Charles Brokaw - The Lucifer Code

‘Yes. But it didn’t say how.’

‘Think about it, Professor Lourds. Since you first arrived, since you began searching for the Joy Scroll – even though you didn’t know that’s what you were doing – you’ve been beset by opposing forces.’

‘Coincidence.’ Even as he said it, Lourds realized how weak the answer sounded.

Joachim smiled. ‘Do you really think so? After all these years, my sister tells me of you. You met her some time ago, but I hadn’t yet told her my secrets. Then when I did, she suggested you could help. You are asked to come here. Suddenly, a search for the Joy Scroll is escalated by everyone, including the United States CIA and a military force we haven’t yet identified and weren’t known to be involved. And you are the only person who has managed to translate a scroll that even its protectors could not translate for the last eight hundred years.’

As incredible as it all sounded, Lourds knew he didn’t have an answer or a rebuttal. The only true break in the link would have been if he had failed to translate the language. But he hadn’t failed. And now he knew what Joachim and his predecessors had been trying to learn for the last eight centuries. Still, even with everything he had found out, Lourds didn’t know what the eventual prize would be. The Joy Scroll had to be more than just some kind of document to ward off the Devil. If nothing else, he knew his own curiosity would be much too strong to resist.

Taking a deep breath, Lourds took the beer bottle from the counter and rubbed the chill, frosted side across his forehead. The coolness felt welcome to the throbbing headache that was just beginning.

‘You do realize what you’re saying, don’t you?’ Lourds asked after a bit. ‘If we get caught by any of the law enforcement agencies looking for us, our only excuse for doing everything we have done is simply: the Devil made us do it.’

‘Maybe we should plan on not getting caught,’ Joachim suggested.

‘Given where we have to go, what we have to do, as well as who’s looking for us, that’s not very bloody likely, now is it?’ Lourds snorted in frustration, took another beer from the refrigerator, and returned to the balcony.

Cleena trapped her pistol between her thigh and the car seat as she sped through traffic. ‘If you do anything stupid,’ she advised the man she’d taken prisoner, ‘I’ll kill you.’

He said nothing but continued trying to work some feeling back into his numbed hands by squeezing them into fists. His gaze was hot and defiant, but fear lurked there as well.

‘You’re going to have to lose the car,’ Sevki advised. ‘They’ll have a GPS locater on it. That’s standard operating procedure.’

Cleena hadn’t thought about that, but she hadn’t planned to stay with the car for long anyway. ‘What is your name?’

‘Kidnapping me is going to get you a life without a parole sentence,’ he told her viciously. ‘I guarantee that.’

She glanced at him. ‘Then shooting you isn’t going to make my situation any worse.’ Lifting her pistol, she shot him through the meaty part of his left thigh. Trapped inside the car, the harsh crack of the pistol rolled like thunder. Dawson howled in pain and surprise and gripped his wounded leg. Blood spread through his fingers but there was no arterial bleeding.

‘I left you the use of your leg,’ Cleena said. ‘The next shot will require reconstructive surgery on your knee. Maybe you’ll be a cripple.’

He cursed her.

‘Any signs of pursuit?’ Cleena asked Sevki.

‘Yes.’

Her stomach clenched and she smelled the hot, fresh iron of the man’s blood.

‘Ten blocks back and closing fast,’ Sevki advised.

Cleena estimated that with traffic conditions she had at best a couple of minutes before her pursuers caught up to her. She swerved into the first alley she came to and felt the seatbelt squeeze into her flesh as she bumped over the curb.

She parked the car in the middle of the alley, got out, then walked to the passenger side of the car and yanked her prisoner out. He feigned helplessness that wasn’t entirely faked.

‘Walk,’ Cleena said, ‘or I’ll make sure you never can again.’

Dawson started to walk favouring his wounded leg. He left a blood trail on the cracked stone.

At the end of the alley, when the pursuers were still two blocks away, Cleena turned right and walked into a parking lot. A young attendant came out of the kiosk to greet them.

‘May I help you?’ he asked.

Cleena pointed to the nearest sedan. ‘I want the keys to that car.’

‘Do you have your ticket?’

She showed him the pistol. His eyes widened and he reached inside the kiosk to retrieve the keys. Cleena reached inside as well and yanked the phone cord from the wall.

‘There will be men after me,’ Cleena said. ‘American. They’ll be hard men and you won’t want to talk to them because they’re not going to be friendly. Understand?’

The young man nodded and looked panicked. ‘Sometimes my English isn’t so good.’

‘They’ll probably beat good English into you if they have the chance.’ Cleena indicated the blood trail her prisoner had left. ‘Maybe they won’t follow me here, but I think they will.’

She opened the sedan’s passenger door and shoved her captive inside. Dawson groaned and slumped into the seat. Cleena walked around the car and slid behind the steering wheel. The engine caught immediately. She backed out of the parking space, then headed back out into the alley and drove away from the vehicle she’d left behind. In her rear-view mirror, she saw a car arrive and stop behind the abandoned vehicle. Before she cleared the alley mouth, a second car had arrived.

‘They’re going to find you,’ Dawson said weakly. He’d gone pale.

Cleena was worried that he would go into shock and pass out. ‘It’ll be too late to help you.’

‘You don’t know who you’re messing with.’

‘The CIA. How’s that for starters?’

The man tried to control the surprise on his face.

Cleena drove smoothly, keeping in the flow of the traffic. ‘Now, give me your name or I’m going to do the knee.’ She kept her voice cold and distant, as though this was an everyday conversation.

Shifting slightly, Dawson leaned against the door.

Cleena pointed the pistol at his knee. ‘Go on. Jump out of the car. And when you do, I’m going to back over you.’

He wilted, obviously resigned to his fate. ‘Trust me. You do not want to hurt me any more.’

‘Actually, I do. But right now that’s negotiable.’

Stubbornly, he failed to respond.

‘Three, two-’

‘Dawson,’ the man said. ‘James Dawson.’

‘And you’re with the CIA?’

‘Yes.’

‘What are you doing in Istanbul?’

‘Investigating a possible terrorist cell.’

That, she knew, was a lie, but she led it ride. ‘Why is Thomas Lourds involved in your investigation?’

‘Our information leads us to believe that Lourds is designing an artificial language for terrorists.’

‘That’s a load of crap,’ Sevki said over the earwig connection. ‘He thinks he’s dealing with idiots. It would actually be a great plan if used, but terrorist cells are set up to function independently. There is no communication between terrorist cells. That’s part of why they’re so dangerous.’

Cleena knew that as well.

‘That isn’t what Lourds is doing,’ she said.

‘I leaned on you and your sister, to get information concerning Lourds’ whereabouts,’ the man said. ‘We had to have it.’

Cleena stopped the car at a red light in a busy intersection. ‘One last question, and you get to walk.’

Dawson started to say something, then thought better of it and didn’t.