‘Son of a bitch. Can’t shake him,’ Flaherty grumbled.
He focused again on the tunnel, which now began arcing downward like the curl of a question mark. He braked lightly along the sharp bend that gradually semicircled until yielding to a long and empty straightaway. He hit the gas hard again and the surreal sensation of rocketing through the tunnel’s tight confines made him feel like a bullet being shot through the barrel of a gun - the lights whipping by.
Knowing the worst was yet to come, he clamped his hands tighter around the wheel.
The straightaway angled slightly and Flaherty spotted construction barriers topped with flashing amber lights shaped like lollipops. Immediately beyond the cordon, the ramp tunnel yawned open where it joined the wide interstate tunnel at an extremely tight Y. However, with Flaherty coming the wrong way down the ramp the turn would be treacherous. He could see the headlights of vehicles zipping through the tunnel at highway speed, as well as the formidable cement barricades that lined the tunnel median.
He drew breath, held it, stomped on the brake pedal. The car bowled through the barriers, flinging them up and out. He pulled the wheel all the way to the right and the car commenced a runaway spin into the oncoming traffic.
The next second was a blur of screeching tyres and blaring horns.
The Concorde dragged heavily across the roadway, managed to avoid hitting a sedan cruising along the slow lane, but careened sideways into a yellow moving truck that was speeding in the fast lane. Flaherty felt the Concorde’s front end crumple and snap. The collision was bone crunching, but prevented the Concorde from striking the cement median, even managed to pull the car straight with forward momentum. Disbelieving that he was still alive and that the truck’s driver had enough wherewithal to not lose control, Flaherty immediately hit the accelerator and cranked at the wheel to tug free from the truck. The manoeuvre blew out the truck’s front tyre, forcing it to roll to a stop.
‘Sorry, buddy,’ Flaherty muttered.
Flaherty’s heart nearly gave out when he heard a bellowing air horn that could only belong to a very large truck. All his muscles went tight as his eyes snapped to his side mirror. He saw the Explorer cut blindly into the roadway - a grave miscalculation that put the assassin directly into the path of a hulking semi. The big-rig locked its brakes … the cab jostling madly from side to side … the tractor swinging wide with its locked tyres churning grey smoke.
But still the Explorer couldn’t accelerate fast enough to skirt the semi, which struck with brute force. The Explorer seemed to explode into a thousand pieces - glass and metal shooting out in all directions.
Flaherty barely glimpsed the assassin’s body as it was catapulted out through the Explorer’s windshield, over the median, and into the windshield of another big eighteen-wheeler barrelling through the Pike’s westbound tube.
In the side mirror, he stole a final glimpse of the jackknifed tractor trailer and the mangled Explorer. Then he sped off through the tunnel.
The Blackhawk bounced to a rest in a grassy field just beyond the perimeter of the encampment. Hazo gazed out the fuselage window to the jagged cliff face. Surprisingly, during the three hours he’d been away, the debris that blocked the cave had been thoroughly cleared and muted light glowed within the passage. Mammoth boulders strewn at the base of the cliff had raked deep lines into the hillside.
There was a lot of activity at the site - marines moving up and down the slope, snipers posted along a tight perimeter. He spotted Jason to the side of the opening, consulting a trio of techs huddled around a small tactical robot. They were preparing to infiltrate the cave, he surmised. Not just any cave, though, Hazo reminded himself. Lilith’s tomb
.
The photo of Michelangelo’s ceiling fresco scrolled through his mind’s eye again - the half serpent, half woman entwined around Eden’s forbidden tree. He still grappled with the notion that the opening page of the Bible loosely chronicled an ancient story linked to this very place.
Not one to succumb to superstition, Hazo felt vulnerable to sudden dread. What if the enigmatic Lilith
did
exist long before written history? What if she
had
been some demoness who’d brought mass death to this place? Could her spiteful spirit still haunt this cave?
They are only legends, he reminded himself.
A marine crab-walked beneath the chopper’s slowing blades and slid open Hazo’s door. Hazo pulled off his flight helmet, unbuckled himself, and hopped out. By the time he was clear of the rotorwash, Jason had come down the slope to meet him.
‘Glad you’re back,’ Jason said.
Before Jason said anything else, he hooked Hazo by the arm and led him past a dozen marines gathered nearby in a loose circle.
In passing, Hazo curiously observed the marines. Some sat cross-legged, dutifully cleaning their weapons. Other sat on their helmets scooping rehydrated ravioli rations from foil packs. Four of the unit members were women, though he could tell they took great pains in downplaying their femininity when consorting with the men. A short male marine with close-set eyes - who looked more boy than man - seemed to be recounting an epic bar brawl.
‘After you left, Crawford sent them over the mountain,’ Jason told him, motioning to the group. ‘They came back just after sundown. Didn’t find anything.’ Once he had led Hazo safely out of earshot, he asked, ‘How did you make out?’ Glancing back to the command tent, he saw Crawford standing stiffly with arms crossed, leering over at him.
‘I discovered many things. Many disturbing things,’ Hazo clarified. ‘As I told you earlier, my cousin recognized the woman whose picture was on the ID badge.’ He expounded on the information he’d given Jason shortly after his meeting with Karsaz - the woman’s presence in 2003 and her apparent close association with US military personnel.
‘Not long after you left, my guy in the States found this woman. Had a talk with her. It all agrees with what your cousin told you.’
‘Oh,’ Hazo said, somewhat disappointed.
‘How about your visit to the monastery? Were the monks able to help you with the pictures from the cave?’
‘Oh yes,’ Hazo said. ‘Very much so.’ He told Jason about the shocking conversation he’d had with Monsignor Ibrahim - the incredible story of Creation and a wicked woman named Lilith. ‘Jason, the monsignor told me that this place … this cave … The legends say that it is Lilith’s tomb.’
‘Tomb?’ Brooke Thompson hadn’t mentioned this.
‘That is right. These monks … they are very smart men. They know many secrets, many hidden truths.’ He gazed warily at the cave opening. ‘The monsignor told me that she is buried beneath the mountain. The head … the body,’ he said in a whisper. ‘This place is evil, Jason. Cursed.’
Hazo looked genuinely spooked and Jason had to struggle not to smirk. ‘Buddy, don’t let the monk’s stories scare you,’ he said, cupping a hand on the Kurd’s shoulder. ‘Last I checked, ancient tombs don’t have steel security doors. And the only evil inside that mountain is still alive and kicking and armed with a rocket launcher. All right?’
Hazo nodded.
‘You did great,’ Jason said, giving him a gracious pat on the shoulder. ‘But right now, we’ve got a much bigger problem to deal with.’ But he could tell by Hazo’s downcast expression that he didn’t agree.
‘I understand,’ Hazo said. ‘The terrorists—’
‘Not just the terrorists, I’m afraid,’ Jason corrected. ‘I’m more concerned about this guy Crawford. He hasn’t said one word about the military having been in that cave.’
‘But
would
he know about it?’ Hazo said.
‘I’m thinking yes, he does. And I’ll tell you why.’ He detailed the call he’d received from Thomas Flaherty - the thwarted assassination attempt on Brooke Thompson.
Hazo was deeply disturbed by this new information. ‘Crawford sent an assassin to find her?’
‘The timing is too convenient for me to think otherwise.’ He glanced back to the command tent. Now Crawford had his back to them, talking furtively into his satellite phone again. ‘And he’s been on that phone an awful lot. I’d love to know who’s bending his ear.’ Jason shook his head. ‘We’ve got to tread very lightly … watch our backs on this one. Whatever’s going on here, I don’t want our men being dragged into it.’ He saw Hazo’s preoccupied gaze slink back up to the cave.
Suddenly something caught Jason’s eye too - a dark form sweeping in and out of the moonlight high up near the mountain’s crest. Keeping his head still, he honed his gaze on the spot. He detected more subversive shifting along the ridge. A watcher was skulking in the darkness. ‘We’ve got company.’
Hazo’s eyes shifted up to the mountaintop and panned slowly back and forth. He squinted when he thought he’d found the nearly indiscernible anomaly. ‘Yes. I see him.’
‘I don’t like this one bit,’ Jason said. ‘Let’s walk over here.’ With Hazo keeping pace beside him, Jason headed for the terrorists’ four abandoned pickup trucks, which the marines had parked in a neat row beside the road. When they’d reached the vehicles, Jason looked back to make sure no one was watching. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a long, tubular object.
‘I am sorry. I do not smoke,’ Hazo meekly replied.
Jason chuckled. ‘It’s not a cigar, Hazo. It’s a paint pen … a marker. Compliments of Israeli Intelligence.’ He uncapped it and began drawing a circle on the hood of the first Toyota.
Not seeing any ink coming out from the marker’s tip, Hazo was confused. ‘I don’t understand. It doesn’t do anything. I don’t see anything.’
‘Exactly. That’s the point. The ink is invisible to the naked eye,’ Jason explained. ‘But not to military satellites.’
‘Ah,’ Hazo said. ‘Very clever.’
‘Makes it very easy to track vehicle movements from the sky.’ He casually moved to the next pickup and scrawled an invisible star on its hood. ‘I’ve already got the serial numbers for all the military vehicles in Crawford’s platoon. Those can be tracked in-house by our agency using GPS, no problem. If, however, one of these trucks goes missing, they fall off the grid. Unless they’re marked.’ Another glance to the camp, and Jason stepped up to the third pickup. This time, he traced out a square. On the hood of the fourth pickup, he drew an invisible triangle. Capping the marker, he slipped it back inside his pocket. Then he pointed to each pickup in turn, saying, ‘Circle … star … square … triangle.’ He committed each pickup to memory - paint, model, distinguishing marks (like the blown-out windshield and blood-smeared cab of the pickup that had been the convoy’s lead vehicle).
‘Very good,’ Hazo said, impressed.
‘And since we’re on the topic of satellites …’ Jason pulled out his binoculars, activated the infrared, and discreetly spied Crawford’s position in the tent. The colonel was still on his call, pacing in small circles. ‘Who
are
you talking to, Crawford?’ Jason muttered to himself. He used the laser to calculate Crawford’s GPS grid. Then he flipped open his sat-com and put out a call of his own - one which Crawford certainly would not approve.
‘Mack, it’s Yaeger. I need a big favour,’ Jason said. Thanks to the cloudless Iraqi sky, the sat-com’s reception was flawless. On the other end of the call, he could easily hear GSC’s star Communications and Remote Weapons Specialist crunching away on some potato chips.
‘Another favour?’ Mack ribbed him. ‘You’re very needy lately. Dare I say clingy?’
More crunching.
‘You sound like an angry girlfriend.’
‘You wish you were so lucky.’
Now some slurping.
‘You’re not my type, big fella.’
‘Yeah, I suppose. Too much back hair and you like ‘em smooth. I get it. Anyway … what can I do you for you this time? Fire some missiles up some Taliban’s asshole? Or do you need a Predator to deliver a care package to a Hezbollah Tupperware party? Name it. I’m yours.’
Scary thing was, Jason thought, the guy was willing and capable of either act. ‘Nothing that dramatic.’
‘Darn.’
‘Just wanted to test your IQ on satellite phone communications. Put your NSA skills to the test.’
As with most of the firm’s intellectual assets, Macgregor Evan Driscoll - MIT Summa Cum Laude graduate and part-time hacker - had been recruited from the Department of Defense’s most obscure branches known only by obscenely long acronyms. In 2002, he’d been instrumental in helping the NSA design a covert listening station inside AT&T’s San Francisco international telecommunications hub. The programme’s focus had been to monitor phone chatter and e-mails originating from Al-Qaeda safe houses in places like Riyadh and Yemen. But a whistleblower outed the programme for spying on domestic communications as well, exposing a myriad constitutional violations. This chapter of the Bush Administration’s unwarranted wiretapping programme promptly folded and its developers, including Mack, became victims of the political fallout. But Mack was quickly scooped up by GSC - a firm that used a much different playbook and embraced the frustrated, cavalier brainiacs who’d been disenfranchised by the tight monetary and operational constraints of government agencies.
‘What’ve you got for me?’ Mack asked.
‘I’ve got a guy here in Iraq who’s been making lots of calls, with the intent of undermining our mission. If I give you his coordinates, can you see if you can listen in on him?’