and get them more water, twice as much as they were normally given. He was clearly unhappy about it, but seemed to understand their plight and was clearly charged with keeping them alive, not killing them. She asked him to leave the door open so that she could see to wash the cut on Garret’s forearm. It was caked with dried blood and oozing a clear, watery fluid, but there was no pus, so she didn’t think it was infected.
When the guard came back with more water, she forced each of the kids to drink as much as they could, and then she sat in the corner and sang songs to them. When she grew tired of the singing, she asked Shelly to play twenty questions with them and felt her way down the wall of the container to the make-shift toilet on the other end. She didn’t know which was worse—the pain of a bursting bladder or lifting the board that covered the five-gallon bucket.
She had gotten through the last five days by praying constantly. She had poured out her heart to God. She had begged him to spare her children, rescue them from their troubles and protect them from wicked men. But, now, strangely enough, she didn’t feel like praying at all. God knew where they were and what they needed. Her babbling on and on about it wasn’t going to change anything. She reminded herself over and over that He was in control and that He was good. In the end, this was what made the difference. Their situation didn’t change, but she did.
Over the last three short days, she had put her life under the microscope like never before. One minute they were enjoying a European vacation; the next minute they were being held hostage in a shipping container only God knew where. It was doing something to her, something good. She couldn’t remember who said it, but she knew she was the one prayer was changing, not God.
She thought of Gilbert. She missed his strength, his confidence, his intelligence. The last two years had been difficult for them both. It seemed like he was always away on business, always under considerable stress. She had felt neglected and had taken her frustration out on him in a hundred ways. In fact, her trip to Italy was meant to punish him and get away from all the bickering. Looking back on the last year from inside this dark container put everything in a new light. She realized she had not been supportive. Instead, she had been selfish and justified it by focusing on her own needs. Gilbert deserved better. She knew that now, but all she had been able to see was her own narrow world of constantly changing wants and whims. She had intentionally frustrated his attempts to do what was good for all of them. Prayer had opened her eyes to all of this and this realization grieved her as much as anything.
Ginger sat there in the darkness, wondering how he was coping, and discovered this too was a new perspective. It had been ages since she had taken the time to consider anything from his point of view. She knew this ordeal would be sheer torture for him. His sense of honor and virtue would only make the pain more excruciating for him. She didn’t know anyone more responsible, more hard-working and more devoted to his family. In fact, she was happy that she was the one taken hostage. The feeling of helplessness, the uncertainty and the separation he had to be experiencing now would have driven her crazy. She knew he would pull himself together, think clearly and do everything within his power to get them back. If anybody could, he could. She also knew that three days in a dark container had filled her soul with more light than a week on a sunny Italian beach had.