The Illumination (9 page)

Natalie stood up. “I'm sorry. I really need to get some sleep.” What she really needed was time to absorb what he was saying.
If he hadn't screwed up, Dana might still be alive?
She felt chilled. Sick. As she started to walk away, he reached out for her arm. “Wait, Natalie. Please.”

Urgency lurked in D'Amato's eyes as he rose to face her. “I'm here because I cared about Dana, and her cameraman, Rusty Sutherland. I'm worried, because Rusty is still missing.”

His words caught her by surprise.
Missing?
“I knew he was late in getting home the other day. But I didn't realize . . .” She'd forgotten all about Rusty once she got the call about Dana.

D'Amato nodded. In the flickering light of the red memorial candle burning beside them, his eyes were unreadable. “I know . . . you have a million other things running through your mind. This is a horrific time for you, and I'm sorry to bring this up right now . . . but Rusty's still unaccounted for. His wife filed a missing persons report yesterday. And my reporter's gut wants to know if his disappearance is in any way tied to what happened to Dana.”

“Think about it,” he continued, as her eyes widened. “They were both in Iraq, working together closely, living in the same small villa. What are the odds of Dana being murdered and Rusty going missing at virtually the same time?”

Natalie shook her head, dazed. “Are you implying that Rusty's disappearance and Dana's murder are connected?”

He grimaced. “I'm just exploring the possibility. Did you notice anything unusual, anything off, in your recent communications with Dana? Was there anything she said—or didn't say?”

Natalie fought a fresh wave of tears. “I haven't
had
many recent communications with Dana. Our last real conversation was over a year ago.”

D'Amato stood quietly, waiting. If he felt surprise he hid it behind those inscrutable gray eyes.

“We had a falling out,” she said quietly, tears welling. “She kept something from me. I felt betrayed . . . and I lost it. Then Dana lost it, too. We were both so angry.” She shook her head miserably. “And now . . .”

It took all of her effort to hold back the sobs that threatened to roll from her. D'Amato looked away as she fought to regain control.

Her last contact with Dana had actually been the note accompanying the pendant that Rusty had delivered to the museum. It was the second time that Dana had reached out to her since Natalie had sent her the
hamsa,
both for protection and as a peace offering. Dana had called to thank her, and though their conversation had been brief and stilted, it had been a start, a small move toward reconciliation.

Then the pendant and Dana's note had buoyed Natalie's hope that Dana was ready to forgive her, that in their next conversation they could both put their anger behind them.

“Now I'll never have the chance to talk to her again.” Natalie's voice was barely audible.

D'Amato cleared his throat. “That has to make your loss even rougher. I didn't know. I'm sorry.”

She drew a breath and pressed her hands to her temples. “I just can't concentrate right now. I don't have answers for you. You'll have to excuse me . . .”

“Of course.” He stepped back, looking disappointed. “I'm sorry to have upset you.” He dug into his breast pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. “Please call me if you think of anything. Maybe Dana spoke to your aunt, or another relative. In a few days, when things start to settle down, someone might remember something.”

Without glancing at the card, Natalie nodded, then slid it under the candy tray on the coffee table. She heard D'Amato say a quiet good night to Aunt Leonora and take his leave.

But after her aunt had kissed her good-bye, and Natalie had changed into her softest jeans and a white T-shirt, she couldn't stop thinking about what D'Amato had said about Rusty.

Where could Rusty be?

She'd missed seeing him at the museum by a matter of minutes. If she'd been there, would he have told her something that might help her make sense of this nightmare? Something that might help her understand why her sister was dead?

Suddenly the silence in her apartment was unbearable. She stared at the borrowed metal folding chairs stacked against the wall, waiting to be set out again tomorrow for
mincha,
the late afternoon prayer service. Friends and family would return for the next four days to talk and pray and comfort her.

But as she watched the memorial candle glimmer in its tall red glass, Natalie was not comforted. She sat slumped on her sofa, barefoot, red-eyed, and remembering the awful moment when she'd first viewed Dana's body at the funeral home.

Through her tears she'd noticed that the silver necklace she'd sent her sister for protection was missing. On hearing Dana was going to Iraq, Natalie had taken apart their mother's cocktail ring and used the amethysts and pearl to design the special
hamsa
for her. It was an olive branch—one Dana had accepted.

Dana had told Aunt Leonora that she'd wear it, even to bed, until she returned. And she must have. Natalie had spotted it glistening at her throat during her reports.

But the funeral director had told Natalie he hadn't seen it.

So where was the necklace? Had Dana lost it? Had it been stolen?

If she'd had it on when she was attacked,
Natalie wondered bleakly,
would it have protected her?

She was suddenly possessed by an overwhelming need to have that
hamsa
back. Perhaps, she thought, it was packed away with Dana's things, still en route from Iraq.

Closing her eyes, she could almost hear D'Amato's words replaying in her head.
“They were working closely together. What are the odds of Dana being murdered and Rusty going missing at virtually the same time?”

Were Dana's murder and Rusty's disappearance a coincidence—or a connection?

Possibilities spun through her brain. Had the two of them uncovered something over there, stumbled onto something that someone didn't want known? Had they been on the verge of breaking a major story?

But if that were the case, Rusty wouldn't have left for home. He'd have delayed his R & R and stayed to finish up whatever they were working on.

She opened her eyes and drew her knees up under her. Rusty
had
come home, though. He'd landed back in the States, called his wife, and told her he had only one quick stop to make on his way home.

And that stop was the museum.

To bring me the pendant.

Her heart turned over.

She jumped up, hurried to her handbag on the desk, and retrieved the pouch that had lain inside it since the night of the attack at the Devereaux. She'd found it too painful to look at since receiving the news of Dana's death.

Now, staring at the sparkling jeweled eye, she began to wonder if this pendant was the connection D'Amato was looking for.

After a moment she set the necklace on the coffee table, scooped up D'Amato's card from beneath the candy tray, and reached for her phone.

“You could be right, D'Amato. There may be a connection. Can you come back to my apartment right now?”

 

 

Hasan Sabouri hid his impatience to get through customs. He was eager to retrieve what he'd come for and get out of the United States. But he was practiced at being polite. Businesslike. Harmless.

He was traveling under one of his assumed identities, of course, since his was a name most likely on every terrorist watch list in the world. It amused him that people in America met his eyes. It was a curious sensation. At home most feared to gaze at him—and even more, they feared that his gaze would fall on them.

In the Middle East many people knew what he'd done to his mother. The curse he was born with had first shown itself when he was barely ten months old. He'd been hungry and crying. His mother was busy, and she hadn't come quickly enough. His older brother, Farshid, had witnessed what happened next. When their mother had finally lifted him from the rug, Hasan's blue eyes had blazed at her with fury. A moment later she staggered to her knees, thrusting him into his brother's arms at the last moment as she toppled to the floor.

The doctor had said it was her heart. But everyone in the village had known it was the evil eye.
His
evil eye.

From ancient times his people had believed that those born with blue eyes possessed a curse and could inflict harm on others,
willingly or without intention. The death of his mother following his baleful stare had been the first indication that he possessed this power. Many more deaths and injuries had followed.

People had whispered about it, whispered about
him,
all his life. And the stories had spread, all of them true. Everyone he loved—his uncle, his best friend, his bride, Fatima, everyone except, thus far, his brother Farshid—had been stricken in some way by his glance. Ill luck, ill health, ill fortune had befallen those in his path, so men avoided his gaze and shielded their eyes, even at the mention of his name, while women gasped in fear when he passed them on the street.

He was a victim of his own evil eye as well. With his life becoming one of increasing isolation, his heart had grown cold toward those who shunned him, and guarded toward those he loved.

Still, he relished the power his eyes held over his enemies. He almost smiled remembering how terrified Aslam Hameed and his inept assassin Yusef had been when he'd tracked them down in Iraq. They'd both been so paralyzed with fear of his gaze that he'd barely needed to drive in the knife before their cowards' hearts gave out.

Their bungling had cost the Guardians of the Khalifah too great a prize—neither had deserved the honor of a martyr's death. So they had died in terror and disgrace for killing the American journalist before she divulged the location of the Eye of Dawn. All that was left of her was the tiny silver and cloisonné Hand of Fatima she'd worn at her throat. It was in his pocket now, a lucky pearl at its center. Thinking of the Bahraini legend his wife had told him—that pearls had the power to help find lost objects—Hasan prayed that this minor trophy would lead him to the real treasure.

It was now his mission to personally hunt down and claim the Eye of Dawn for Allah. How fitting that one afflicted with the evil eye should now be the one destined to capture the most legendary amulet of them all—the evil eye pendant that concealed and protected the Eye of Dawn.

The curse he was born with held a strange kind of power,
one he had grown to relish. Yet, here in this accursed country, no one recognized it. Any dark-skinned Arab with blue eyes could walk among these unbelievers and not a one of them flinched or averted their gaze.

Fools.

The customs agent looked him in the eye, handed back his passport, and waved him through. Carrying his overnight bag easily, his tall, well-honed body sheathed in a dark European-cut suit, Hasan made his way to the taxi line.

There were only three days left. He needed to be in Jerusalem before that deadline to check the bombs in place beneath Al-Haram al-Sharif and witness the culmination of the Guardians' plan to destroy it, which would trigger all-out war with Israel. He needed to be in Jerusalem to watch the hoisting of the Palestinian flag above the Noble Sanctuary—
or what was left of it after the explosion.

Then he would join in the triumphant march through Jerusalem's bloody streets as the Guardians of the Khalifah reclaimed the sacred city of Al Quds for Allah.

Hasan smiled coldly as he slid into the taxi that had sidled up against the curb, picturing the khalifate restored, with the earthly successor to Muhammad once again in place to oversee religious and civil matters throughout the Islamic realm. The glory of Islam would flourish once more, aided by the power contained within the Eye of Dawn.

The West's conventional and nuclear armaments would pale beside the new breed of weapons the Guardians would craft through harnessing the Eye. Soon Islam would dominate the globe, subjugating leaders from the Pope to the U.S. President.

“Ahlan wa sahlan.”
(“You are welcome, among friends.”) The Arab taxi driver, a member of the Guardians' New York cell, smiled, but refrained from looking directly at Hasan in the rearview mirror.

“Ahlan biik, Khalil.”
(“Welcome to you.”) Hasan replied.

“Where are we going first, my esteemed brother?” The driver flicked on the turn signal and merged effortlessly into traffic.

Hasan leaned his shoulders back against the seat, visualizing the Eye of Dawn, remembering that the overeager young Duoaud had told him that the woman reporter had a sister in New York. That her cameraman had flown to that city the morning after Duoaud had seen her showing him the Eye of Dawn.

“Brooklyn,” he said. “Take me to the Williamsburg address of the woman my brother told your men to watch. It's time we made the acquaintance of Dr. Natalie Landau.”

 

 

 

D'Amato frowned at the amulet Natalie placed in his palm. It had been an hour since she'd called, and he'd driven straight back to her apartment. She'd been filling him in on what little she knew about the pendant Rusty had brought her from Dana—from Iraq.

“What is there about this necklace that could be valuable enough to kill for?” he asked. “Its history?”

“Possibly. I'm convinced it's ancient, which makes it valuable to historians and collectors. How valuable I can't even guess without studying it further.” Natalie pushed away thoughts of her sister having held the necklace just days ago. She leaned back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling, trying to quell her tears.

“Maybe this should wait a few days . . .”