Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

Samantha offered her hand to Sabrina. “You’ve been a gracious host, thank you.”

The grip was very polite and very brief. “Of course,” Sabrina said.

Those women just don’t like each other, Simon observed as he gathered everything and put on his coat.

Simon watched them file down the hall and make brief goodbyes to their hosts. As they left, he thought briefly of the list he had made. It was complete now, one way or another. He had talked with everyone he wanted to. Though how he would proceed without Max on board, he still wasn’t sure.

I’ll work it out somehow, he told himself. I’ll have no choice.

Ryan's Estate

Simon and the others stood in the oval driveway for a while. He was unsurprised to see a shiny, sleek black hybrid roadster-a car worth more than his annual salary at Oxford-parked behind Andrew’s boxy Range Rover. “Yours?” he asked Jonathan.

Jonathan shrugged and gave him a smile that was almost embarrassed. “Rented. To a guy you’ve never heard of, far as I know.”

Simon let it pass; he shook Ryan’s hand and bid him good night as he packed Andrew, Samantha, and Hayden into the Range Rover. “Just drop everyone off, please,” he told Andrew. “I’m going to stay and talk with Jonathan a bit; I’m sure he’ll get me home.”

The others had little to say; it had been far too eventful an evening.

“Tomorrow,” Simon told them. “We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

After the Range Rover’s taillights flared one last time and disappeared beyond the gate, Simon and Jonathan sat side-by-side in his car and talked. Every twenty minutes or so for the first hour, Ryan or Sabrina would peek through the front window, checking to see if they were still there. After about ninety minutes, they stopped checking and simply went to bed.

“Have you contacted Max?” Jonathan asked.

Simon shrugged. It was an obvious question. He told Jonathan about the conversation he’d had with his old friend, and how disappointing it had been.

“You might want to try again,” Jonathan suggested. “Who knows, he might have changed his mind.”

Simon thought about it for a moment and then agreed. “No harm in trying,” he said. He picked up the secure phone that Andrew had given him and dialed Max’s number from memory.

Much to his surprise, he heard a pre-recorded voicemail message meant especially for him, rather than Max himself, live and in person. It was his friend’s voice-that much was clear-but the words made no sense at all.

“Hey buddy,” Max’s voice told him. “I know that you’re thinking about that vacation you were talking about, but I talked to the other guys and none of them can make it. I’ll catch up with you later. Give Jake my love.” The disconnection was a loud pop in his ear.

Simon stared at Jonathan with frank and obvious confusion. “What the hell is wrong with that guy?” he said. “What vacation? Besides, Max never mentions Jake in his phone calls. And he would never say ‘give my love to Jake,’ even if that’s what he wanted to say.” Something was very wrong here. He just had no idea what it was.

“Never mind,” Jonathan said. “We’ll just have to do this without him.”

They sat in the car for almost three hours, talking through the plan. The eastern sky was turning chalky with dawn when Jonathan finally started the nearly silent engine and drove Simon back to his flat.

Neither of them knew that the clock was already ticking, and that everything was about to change.

Before Dawn

The air traffic controller assigned to the night shift at one of Malta’s more modest airfields didn’t really know what to make of it. He rarely had more than a flight or two a day; sometimes days would go by when no planes of any size arrived at all. But today-in the last nine hours-he had barely had time to sit down.

The last arrival had been a small private jet. It had given him call signs, but he knew they were counterfeit; they were unlike any he’d ever encountered before. He watched with his binoculars as a single, stunningly beautiful passenger with jet black hair and striking blue eyes exited the aircraft and left the tarmac in a black limousine that had already been waiting. The one lone crewmember that had stayed behind didn’t even bother to visit the tower or file a flight plan for departure.

The controller didn’t like it-not one bit. But nobody asked him to. One thing he knew for sure: no one wanted to answer any questions, so he wasn’t about to ask any.

* * *

The woman who had arrived on that private jet knew exactly where she was going. She had instructions, and she would follow them exactly, as always.

She was driven to a small village not far from the airstrip, but 1,800 miles from London, where her flight had begun. The limo dropped her in a deserted square near the center of town shortly before dawn, next to an ancient sewer cap that, she knew, plunged hundreds of feet to an underground passage-one that had been created literally thousands of years ago.

A stranger was waiting for her. He gestured to her. She nodded to her silent driver as the stranger took her bag and escorted her to the side of the square, to a narrow, dusty alley choked with deep blue shadows. The wind tugged at the woman’s long, dark hair. It was warm enough, even as the sun was rising, but she felt a chill pass through her nonetheless.

There was a set of steps halfway down the alley that led to a narrow doorway. The stranger dropped her bag in front of the door and hesitated, reluctant to move any closer to the entrance. Never mind, she thought. She didn’t need the help. She picked up the bag and opened the door herself. It was unlocked.

There was a winding set of stairs that took her deep underground-three flights below street level. At the bottom she was greeted by a young girl, no more than ten years old, who led her wordlessly to a small room even deeper underground.

The little girl helped her undress and handed her a satin robe, unadorned but smooth and warm to the touch. Then she led her to the baths for her ceremonial cleansing.

The woman already knew what would happen next. She was prepared. After she had been bathed and warmed, fragrant oils were applied to her entire body; the young girl brought in a tray of clean muslin bandages, thick rolls about two inches wide. The woman sat up straight, still relaxed, and tipped back her head to make it easier to complete the next step.

The wrapping began with her eyes. Of course, she was not to see the entrance to the ancient Place of Silence. Then her entire body was wrapped-face and neck, torso and thighs, arms and legs to wrist and ankle, gently and firmly and with the utmost care and respect. Only her fingers and toes remained exposed.

When it was done, the woman could see nothing but a gray haze of fabric, hear nothing but the muted roar of blood pounding in her ears. A sequence of hands touched her on her shoulders and wrists. She was guided to a location she could not guess-a different place, following a different route than she had been led the last time, or the time before.

She was used to the process. She had grown accustomed to it over the years.

There were many corridors and many doors; she was sure of that much. Sometimes the air was warm; sometimes there were sudden, chilling blasts that came across her bandaged face that made her shiver. There were many different hands guiding her-some as small as the little girl’s, others larger and with sharp nails, and still others thick and rough without intending to be, all guiding her from passage to passage.

It would not be long now, she knew.