Eric Lustbader - The Testament

"Why?"

"That's what I asked him. All he'd say was that he'd made a breakthrough, that he had to do the rest of it alone. I begged him to let me help, but he was adamant. You know how hard-headed Dad could be."

He certainly did know. "But why all of a sudden did he cut you out?"

"I've tried a dozen theories. None of them makes sense."

"What," Bravo said, "if the breakthrough involved a new suspect very close to Dad?"

"But why would he-?"

"Someone he didn't want you to know about-especially that he was very close to her."

"Her?"

"Jenny Logan-the Guardian. No wonder Zorzi was a prior suspect; it was one of his people who was the mole. She probably left clues leading Dad back to him. But it didn't work-or at least, not for long. I think he assigned her to me hoping she'd trip her hand conclusively and I'd find her out. Which is exactly what's happened."

"I don't know, Bravo, that's a lot of danger to expose you to."

"No more than what he'd been training me for."

"Still, it was a monumental gamble on his part, don't you think?"

"The stakes are high, Emma, I don't have to tell you that." He thought a moment. "What were you doing for Dad after he pulled you off the background checks?"

"Nothing all that important. Checking the Order's audio logs of their London-based intel. Honestly, I don't know why he wanted it vetted."

"Me neither," Bravo said. "But you know Dad, somewhere there was a reason. Can you manage-?"

"Blind, you mean? I've been trying to tell you since you called but you kept laying bombshells on me. Some of my sight has come back."

He let out a whoop of delight. "Emma, that's fantastic!"

"It's only in one eye so far and my vision's not that great, especially distances. It may never be, the doctors tell me. But I can see the computer screen well enough, especially with the great hulking magnifying lens I had made."

"Then you can continue vetting the London audio intel."

"But it's sooo boring," Emma moaned in her most theatrical voice.

"Look, I've recently discovered that Dad was working on fundamentalist movements in and around the Middle East. There's a long history of fundamentalist training and staging activity in London, as you know, so while what he's asked you to do might seem boring, it could have very serious implications."

"Okay, okay, you've sold me, but promise me you'll stay in touch more often. Where are you, by the way?"

"Best not to tell you."

She laughed. "Now you sound just like Dad."

"Get cracking on that London intel."

"Right. Take care of yourself."

"Emma, I love you."

He severed the line and put the cell phone away. By that time the food had come. He ate without tasting a thing. With the information about Emma and Jenny buzzing in his head he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

The light was fading. Along Trabzon's crescent shoreline the sea was zebra-striped. Boats lay at anchor or in their slips, rocking gently as if they were children drifting off to sleep. In the heart of the Old City, Damon Cornadoro turned a corner, went down the block toward Mikhail Kartli's carpet shop. He had his orders and, like all loyal soldiers, he would carry them out to the best of his abilities, and he would succeed. With all the bewildering variables in the world, Cornadoro was grateful that his skills weren't one of them. He was absolutely confident in himself. He did not, like others, feel fear. The sensation was unknown to him-ever since, on a dare, he had stuck his arm in the flames of a Venetian street fire. He had been sixteen at the time, but street-smart beyond his years. Though a scion of one of the Case Vecchie, he preferred to slum. When he'd been challenged, he knew just what to do. He'd turned away, rolled up his sleeves and rubbed his hands together, as if preparing himself for the ordeal. In fact, that was precisely what he was doing, though not in the way any of the onlookers understood. He was coating his right arm with axle grease.

During this time he was keeping up a steady stream of boasting, daring more people to bet against him, furthering his odds. Classic misdirection, diverting the onlookers' attention from seeing how he was protecting his arm. Then, so quickly it brought a gasp to those crowded around, he thrust his right arm up to the elbow into the crackling fire, held it there for a full thirty seconds, before removing it. Holding up the arm, he laughed at the looks of astonishment on their faces, and jovially collected his winnings.

Now as Cornadoro came upon the Georgian's shop, he felt no trepidation, simply a desire to accomplish his task. Camille had warned him not to underestimate Kartli; Cornadoro had learned to take her warnings seriously.

The young girl Irema, the Georgian's daughter, who Kartli had ordered home during his altercation with Braverman Shaw, had not, in fact, done as her dear papa had ordered but had melted into the throng, hanging at the fringes, moving here and there, watching the shape of her father's anger. Cornadoro had noted this, and he would not forget. He passed her now as she at last decided that it was time to leave.

One of her brothers was folding small rugs, taking them off the rickety wooden stands outside the shop, preparatory to bringing them inside for the night.

"We're closed," he said without looking up or pausing in his work. "Please come back tomorrow morning."

"I must see Mikhail Kartli," Cornadoro said.

The young man glanced up. "Must?"

"I've come a long way to see him." Cornadoro stood his ground. "All the way from Rhodes."

At the last word, the young man stopped folding rugs. Something swam in his eyes-what was it? Fear, consternation, perhaps a bit of both. So it should be; Rhodes was the home of the Knights of St. Clement. Cornadoro was pleased.

The young man put down the rug. "Please wait here," he said as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the interior of the shop. Lights, the yellow of a mongrel's tooth, were coming on all over the city. New reflections turned the shopwindows into blind eyes.

Mikhail Kartli appeared in the doorway, spent a moment warily eyeing his visitor. At length, he emerged onto the street. "What can I do for you?"

"I think it's more what I can do for you."

Cornadoro stepped briskly forward but stopped when the Georgian held up his hand.

"First, your weapon of choice. The push-dagger, if you please."

Cornadoro laughed good-naturedly. "I commend you, Georgian, your intel is excellent." He produced the push-dagger he'd used to slit Father Damaskinos's throat, held it out, handle first. Kartli nodded and his son took it.

"For safekeeping," Kartli said. "It will be returned to you when you leave."

Cornadoro inclined his upper torso in a slightly ironic mock-bow. He now produced a small metal tin, which he held out to the Georgian.

"What is this?"

"A gift," Cornadoro said, "from one connoisseur to another."

"Open it, please," Kartli commanded.

"By all means." Cornadoro freed the latch, raised the box's top. At once, a delicately aromatic scent perfumed the air.

Kartli's eyes opened wide. "Bai Ji Guan."

Cornadoro nodded. "White Rooster Crest, a first generation tea, as you know, one of the four WuYi Mountain rock oolongs."

"Very rare, very costly," Kartli said, taking possession of the box.

Cornadoro shrugged. "If it pleases you, there's more where that came from." Inside he was smiling broadly; Camille had been right again, they'd scored a direct hit.

"Come with me," Kartli said, leading the way into the interior of the shop. Oil lamps had been lit, spilling pools of warm light across the magnificent tapestry of the rugs. The son brought coffee-no tea and no food. This form of the ritual told Cornadoro that the meeting was preliminary, the intentions of his host at this point neutral.