Edge of Dawn (28 page)

“No, I mean it's gone. As in poof, vanished.”

The lawyer's tone was matter-of-fact, almost blas
é
. Grenier jerked upright, his breath going short, rage at the man's denseness settling like a choking weight in his chest. But more than rage was the bone-numbing fear that gripped him. “Gone? Do you have any idea … This is a disaster.”

Two years ago, he had promised to deliver the sword to his masters. He had failed, and rather than face the judgment of the Old Ones, Grenier had fled to Richard for protection. Protection afforded by the sword, the only weapon that could kill an Old One. And now it was gone. Grenier felt the cold chill of vulnerability. Agitation pulled him to his feet, and he came around from behind the desk to loom over the other man.

“We have no weapon! No paladin to wield the weapon! No defense!” His voice rose with each word.

“Against what? The gate
you
opened is closed—”

“And many, many things came through. Many are still here. Richard didn't kill them all. Tears are still opening. We need the sword and a paladin.”

“Well, we don't have either.” Gold's tone was testy.

“We've got to make another weapon. Weren't people working on that?”

“Yes, and Richard took them too.”

“Then we need to locate Richard! Now!”

“We're working on it, but the Turkish authorities are proving to be … elusive.”

“Why?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Do we know why he went to Turkey?” Grenier asked.

“Not a clue.” Gold finished his coffee. “Look, I just came to check on you. See if you needed anything—”

“I need the sword and that child!”

“This is getting really tiresome. What part of
we don't have them
aren't you getting? Your job is to help us put this company back on its feet financially. That's it. That's all.”

Grenier paced. His gut hurt and he realized it was terror, bowel-loosening terror. “We need a way to compel Richard to return. Get those scientists working again. Is Pamela with him?”

“No, not according to flight records.”

“We need to seize his family. And Weber too—”

Gold was on his feet, blocking Grenier's perambulations. “Now just a minute. Do you know how crazy you're sounding right now? We're not thugs or criminals. Richard is filling that role quite nicely. Imprisoning us, stealing the plane, transferring companies in secret. We're requesting he be extradited. It will take a while—”

“We don't have a while.”

Gold stepped back, glared at Grenier. “You can be replaced just as quickly as we put you in place.”

Grenier forced himself to breathe. He closed his eyes, plans churning through his mind. It would almost choke him to do it, but he needed to mollify the other man. Play the supplicant. “Yes, yes, you're right. Sorry. I've allowed my own fears to take control. Please, forgive me.”

“Sure. Okay.” Gold headed for the office door. “Well, glad we had a chance to talk. We'll be in touch. Let us know if you need anything.”

The heavy wood-and-glass door whispered closed behind him. Grenier sat down on the padded piano bench. It was clear that the Lumina lawyer was going to immediately report to Kenzo that Grenier was unstable and needed to be replaced. Grenier had to move against them before that happened, and he had only one play left—throw himself on the mercy of his former masters and their acolytes. Mercy wasn't their long suit, but he had something to trade. The knowledge that the paladin had been disarmed.

Heaving himself to his feet, he waddled quickly to the desk, grabbed up the phone, and started to dial. He then looked at the door. Pictured Jeannette spying, reporting back to Richard. He hung up the phone and left the office. He would call Alexander Titchen, but from the safety of a pay phone.

 

Chapter

SIXTEEN

R
ICHARD
handed off Mosi's monitor to Jerry, who was on first watch, then went to his room, but he was unable to settle. Finally he changed out of his suit and into jeans with a leather jacket over his button-down shirt to hide the pistol. He then slipped out the door. Jerry was just making a sweep down the hall. Richard pressed himself against a wall until the pilot had moved on. He then hurried down the stairs to the lobby. A shadowy figure rose out of an armchair near the elaborately tiled fireplace. Reflexively Richard reached for his gun, then relaxed when he recognized the big form.

“Thought you might be restless,” Weber said.

“You know me too well.”

“You're not going out—”

Desperate, Richard interrupted. “I've got to. I feel like I can't breathe—”

And was in turn interrupted when Weber held up a restraining hand and said, “
Not alone.
Come on. I'll go with you. Wouldn't mind a look at this city, however briefly.”

They stepped through the front door and tensed when a figure moved out of the shadows. It was a young man in the green uniform of the Turkish army and carrying a machine gun. He smiled and nodded. Richard glanced around and realized there were more soldiers lurking at points all around the hotel and even several on the roof.

The young man saluted. “Lieutenant Kartal. General Marangoz had the hotel cleared of all guests save your party and thought it best to provide security.”

Weber and Richard exchanged glances. “I'll go tell Jerry we've got security outside so nobody panics and shoots somebody,” Weber said, and reentered the building.

“Please thank the general and tell him how much I appreciate his actions and having you here,” Richard said.

The young man leaned in and lowered his voice. “These others,” he indicated the guards. “Just soldiers. But me … I am a member of I
şı
k.” The pride was evident in his voice. “During the troubles two years ago, we had more than a few incursions. Djinns,
nasnas,
demons. We know what's at stake. We will allow no harm to come to Kenntnis.”

Weber returned.

“You are going for a walk?” asked Kartal.

“Yes. If you think it's safe,” Richard answered.

“Stay in the central area, and you should be fine. But you should go and look. This is a beautiful city. It's a shame you must leave tomorrow.”

The two men walked off. The air smelled of exotic spices, jasmine, and the sea. Windows were open on this warm September night, and there was the sound of voices, televisions, and from one apartment jazzy and upbeat music with a Middle Eastern tonal structure.

They walked through an oval-shaped park and came upon an Egyptian obelisk. Richard stopped and studied the red stone with its bas-relief pedestal. There was a plaque explaining that this was the Obelisk of Theodosius and that it stood in the center of what had been the Hippodrome built by Emperor Septimius Severus. Richard slowly turned in place, trying to picture the track, the racing chariots, pounding hooves, the screaming crowds.

“Damn. Shit load of history here,” Weber said as he finished reading. “Makes you realize how young America really is.”

They walked on. Weber asked, “Are you one of those people who reads every bit of info in a museum?”

“Guilty.”

“Thought you might be.”

“Why?”

“Always thought you were too bright to be a cop.”

“I'm the dumb bunny of the family,” Richard said, trying to keep it light. He hunched a shoulder. “I loved it,” he added quietly.

“Being a cop or being a dumb bunny?” Weber teased.

Richard cast him a mock frown. “Being a cop. I wish—” He broke off. “But it does no good to repine.”

“Repine,” Weber repeated. He shot Richard a quick smile. “Yeah, real dumb.”

They had to wait to cross the street until an electric trolley had gone sparking and rattling past. At this hour of the night, car traffic was sparse. They found themselves in the gardens in front of the Blue Mosque. Behind them and across another street was Hagia Sophia. The massive dome dominated the night sky, and the four minarets that surrounded the enormous building seemed oddly out of place, built as they were out of nonmatching stone. Standing between the two monumental buildings, Richard felt even smaller than usual. Which had probably been the intent of the builders—to stress the insignificance of man.

“Is that a mosque too?” Weber asked, nodding toward the looming bulk.

“No, not anymore. It began as a church, then became a mosque when Constantinople fell to the Muslims; now it's a museum by order of Atat
ü
rk. He didn't want it to become a source for religious conflict.”

“Huh,” Weber grunted. “Yeah, he does sound like he was one of ours.”

“Of course, the current government is talking about turning it back into a mosque.”

“One step forward, two steps back.”

“Sometimes it feels hopeless,” Richard said with a sigh.

Weber slapped him on the back. “Come on, leave it. Drop the worry. At least for tonight.”

They moved deeper into the garden. There were a few people about, and Richard and Weber gave them a careful look, but they appeared to be just tourists doing exactly what Richard and Weber were doing.

A large reflecting pool lay between them and the exquisite building with its six minarets and the innumerable domes climaxing in the massive dome at the back of the building. Colored lights played across the gray stone exterior, creating the illusion it was actually blue.

“Wow,” Weber said.

Richard just nodded. Abruptly, fountains in the pool shot water high into the air. Lights hit the cascading water, turning it to frothing lace, and they were viewing the mosque through a gauzy veil. Droplets of water dampened Richard's face. It felt wonderful in the sultry heat.

“I wish I could visit this city in a time of peace,” Richard said quietly.

“Pretty romantic place, isn't it?” Weber's voice came from behind him, and there was an odd husky catch on the words.

Richard glanced back. “Yes. It is.” He stepped away from the edge of the pool and walked down a pathway lined with flower beds. Weber fell into step with him. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and he frowned down at the pathway. “What's wrong?” Richard asked.

“I'm working up to something. Just bear with me, okay?” The tone was testy.

“Okay.”

They made their way along the side of the building and came upon an entrance leading into the courtyard. The gates were open. “It's our only chance. Shall we risk it?” Richard asked.

“Sure, what's the worst that can happen? We get thrown out.”

“Or arrested.”

“You've got a general in your pocket.”

“True.”

They hurried through the archway and found themselves in a enormous space with stone tiles underfoot and a breathtaking view of the domes and four of the minarets. In the center of the courtyard stood the hexagonal ablution fountain. The splash of falling water echoed off the walls and the colonnaded walkways, sounding almost like bells. Seagulls, crying like lost women, soared around the spires of the minarets, splashes of white against a star-studded sky.

“So strange … how much magnificent architecture, music, art has been created in celebration of something that, at its core, is a lie,” Richard said softly.

“The world would have been a poorer place if we didn't have this,” Weber said, indicating the building. “Or Notre-Dame.”

“And Mozart oratorios and Bach cantatas. But then there's the flip side. Wouldn't we have been better off without the Crusades, and jihad, and the Inquisition, and al Qaeda?”

“And Pat Robertson being wrong about every prediction he ever made,” Weber added with a chuckle.

“Comic relief has its place.”

They left the courtyard, their footsteps echoing off the stone. They walked down the opposite side of the street and came across a hookah caf
é
that was still open. There was one table with bright young things of both sexes, but mostly it was men drinking and taking hits off the water pipes. The room buzzed with low-voiced conversations, and gurgles and bubbles as smoke was drawn through the water. Competing scents of flavored tobaccos intertwined with the velvet smell of Turkish coffee. It should have been horrible, but instead it was rich and exotic.

“I could use a beer,” Weber confessed. “And I still smoke. When I'm not around you.”

“Oh, what the hell. This may be my last chance to go wild.”

“Hope not,” Weber threw back over his shoulder as he led the way into the caf
é
. “If you do decide to let your hair down, I'll have your back.”

“You always have.”

The caf
é
appeared to be populated almost entirely by locals. There was one young punk couple sporting tattoos, speaking German, and trading kisses in a corner. Both male and female eyes lingered on Richard as they were led to a corner table.

“Does it ever get to you? The way people look at you?” Weber asked.

“Yes, but in this case it's because of my coloring.”

“And your looks. You have to know how handsome you are,” Weber said.

Richard was startled by Weber's words. Weber had always teased him about how Richard broke hearts just by existing, but Weber had never said anything quite so overt. He was saved from answering—an answer that could only make him appear insincerely humble or a coxcomb—when a waiter brought over a hookah. The base was made of stained glass covered with flowing script and feather patterns. Weber selected an apple-flavored tobacco and ordered a beer. Richard ordered a gin and tonic.

“I've never seen you drink before,” Weber remarked.

“Booze gets me into trouble,” Richard answered, but didn't elaborate. He didn't really want to admit to Weber that when he got drunk he usually ended up in somebody's bed, and worse.