17

ESPY CHECKED THE WINDOW AGAIN, lifting the shade to scan the street. It was the fourth time she’d done so, and Jack couldn’t blame her. The people after them—both sets of them—had demonstrated an uncanny ability to determine their whereabouts. For all he knew, a member of the Priests of Osiris might have watched Jack and Espy leave the scene of their altercation with the assassin.

Leaving the window, Espy returned to the bed, where Jack sat against the headboard, a pillow shoved behind his lower back. His knee was wrapped in a towel with ice cubes sandwiched between the fabric and his bare skin.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

Beneath the towel he tried to move his leg. It responded to his commands, but the pain was extraordinary. The knee had been the bane of his existence for years. He always knew it would give out at some point; it just couldn’t have picked a worse time to prove him right.

“Not bad,” he lied.

Her smile told him she was aware of the lie. He reached for her hand and pulled her near. She curled up next to him, her head on his chest.

“I miss the boys,” she said.

“So do I.”

They lapsed into silence, and after several minutes Jack realized that she was asleep. He remained still, knowing how desperately both of them needed rest, but his mind wouldn’t shut down to allow him to join her. He lay there awake for a long while as his wife slept.

The words of the nameless assassin came back to him, that he and Espy would never be able to leave Saint Petersburg. Jack knew the man wasn’t making it up. Every dock, every airfield, every taxi service—all of them would have eyes watching. And Jack had no reason to doubt the resources available to accomplish that sort of surveillance. By mentioning Olivia Chambers, the man had confirmed for Jack that they were up against an entity with unlimited clout.

And what did he and Espy have available to them? They had less than five hundred dollars. They had questionable passports, especially with McKeller demonstrating his ability to hijack the surveillance power of the CIA. He had two guns—one with fourteen rounds and a second, tucked away in the duffel as a backup, with much less. They had archaeological and linguistic currency, and an old book that was pointing them toward Paris.

Espy had explained to him how everything she read in the book led to Paris as the base of operations for the Priests of Osiris. The organization identified Paris early on as a place where it could sink its roots. There was an entire chapter devoted to analyzing the appropriateness of the city as a staging ground for their activities. Jack hoped the book had more to go on, because Paris made Saint Petersburg look like a hamlet. Without any additional information, they could go no further than poking around the Eiffel Tower.

Their list of assets had them coming up woefully short. He didn’t know how they were going to get out of Saint Petersburg, much less get to Paris. He weighed the possibility of walking into the nearest police station and telling them everything he knew. But considering where they were, and with the forces that had seen him and Espy holed up in a hotel that wouldn’t have appeared in anyone’s travel guide, he suspected the Priests had the resources to make sure any report Jack made to the Russian police would be swallowed up in paperwork and bureaucracy.

So once again he was back to their assets. He was contemplating their options going forward when he felt himself nodding off. When he awakened with a start, almost an hour later, the question about how to escape Saint Petersburg was still heavy on his mind. But the answer seemed close to presenting itself.

As he settled back, putting an arm around his wife, he found himself thinking about Duckey, and Romero, and all the other people who’d helped him along the way—offering guidance, money, information, a place to stay. The question now was who could he call on to help them with the present dilemma? Several minutes passed as he considered this, and at some point he fell asleep again. When a movement from Espy roused him, the answer was as obvious as it was insane.

The disposable cell phones had been left at their last hotel—a place they couldn’t return to—the phones with numbers that either Romero or Duckey would recognize. The only phone Jack had available was the one in his pocket, which had about ten prepaid minutes left on it.

He rose and walked to the other side of the small room, fishing the phone from his pocket. He powered it on and, before dialing the number, rehearsed what he needed to say. He had ten minutes to make three calls.

Duckey answered before the first ring had completed. “Where in the world are you?”

“Hey, Ducks. Listen, I only have a minute or so and I need you to do something for me.”

Jack could feel the exasperation coming from his friend. It had been days since they’d gone silent in response to McKeller’s tap of Duckey’s phone, days since Jack had taken down the numbers for Duckey’s own disposables, and Jack couldn’t begrudge Duckey his irritation over his not making use of those numbers. Yet he didn’t have time to explain his hesitance at dragging Duckey in any further. For now, Duckey would have to content himself with hearing Jack’s voice and knowing his friend wasn’t dead.

“What do you need?” Duckey asked.

“When Martin Templeton had me in Libya, I called the Israelis to broker a deal. I need their number.”

Duckey went silent. Jack could imagine him pondering the weight of his request—along with the idiocy of it.

“How do I find the number?” Duckey asked after a time.

“I called them from Templeton’s phone, but I entered the number in my own. Can your friends at the Agency access my phone and give me the number I’ve saved as Mossad?”

“You have the Mossad’s phone number saved in your directory?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Jack could sense Duckey’s silent grumbling through the phone.

“Just so you know, my contacts are running a bit dry at the moment. This McKeller thing has everyone pretty spooked. So I can’t promise anything.”

“I know, Ducks,” Jack said. “And thanks.” When he disconnected, Jack felt better than he had a few minutes ago.

He fell asleep again, and woke when the phone rang. He fumbled for the phone.

“Do you know how hard it is to get a phone number that someone has entered into their cell phone but never called?” Duckey asked.

“I’m guessing not very hard?”

“Wrong,” Duckey said. “Because now the technical geniuses I’ve always counted on to help me with these little favors of yours are wetting themselves at the thought of getting caught providing information to an ex-agent.”

Jack felt his heart sink. “So you didn’t get it.”

“No, I got it. I’m just saying it wasn’t easy.”

Jack snorted and shook his head. “You’re pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

“Very much so,” Duckey said. “You have a pen and paper ready?”

Jack opened the desk drawer and found a notepad and pen. “Ready.”

When he was finished giving Jack the number, Duckey said, “You do realize you’re about to call a group of people who almost killed you, right?”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And you think that’s a good idea?”

“At this point, Ducks, I’m out of ideas. So if you can suggest anything that might get us out of Saint Petersburg without drawing anyone’s attention, I’d love to hear it.”

“Did you say Saint Petersburg?”

Jack was about to fill him in when the phone beeped. He pulled it away from his ear and read the display. “It looks like this phone is going dead soon.”

“Call me on the next one,” Duckey said. “I have the list.”

“Unfortunately, the Priests of Osiris have overrun our last hotel,” Jack said. “So they have the other phones now.”

“The Priests of who—?” Duckey asked.

But before Jack could respond, the phone went dead. He tossed the phone in the trash, then went to the bed and woke up Espy. “I’m going to get a phone,” he said.

She blinked a few times and then nodded. Jack wasn’t sure she heard him or grasped what he’d said, but he didn’t press the issue. She was asleep again by the time he opened the door, the number for the Israelis in his pocket.

He found a store not too far from the hotel, which was good because his limp made it an arduous journey. There was some minor difficulty when the language barrier kept him from discerning the amount being charged for the phone, but he worked it out by handing the clerk too much and hoping he didn’t get ripped off. Then, with the phone activated, Jack headed back to the hotel. He made the call from outside so that he didn’t disturb Espy.

Despite his nonchalance with Duckey, Jack experienced some trepidation as he made the call. The last time he’d called this number, it was to negotiate a trade for his life. By his reckoning, the Israelis still owed him. If they didn’t feel the same, however, then he was setting himself up with another adversary.

They picked up on the second ring, using a language Jack guessed to be Hebrew.

“Hello,” he said. “This is Jack Hawthorne. Can I speak to whoever it was I spoke with about ten years ago?”

He had no idea who was on the other end of the call. For all he knew, it was someone fresh out of whatever passed for the Israeli spy academy. That was why the lack of an immediate response didn’t make him nervous. It took almost a full minute before someone answered. It was a new voice.

“Dr. Hawthorne, I was under the impression that our business was concluded,” the man said in English.

“As was I,” Jack said. “But sometimes extenuating circumstances change things. I’m afraid I need another favor.”

Silence fell again, and Jack could only imagine what was going on in the man’s mind.

“You delivered something to us, and in return we allowed you to live. A simple transaction, one that left no debt on either side.”

Jack couldn’t argue the man’s point. Years earlier, when he’d attempted to find the Nehushtan—the serpent staff of Moses—he was taken prisoner by someone working for the Israeli government, a man who’d decided to allow a personal vendetta to get in the way of delivering the Nehushtan to the Israelis. In the process, the Mossad marked both of them for a hit. It was only because Jack was able to deliver the staff to them that they allowed him to live.

“What if I can offer you another something?” Jack asked.

“I doubt you could offer us anything of significance” was the reply.

Jack smiled. “What if I told you that I could help you locate the bones of the prophet Elisha? That I could give you the name and address of the super-secret ancient society that’s had them in their possession for more than two thousand years?”

After yet another long moment of silence, the man said, “You’re saying the bones of Elisha still exist? I’m sorry, Dr. Hawthorne, but I find that very hard to believe.”

“They still exist. I can give your people information on the whereabouts of an underground chamber where the bones were once kept. They’re not in the chamber anymore, but I imagine you’re smart enough to figure things out from there. But in return, I’m going to need something from you. My wife and I are currently stranded in Saint Petersburg. We need to get out of the country and the usual avenues are closed to us. You get us out, give us enough money to survive on for a little while, and the location’s yours.”

This time, it wasn’t silence Jack heard. Instead he heard the muffled sounds of people talking behind a phone not properly muted.

“I’m sure you understand what will happen if we discover you’re being disingenuous,” the Israeli said.

“I understand. If I’m lying, you’ll kill me. But, just between you and me, you’re going to have to take a number on that one.”

With that, he told the Israeli the hotel address and then ended the call. He’d played his hand. Now it was up to them.