The Cana Mystery

Chapter 17

Jess’s mind was searching for options. There must be a loophole, some clever way to escape, but despite her determined exterior, she’d begun to sense it was hopeless. Even if they reached the hedge, the gunmen would follow. Forcing Gabe onward was simply cruel, and the thugs would be on them in seconds. Distracted by despair, Jess misjudged a step. Gabe’s fractured leg brushed the curb and she felt him shudder in pain. With a growl she demanded he keep moving. They took one giant step, then another. The hedge was only six feet away now, but what could they accomplish by struggling? This was absurd. She should ease him down, let him rest. Instead, she elbowed his ribs.

“Two more steps, Gabriel. Don’t surrender! One, two, step!” Her voice had grown hoarse. She doubted Gabe could even hear it. He tottered, smothering her body under his bulk. With a final effort, she braced her legs, shouldered all his weight, and heaved him forward. Falling, Jess’s knee spiked on the gravel. Gabe’s weight forced her to the ground and pain tore through her. Sobbing, she rolled him off her and into the hedges.

She turned onto her back and looked up at the sky. When one of the machine gun — wielding men stepped into view, Jess laughed. “Go ahead and shoot,” she said.

He aimed, then his expression went from pleasure, to confusion, to rage. A second before he fled, her ears registered the welcome wail of police sirens.

It took an hour to refuel the Comanche. Barakah spent the time on the phone with his contacts to alert them to the threat. Ava sat in the study, translating the prophecy. After changing into clean clothes, Paul used Simon’s secure line to contact Ammon and Sefu at the Segev Clinic. He explained Mellania’s betrayal and urged the boys to be cautious. When a confident Ammon announced “I shall protect him,” Paul couldn’t help but grin. Next, he called Jess’s apartment. No one answered, and Paul grew nervous. Then he glanced at the clock and did the math. It was suppertime in Boston, and they’d probably stepped out for pizza. He left a long voice mail explaining the situation and warning that Mellania might have compromised their location. Just as he hung up, Ava came in. Paul considered sharing his concerns but decided against it. She’d be paralyzed with worry, even though there was nothing more to do.

Reading the shadows on his face, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, except that I’ve never heard of La Maddalena. Who’s she?”

Ava sighed. “It’s not a person. It’s an island.”

Paul’s expression was blank.

“Napoleon conquered it. Admiral Nelson used it as a base. Mussolini was held prisoner there, before being rescued by—”

He signaled for silence. “Is it far?”

From the doorway, DeMaj said, “About four hundred kilometers. Just north of Sardinia. Come quickly. We don’t have a second to lose.”

Pacing behind the command desk, Don VeMeli was waiting. He despised waiting. Departure had been delayed too long already. His personal conveyance, an attack helicopter on loan from the army, sat fueled and ready. They could be more than one hundred fifty kilometers away within an hour but, infuriatingly, he couldn’t leave. All morning he’d occupied himself with the trivial tasks that were the lot of a diplomatic division supervisor, his official position. Standing in the background, carefully off camera, he watched his military sycophants and legislative factotums welcome dignitaries, representatives, and the world press. Maintaining a broad smile, Don VeMeli appeared calm and serene, but an ember of concern smoldered within him. Ahmed had not reported. Surely the mission was complete. Why didn’t he call?

Dozens of phones seemed to ring simultaneously. As a buzz of panic spread throughout the communications center, the master realized that Ahmed had failed. Two servicemen sprang from their desks and burst into the office, each jostling for priority. They informed him that numerous security organizations were on the line reporting a possible terrorist threat. Deflecting these calls to his nominal superior, Don VeMeli contacted the Gruppo’s vast network of informants. His spies confirmed the reports, adding that DeMaj and the Americans were flying to La Maddalena by helicopter.

If they’re coming here, he thought, it could mean only one thing: The girl had unlocked the secret. Cursing Ahmed’s incompetence, the Beast barked to his staff: “Contact the air force. Islamic terrorists just hijacked a military helicopter. They must not approach the island!”

Terrified aides backed away from Don VeMeli. None had ever seen him so angry, but after his outburst, La Belva quickly regained his composure. There was still time, he reasoned. The glorious plan would still succeed. He commanded a team of pilots to prepare for action. He knew from Mellania that DeMaj’s helicopter didn’t carry weapons. A heavily armed squadron would intercept DeMaj over Isola Caprera and eliminate him.

Roderigo came into the command center. Confused by all the activity, he sent his master a questioning glance.

“Demand nothing from me,” Don VeMeli said. “What you know, you know.”

The sleek black Comanche hurtled northwest. Simon redlined its twin LHTEC T800-801 engines, pushing the helicopter to exceed one hundred seventy-five knots. Below, the sea churned. DeMaj looked back at his passengers. Ava’s eyes were shut, her face a study in concentration. She was replaying the mashed-up audio file on her headphones. All her energy was focused on completing the translation. Paul drummed his fingers against the radar display. He looked nervous.

“Worried?” DeMaj asked him.

Paul smiled. “Nah. We’ll be fine. Ahmed was bluffing. They can’t have a nuke.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Terrorists have never built one. It’s too complex, too expensive.”

“Yes, but they might have bought a rogue device on the black market.”

“If it’s that easy, why didn’t bin Laden acquire one? He had plenty of money.”

“The main problem isn’t acquiring a warhead; it’s moving it. Years ago, a Soviet airbase commander sold part of his arsenal to the Russian mob, which then resold the WMDs to terrorists. They were caught trying to smuggle the bombs out of the country. It’s difficult to transport fissionable material across an international border. U.S. Customs pioneered a variety of effective techniques to prevent it.”

“Then how could Don VeMeli sneak a bomb into Italy? And how could he get it onto the island?”

Simon looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it was already there.”

“What do you mean?”

“During the Cold War the U.S. Navy established a nuclear submarine base at Santo Stefano. They ran boomers out of there for decades.”

“Boomers?”

“Ballistic missile subs. Ohio class. In 2008 I heard a rumor about a missing warhead.”

“How could that happen?”

“To cut costs, the Navy replaced obsolete sub components by leveraging commercial, off-the-shelf hardware. In 2007 they contracted with Lockheed Martin to complete the D5 Life Extension Program, which included missile reentry vehicles. Supposedly, when they upgraded the subs’ Trident D5 warheads from W76s to W88s, one W76 disappeared.”

“How powerful is a W76?”

“Six times Hiroshima,” Simon said quietly.

After a long silence, Paul spoke up. “Are you sure? I never heard a word about it.”

“The Bush administration kept it quiet, and I can’t blame them. If the story broke during the presidential campaign—”

“The press would have accused Bush of using scare tactics to swing the election.”

DeMaj nodded. “And the 2008 financial crisis was spinning out of control too. News like that might have crashed the system.”

“So what happened to the bomb?” Paul asked.

“No one knows, but after the incident, the Navy closed its base. The American commander lowered the flag and transferred custody to the mayor of La Maddalena.”

Ava closed her notebook, pulled off her headphones, and stretched.

“Finished?” Paul asked.

She nodded. “I’ve done what I can. Will we make it in time?”

“We’ll make it,” said Simon. “The moment we arrive, I’ll drop you at the summit or as close as possible. Then I’ll set down at the nearest pad and come meet you.”

“What do we do?”

“Fulfill the prophecy. Thwart the Antichrist.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Any ideas, Ms. Fischer?”

“Maybe.” She opened her notebook and pointed to a quatrain. Touching Paul’s arm, she said, “Read this passage.”

He looked up. “I don’t follow.”

“Garagallo said Pope Leo stopped Attila by reading a prophecy at their meeting.”

“So?”

“So maybe we’re supposed to read the prophecy at the G8 Summit.”

“What good will that do?”

Ava dropped her eyes, deflated. “I don’t know. Probably nothing. It doesn’t make much sense. Frankly, all of this stuff seems like—”

“Superstitious nonsense?”

A sad smile flickered. “Exactly.”

“Well, I don’t give a damn if you believe it,” said Simon. “We’ve got to try. It may be the only way to prevent Armageddon.”

“But it’s ridiculous. How can a prophecy stop a bomb?”

“I admit that it requires an extraordinary leap of faith, but what other options are thre? Should we run away? Just quit? Right now my people are communicating with the security services of each nation involved in the summit. We’re providing the intel we learned on Capri and we’re doing everything possible to raise the alarm, but no one’s likely to take immediate action. People often call in false threats. They did in London. Furthermore—” DeMaj checked his watch—“even assuming the authorities believe us, I doubt they can evacuate everyone on such short notice. La Maddalena isn’t connected to the mainland by road, and unless Ahmed was lying, the deadline is less than fifty-five minutes from now. They might clear a few critical buildings or hotels, but not the whole city.”

Ava slumped. It seemed hopeless.

Simon went on: “They can’t evacuate everyone, so we must do everything in our power to prevent the attack. Through his organization, Barakah is spreading the word that we’re en route to La Maddalena. With luck, some of their people will arrive before we do. Fritz and my crypto team are hacking the Beast’s network, searching for something useful. Honestly, I doubt they’ll find anything, but—”

“But at least they’re trying,” Ava finished his thought.

“Precisely. And the same goes for us. Even if the prophecy is just superstitious nonsense, even if we’re on a fool’s errand, we must try. We must fight until the final bell.”

That made sense to Paul. “Okay. Just tell me what you need. If we go down, at least we’ll go down swinging.”

“I’m in too,” Ava said. “If you think it might help, I’ll proclaim the prophecy to anyone who’ll listen, but first, please answer one question.”

“Go ahead, Ms. Fischer,” said Simon.

“If your people are screaming bloody murder to eight national intelligence services, warning them of the attack and telling them we’re on our way, isn’t La Belva going to hear about it? If he knows we’re coming, won’t he try to stop us?”

Simon looked at her with approval. “Yes. I anticipate he’ll try to stop us. In fact, I’m counting on it.”

The cockpit radio crackled to life. It was Fritz. “Mr. DeMaj, I regret to report that you’ve been denied permission to enter La Maddalena’s airspace. It’s now a restricted security zone. Unauthorized aircraft will be intercepted and if necessary destroyed.”

“Message received.” Simon looked over at his two passengers, gauging their emotions. Neither American spoke as the helicopter continued west.

“Would the Italians actually shoot us down?” Paul asked.

“They might try, but it’s hard to shoot what you can’t see.”

Simon took the chopper into a steep dive, leveling out less than three meters above the waves, close enough to see schools of fish darting just below the surface. Paul’s stomach did somersaults. He knew the Comanche was responsive and agile. It could fly sideways and even backward at sixty-five knots, but reading flight characteristics off a printed page was nothing like experiencing them live. He glanced at Ava, expecting to see her quaking. Instead, she was leaning forward into the restraints. Her eyes were bright, and her posture indicated confidence. Paul marveled at her courage.

Beneath them whitecaps navigated around and between the heavy maritime traffic originating from the Strait of Bonifacio. Out of necessity Simon buzzed directly over one small ship. Its alarmed sailors hit the deck. As the morning fog lifted, a granite archipelago materialized. They drew closer, until Ava could perceive the ruins of ancient fortifications atop the easternmost promontory.

“Is that La Maddalena?” she asked.

“No. That’s Isola Caprera. La Maddalena is a bit farther.”

Paul nodded. “So once we get there, how do we proclaim the prophecy? Just shout it from the nearest street corner?”

Simon shrugged. “We’ll deal with that when we get there.”

Ava’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve got an idea.”

She opened her phone, attached the digital scrambler, and called durmdvl. “I need a favor. Can you get me an unlisted phone number, and pronto?”

“Sure.”

“Find the private cell-phone number for Dr. Ron Bagelton.”

Just a few seconds passed and they had the number. Ava thanked durmdvl, then hung up and dialed. After several rings a man answered. Ava recognized his voice. She put the call on speaker. Then, taking a deep breath, she began.

“Professor Bagelton? My name is Ava Fischer. I caught your lecture at Harvard and I saw you speak at the G8 protest yesterday.” She bit her lip, forcing herself to continue. “You’re a brilliant man and a mesmerizing passionate speaker.”

“Why, thank you, my dear. Thank you very much indeed, but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. How did you—”

“I’m a huge fan of your work. Your creative scholarship is amazing.”

She could actually hear him smile as he replied, “That’s very kind of you to say.”

Encouraged, Ava pressed on. “So would you do me a favor? I’m in the area, and it’s urgent that I make an announcement at this morning’s protest. I’m sure a man of your importance can get my brief statement broadcast over the loudspeakers.”

“Well, I—”

“It’ll be very quick and—” she put some huskiness into her voice—“I’ll be incredibly grateful.”

Paul made a face.

Bagelton didn’t reply immediately, but when he did, she knew he wasn’t convinced.

“Yes, that sounds like an interesting proposal, but I’m sorry to disappoint you. Unfortunately, I don’t wield quite the influence you presume. On the other hand, I do know all the members of the organizing committee. I’d be happy to speak with them on your behalf. Perhaps we should discuss your urgent needs over dinner?”

Ava rolled her eyes in frustration. She was about to hang up when Simon spoke up. “May I try?” She handed him the phone. “Professor, this is Simon DeMaj.”

Bagelton gasped. “Mr. DeMaj, it’s an honor. To what do I—”

Simon cut him off. “Ms. Fischer is traveling with me. I enthusiastically support this project, and I want her announcement to air live from the protest. It should be easy to arrange. Now, Dr. Bagelton, you probably know my reputation. I control a great deal of money, and I’m not afraid to spend it. If I get what I want, I’ll endow a generous archaeological research foundation, with you and Ms. Fischer codirectors.”

The professor was silent for several seconds, then: “By ‘generous,’ what exactly do you—”

“Shall we say five million? No, make it six. I’ll pledge six million to underwrite your invaluable historical research. Naturally, you’ll exercise complete discretion over the funds’ disbursal. My lawyers can write up the formal proposal this afternoon.”

Even over the phone they could hear Bagelton suck in a breath. He coughed, then cleared his throat. “Yes, that is quite generous. No question about it. Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say. I’m honored.”

“Splendid. Just remember, the endowment is conditional on Ava speaking at today’s demonstration. Is that clear?”

“Oh yes sir. Crystal clear. Just let me—”

“No need to explain. I know you can handle it. We’ll call back in—” he glanced at his watch—“fifteen minutes to confirm. Don’t let us down. We’re counting on you.”

Grinning, DeMaj hung up and returned the phone to Ava. “Paul, see if you can get in touch with Kevin in Houston,” he said. “Have him draft the necessary documents.”

Paul laughed. “Wait, were you serious? Six million?”

“Of course. If it gets Ava on the air, it’s money well spent.”

After watching the attack squadron depart, Don VeMeli boarded his helicopter. He carried only one item of luggage: an expensive silver attaché case. His pilot powered up the chopper’s engines. The aircraft lifted off the ground, circled the camp, and began its journey south. Out the port-side window, VeMeli looked at the quaint seaside village of La Maddalena. Soon, he knew, it would be a smoking ruin. No, he corrected himself — not a ruin, a radioactive testament to his strength. Of course, for the first few years no one could know he was the bombing’s architect. Appropriate enemies would be blamed, causing the world’s so-called free nations to scream for vengeance. Don VeMeli’s minions within the Gruppo Garibaldi and similar organizations worldwide had been anticipating such an attack for years. After the atomic detonation they’d be validated and lionized by the public for issuing warnings. The master’s handpicked candidates were perfectly positioned to capitalize on the attack, vastly increasing his global power and influence. The subsequent world war would generate even greater opportunities for expansion. Someday, Don VeMeli dreamed, when his hypocritical and sanctimonious enemies groveled beneath his merciless boot, he’d reveal the truth. He was certain that future historians would perceive the wisdom, even the necessity, of his action. They’d call him a great leader endowed with matchless courage and vision. Someday, the world would thank him.

In fifteen minutes they called back Bagelton and received mixed news: He’d convinced the committee to broadcast Ava’s message, but the sound system wasn’t sophisticated enough to patch through a mobile signal. Frustration evident in his voice, Simon said, “No problem. I’ll bring her to you. Where’s the main stage?”

“Piazza Umberto.”

“How do we find it?”

“On Via Garibaldi,” the professor said, “between the port and City Hall.”

“Roger that. We won’t have any problems.”

“Sorry to contradict, boss,” said Paul. He tapped the radar display. Its flashing screen indicated several helicopters nearby. One had shifted to an intercept course.

Simon swore. “We’ve been spotted.”

He lowered his visor, rolled his shoulders, inhaled, and took a firm grim on the controls. He turned north, reduced speed, and scanned the horizon. “I’ve got him!” he said. “AW129 Mongoose.”

“Dangerous?”

“Lethal, but in this fight he’s limited to his twenty-millimeter cannon. Missiles won’t lock on us.”

Now they were passing over Caprera. Keeping the sun to his back, DeMaj descended until they flew between treetops. As the incoming Mongoose tried to match his altitude, Simon increased velocity and performed a series of banks and turns, using the terrain to his advantage. The Comanche’s advanced engines and streamlined airframe gave it a significant speed edge over the attacker. The outclassed Mongoose simply couldn’t bring its gun to bear. Unfortunately, at that moment three more helicopters joined the pursuit.

“Hold on!”

Throttle maxed, DeMaj altered course. He charged directly at the choppers, assuming an attack posture. The Italians reacted instinctively, banking to avoid his line of fire. Then Simon pitched into an almost vertical climb. Squeezing every drop of power from the Comanche’s twin turbos, the aircraft shot up twenty meters, hopping right over the attackers. Paul watched in shock as three sets of deadly blades passed harmlessly below them.

The Italians, taken aback by the exotic maneuver, faded into the distance. With a satisfied smile, DeMaj executed a snap turn that left Paul holding on to his safety harness for dear life. Moments later, they topped a rocky escarpment and beheld La Maddalena.

“We don’t have much time,” Simon cautioned. “Find Piazza Umberto.”

They tracked Via Garibaldi, a busy coastal thoroughfare lined with shops, restaurants, and bars. As they neared the marina, Ava gave a shout. “There!” she said.

She pointed to a crowded piazza dotted with palm trees. DeMaj slowed, circled tightly, and landed near a rickety wooden structure festooned with political banners. Paul saw numerous placards emblazoned with the slogans occupy the summit and jobs not bombs. A large contingent from the Stop the War Coalition was in attendance, as were many Friends of the Earth. Surprised activists scattered as the helicopter came in to land.

While Paul disconnected the safety harness, DeMaj looked over at Ava. He gestured toward the protesters’ makeshift stage and its mismatched microphones.

“You know what to do?”

Holding her notebook tight, she said yes, but her quavering voice betrayed her fear. Meeting Ava’s eyes, Simon smiled. “Don’t be afraid. Trust fate.”

Then something caught his attention. Approaching rapidly from the southeast were the four Italian choppers.

“Go!” he shouted. “I’ll distract them!”

Paul jumped out, helped Ava down, and slammed the door. Crouching, the Americans ran through a maelstrom of stinging sand and dust. When they cleared the prop wash, Paul gave Simon the signal. Raising a hand in farewell, DeMaj increased his vertical thrust and rocketed skyward.

The master’s phone rang. It was Roderigo. “DeMaj eluded the squadron,” he said. “He’s trying to land at Piazza Umberto.”

“What? How is that possible?”

“Their helicopter is invisible to radar. Plus, he’s a superb pilot, much better than anticipated.” Don VeMeli heard another man in the background. Roderigo continued, “Apparently, they’ve touched down. A woman is exiting the helicopter.”

Don VeMeli grabbed his pilot’s arm. “Reverse course immediately. Head north, toward Piazza Umberto. I’ll finish her myself.” The pilot nodded.

Roderigo asked, “Master, are you sure that’s wise? You’ll be exposed. Hundreds will witness the killing.”

“Obey your orders and leave the rest to me.” Smiling, Don VeMeli glanced down at his attaché case. Unbeknownst to even his closest staff, it contained a powerful shortwave radio transmitter. Once his chopper cleared the area, a simple keystroke would eradicate every living creature within twenty kilometers of the city. The only witnesses to his crime would be piles of irradiated ash.

Speeding past two security guards, Paul and Ava rushed up a flight of stairs and emerged onto the wooden stage, where they surprised four elaborately costumed musicians.

“Who the hell are you?” the guitarist demanded.

“Security!” yelled the drummer.

Just then Bagelton arrived. When he saw Ava, a spark of recognition showed in his eyes. He addressed the band: “Guys, guys, these two are the performers I told you about. The committee invited them to make a brief statement. Why don’t you take five and get some grappa?”

Regarding Ava with interest, the vocalist smiled. “So, baby, what’s your gig?”

Before she erupted, Paul stepped in.

“It’s an avant-garde piece. Spoken word.”

The musician nodded in approval.

Ava ventured toward the stage, but the bass player blocked her path.

“Wait!” he said, breath reeking of marijuana. “What are your politics? This is a grassroots gathering, not a platform for corporate shills.”

Her mind raced. “We’re trying to prevent global warming,” she said.

“And promote nuclear disarmament,” Paul said.

Appeased, the musician moved aside. “Fight the power!”

Once Ava’s path was clear, Paul positioned himself atop the stairwell to prevent anyone from interfering with her performance. He appropriated a microphone stand, inverted it, and balanced it on his shoulder. With a heavy club, recently shaved head, and grim expression, Paul presented an intimidating figure.

Ava took a breath, then marched across the platform to the microphones. Nervous, she tapped one. It was active. Standing alone, center stage, she felt utterly exposed. Seconds passed. The crowd, distracted for a moment by her dramatic entrance, began to grow restless. Someone whistled. Others murmured. Sound techs flashed her the thumbs-up, urging her to speak. Ava’s throat constricted. Her heart pounded. She stole a backward glance. The musicians were loitering nearby, smoking and passing a bottle. Bagelton’s face betrayed equal parts greed and curiosity. And there, standing guard, was loyal Paul. His warm eyes met hers, and he smiled. All her fears vanished. At that moment, Ava realized she was hopelessly in love.

She opened her notebook, cleared her throat, and began to speak.

Simon remembered his mother. He was four and she was teaching him to read. He saw her long, elegant finger glide across the yellowed pages of a paperback filched from the used bookstore. When prompted, he tried to pronounce the magical words. She helped him sound out the most difficult. Together they consumed all types of books, but he loved adventure tales the most: The Song of Roland, The Death of Arthur, Robinson Crusoe, Huckleberry Finn; Dumas, Stevenson, Kipling, Tolkien, H. G. Wells, Jules Verne. Often, his exhausted mother fell asleep before a story’s conclusion, leaving her precocious son to finish it alone. As she dozed, he would read each word aloud, sure she was dreaming about the characters and desperate to know each story’s end.

Simon took this precious memory, locked it back deep within his heart, and refocused his mind on the present. His cockpit radio was tuned to a live broadcast from the protest. Over the air Ava’s confident voice began to proclaim the prophecy. He smiled: such a brave, brilliant young woman. He coaxed the Comanche into a steep bank, flew low behind a granite hillock, hovered, and scanned the radar. Four blinking icons represented the Italian helicopters he’d eluded. The Comanche’s advanced tactical avionics provided a detailed description of each Mongoose’s position, bearing, speed, and weapon status. His adversaries had separated into a standard military search pattern. DeMaj calculated he had forty seconds, perhaps a minute, until they pinpointed his location.

Then, a fifth icon appeared. It wasn’t searching for him; rather, it was flying directly toward Ava, and it was armed with a heat-seeking missile.

“Fire!” Don VeMeli shouted at his subordinates. “Why don’t you fire?”

“A moment longer,” said the copilot. “It’s difficult to attain missile lock on such a weak heat source. These weapons were designed for antitank combat.”

At starboard, the sun was a disk of burnished gold. Wincing from the glare, the master shielded his eyes. “I don’t care if it locks. Precision is unnecessary. Destroy the whole stage.”

“Sir, you don’t understand. If the missile won’t lock, it won’t arm. It wouldn’t detonate.”

Don VeMeli bristled with rage. “Imbecile! Use the guns then. Do whatever it takes!”

“Right away, sir.” Flicking a switch, the pilot aborted the missile launch, swooped down into cannon range, and reduced speed. Below them, a young woman was shouting strange words into a microphone. As the helicopter maneuvered for a clear shot, Don VeMeli whispered, “We have you now.”

Then the copilot screamed. Don VeMeli looked east, and for a second saw his doom.

Almost silent, invisible to radar, and hidden by the brilliant sun, DeMaj had advanced with impunity. Achieving tactical surprise, he flashed out of the morning sky and bore down upon his target. One final time he urged the Comanche’s engines to maximum thrust and then attacked his enemy’s flank, rushing forward like a divine wind. He hoped his mother would be proud. With a joyful heart, he looked forward to seeing her again. Just before impact, he caught the devil’s eye. Smiling, Simon whispered, “Shah mat.”

Paul moved the instant he saw the helicopter. It was painted military green and was fully armed. As it circled, Paul dropped his makeshift club and rushed forward. He didn’t dive. He didn’t jump. He ran directly at Ava and tackled her from behind. The impact knocked her off her feet, scattering her papers. Paul and Ava flew three rows into the crowd, where a cluster of astonished protesters broke their fall. Despite the collision, Paul heard no complaint, because at that moment, the sky exploded from a massive detonation. He felt searing heat on his back. If a piece of shrapnel found them, it would be fatal. Keeping Ava’s body underneath him, he held his breath, clasped his hands, and prayed.