Page 83 of End of Days

I said, “Good. Good. When is he coming back?”

“Four days. We can return in four days and just take him quietly, without upsetting the applecart of the Vatican and Italy.”

Shoshana said, “Where in Israel is this event happening?”

“Megiddo. It’s apparently an ancient archeological site. They’ve found something there that Israel wants to celebrate. Something from the Bible, to give a reason for Christians and Israelis to bond.”

Shoshana sucked in a breath, then said, “Pike, we can’t wait for him to return. This is it. We need to figure out what he’s doing, right now.”

“What do you mean ‘this is it’? Why can’t we wait?”

“Megiddo is an ancient city, one of the oldest in the world. Lia’s right. It’s in the Bible over and over, right up until the end.”

I didn’t know why she was getting so upset. “The end of what?”

“The end of the Bible. Revelation. The End of Days. It speaks about a climactic battle between the forces of good and evil right there in that city.”

I still didn’t get it.Megiddo? Who the hell cares about that?

She said, “Don’t you see? It’s what he’s been trying to do all along.”

Frustrated, I said, “No, Idon’tsee. Just because he’s crazy doesn’t mean I can see the crazy.”

She said, “He’s not coming back. This is his End of Days. In the Bible, Megiddo is known as Armageddon.”

AndthatI could understand.

Chapter 53

Sitting in the rear of a private charter jet, Garrett finally achieved deep sleep. He was safe, flying away from the investigation that was building into a crescendo. His dreams coalesced around a young woman dead on the floor, her robe open, and in the dream, her neck encircled by a red sash. He stood up from her body, for some reason wearing no pants, and heard a thumping at the door. He turned to jump out the window and faced Inspector Lia coming through it, holding a pair of pruning shears.

He jerked awake, disoriented, sweat popping on his brow like small beads of mercury. Across from him, Michelangelo said, “Hey, you okay, boss?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just haven’t had a lot of sleep the last few days.”

Michelangelo nodded, believing Garrett was talking about the toll the planning of their mission was having, and Garrett certainly wasn’t going to disabuse him of the notion.

After he’d killed the hapless university student, he’d fled down a back stairwell, found the student’s bike, and rode the four miles to his own place across the Tiber River, waiting on the police to pull him over with every stroke of his pedals. He’d ditched the bike on the street, knowing someone would steal it and possibly help with a misdirection if it was ever recovered, and packed his bags for the trip to Israel. He had enough time for about three hours of rest before Michelangelo arrived to take him to the airport.

Now halfway through the three-hour flight to Ben Gurion Airportnear Tel Aviv, Garrett was feeling the effects from the lack of sleep, the dream he’d just had startlingly vivid in his mind’s eye.

Michelangelo said, “What did the Grand Master say to you when we boarded? He didn’t seem like he was pleased to see me.”

The Grand Master’s entourage had taken the front half of the Learjet, leaving the back for Garrett and Michelangelo, both in the last two seats next to the baggage compartment, which was fine by Garrett. He didn’t want to sit with those prima donnas anyway.

Garrett said, “He wanted to know why you were here because I’d told the lieutenant that I would be the only security on the trip. I told the Grand Master that you would remain behind in Tel Aviv purely as support.”

“But I’m not going to be in Tel Aviv. I’m going to be in Jerusalem.”

“He doesn’t need to know that. Tell me you have the charges made.”

In his previous life in the Croatian Special Operations Battalion, Michelangelo had been an explosives expert. He’d designed the limpet mines used and his background was the reason he had been chosen for the Jerusalem mission—that, and with his swarthy skin and black hair, he could pass for a Palestinian.

In the end, Garrett knew they would have to accomplish this one by themselves, because there was no way Keta’ib Hezbollah—or any Muslim group—would agree to attack what they were targeting.

“Yes, I have them. Four shaped charges daisy-chained together. They’ll get the job done. If they’re not confiscated when we land.”

“They won’t be. We’re representing the Vatican and are almost a sovereign nation in our own right. They’ll treat the entire group as diplomats.”

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