The Templar Salvation

Chapter 61

Reilly woke with a start, flinching backward with a sudden intake of breath. An acrid smell was spearing his nostrils, an intensely vile odor that reminded him of rotting corpses. His eyes flared wide, and his vision snapped to attention and broke through the tarlike mire inside his skull.

The Iranian was right there, up close and personal, mere inches away from his face. His hand was hovering under Reilly’s nose, holding the small ampule there far longer than was necessary. The man was sweating and was blinking with nervous energy, and he seemed to be visibly enjoying the discomfort he was causing. Then he flicked the ammonia tab away and pulled back, giving Reilly a fuller view of his captor.

“You’re back,” the Iranian said. “Good. I really didn’t want you to miss this.”

Reilly didn’t know what he was talking about. There was a distinct lag between the words coming out of the Iranian’s mouth and his absorbing their meaning. They didn’t sound promising. His thoughts spun off to Tess and he looked around, worried he’d find her there too. He couldn’t see her anywhere.

“No, she’s not here,” the Iranian told him, as if reading his thoughts. “We didn’t have the time to go looking for her. But I’m sure I’ll bump into her again sometime. I’d like that.”

Reilly felt his blood boil, but he kept it hidden. There was no point in giving the Iranian the satisfaction of seeing him unsettled. Instead, he grinned and tried to say something, but felt his lips crack. He moistened them with his tongue, then said, “You know, that’s not a bad idea. She doesn’t have any gay friends.”

The Iranian’s hand flew up and punched Reilly across the cheek.

Reilly kept his head turned away for a moment to let the pain settle, then faced the Iranian again and managed a slight, lopsided grin. “My bad. Guess you haven’t come out of the closet yet, huh? Not to worry. It’ll be our little secret.”

The Iranian raised his hand again for another strike, then pulled back and smiled. “Maybe she can convert me. What do you think?”

Reilly felt heavy-headed and decided there was no point in riling the man up any further. He focused on taking stock of his surroundings and saw that he was in a small aircraft, one with a cabin he wouldn’t be able to stand upright in. A prop plane, judging by the engine noise.

One that was airborne.

That last point struck home and goosed his blood pressure. It didn’t help his condition, which was pretty damn awful. His head was pounding from the inside with what felt like a polonium-level hangover. His breathing was hard and painful. Blood had caked inside his nostrils, blocking most of the airflow to his lungs, which were also hurting from the battering his rib cage had suffered. He could also taste a foul mix of mucus and blood that was sitting in his throat. The sensation was soon replaced by the pain that was being telegraphed from every corner of his body as his neurons came back online. His eyelids felt heavy, and one of his eyes, he now realized, was half-shut, no doubt from swelling. His lips also felt swollen and had scabbed cuts in several places. He knew he had to have busted ribs and had probably lost a tooth or two as well. Weirdly, his socks and shoes were also missing.

He was laid out on some kind of cushioned seating at the very back of the cabin, an L-shaped banquette that abutted a wood-paneled partition that separated the small niche from the rest of the cabin. He tried to move and realized that his hands and feet were tied. His hands were behind his back, so he couldn’t see what was holding them together, but his ankles were bound together with some white string. All four joints were already hurting from the strain, and he could see the swelling and bruising where the string was biting into his flesh. An odd thought glided into his mind, the notion that it might have been pulled from the curtains at the old woman’s house. It wasn’t particularly thick, but it was strong and there had been enough of it to go around his ankles many times.

He didn’t think he was going to be wriggling his way out of it anytime soon.

He glanced out of the small oval window on the cabin wall facing him. He couldn’t see any clouds. There was nothing out there but endless blue sky, clear and unblemished. He tried to figure out what direction they were flying in. The sun seemed to be streaming into the cabin from the front of the aircraft, slightly to the right and at about a forty-five-degree angle. It had the bright intensity of a morning sun. It seemed to indicate that they were flying east. East, from somewhere in central Turkey.

He pictured the map. Nothing good was east, not for him. Syria. Iraq. Iran. Not the friendliest of places for an American FBI agent.

His blood pressure spiked further.

He looked at the Iranian. “We’re heading east.”

The Iranian didn’t respond.

Reilly said, “What, your visa run out?”

The Iranian smiled thinly and said, “I miss the food.”

Reilly glanced down at the man’s hand. It didn’t look great. Its dressing was loose and messy, and it was heavily stained with blood.

Reilly nodded in its direction. “You might need some help cutting up your steaks.”

The Iranian’s smile disappeared. He smoldered quietly for a beat, then his right hand flew up and punched Reilly again. He breathed in deeply and said, “Hang on to that thought. You’ll need it on your way down.”

A flood of unpleasant images cascaded through Reilly’s mind. Images of hostages held for years in grimy cells deep inside hostile territory, chained to walls, beaten and abused and forgotten until some nasty illness finally liberated them from their torment. He was about to say something, then he remembered something else and his blood pressure shot further into the red zone.

The report. The one he’d been given back in Istanbul.

The one about the Italian airport official with the pulverized bones. The one they thought had been tossed out of a helicopter or a plane.

Alive.

He flushed the fear away and snared the Iranian’s smug look. “I don’t even know your fucking name.”

The Iranian debated answering for a beat, then seemed to decide there was no harm in it and said, “It’s Zahed. Mansoor Zahed.”

“Good to know. Wouldn’t want you buried in an anonymous grave. That’s just not right, is it?”

Zahed gave him a thin smile. “Like I said. Hang on to that one too. You’ll have plenty of time to savor it.”

THE IRANIAN EYED REILLY CURIOUSLY.

Although he thought he’d decided what to do with him, he was still of two minds about it. Both options were very attractive.

He could still take Reilly back to Iran. Lock him up in some isolated hellhole in one of the country’s prisons. Have fun with him for years to come. The agent would be a great source of intel. They’d break him, without a doubt. Then he’d tell them everything he knew about FBI and Homeland Security procedures and protocols. On top of recovering the trove of Nicaea, capturing and bringing back the head of the Counterterrorism Unit of the FBI’s New York City field office—and without leaving a trail of bread crumbs at that—would be a spectacular coup for Zahed.

It all sounded rosy—until reality crept back in. Zahed was a pragmatist and knew how it could actually play out. He knew he’d probably end up losing control of Reilly’s fate. Even if Zahed tried to keep his presence quiet, the American agent was such a prize that word would get out. He’d stir a lot of interest. Others would get involved. Others who might have other ideas about how best to make use of such an asset. At some point, they might even decide to use Reilly as a bargaining chip for something they wanted badly. If and when that happened, he would be freed. At which time, Zahed knew, the man would make Zahed’s life hell, even from several thousand miles away.

That possibility made the option unacceptable.

No, he thought again. He’d made the right decision. He couldn’t take Reilly back to Iran with him. Besides, the option he’d chosen would give him immense pleasure. It would be a moment he’d never forget, one he’d savor for the rest of his days. It was just a shame he wouldn’t be able to see Reilly’s mangled body after he had hit the surface of the water, which, to someone traveling at that speed, would feel just as hard as concrete. The agent would be dead before he even got a taste of the salt water.

Zahed enjoyed letting the image play out for a moment in his mind’s eye, then plucked an internal handset off the wall and hit two keys.

Steyl, in the cockpit, picked up instantly. “Is he up?”

“Yes. Where are we?”

“We just entered Cyprus airspace. About half an hour from landfall.”

“Let’s do it,” Zahed said.

“Okay,” Steyl replied.

Zahed hung up and smiled at Reilly. “I’m really, really going to enjoy this.”

Then he punched him again.