Paradox

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Having spent so much time indoors of late Annja was content to walk briskly with no fixed goal in mind, stretching out her long legs. When she grew tired and chilled she bought a steaming cup of cocoa from a kiosk and then sat in the lee of the small building to read e-mail and check the latest news on her BlackBerry.

Nothing seemed likely to impact her situation directly—although as always the pot of occupied Iraq seethed on the verge of bubbling over, as did the U.S.’s perpetual grudge match with an Iran now backed openly by China and a resurgent Russia. If either of those situations did explode the best and possibly only shot at survival for the expedition would be to run like hell for the Bosporus. But Annja saw no reason to expect they would do so now.

Still, she felt a tickle of unsourced unease in the pit of her stomach. That’s probably what I get for reading the headlines, she thought, and put her phone away.

The park closed at sunset, which came early this time of year. Ankara lay at about the latitude of Philadelphia, though considerably farther from the weather-tempering influence of a big ocean and considerably nearer to the monster-storm hatchery of the Himalayas. She had just reached the exit when a voice called, “Annja Creed? A word with you, please.”

She stopped. Does every sketchy character in the world know my name? she wondered. Although she tried to keep her face and posture as relaxed as possible her body badly wanted to tense like a gazelle that thinks a wind shift at the watering hole has just brought a whiff of lion. The range of people who might conceivably wish her harm, or even just to talk to her in a none-too-friendly way, ranged from Turkish civic or military authorities less well-disposed to their endeavor than General Orga to any number of unsavory characters from her past. Among whom, of course, was the ever-prominent if publicity-averse billionaire financier Garin Braden, who might have felt a cold wind of mortality blow down his spine as he lay in his huge canopied bed that morning. When Braden wasn’t trying to get the sword from her he was battling with his long-time nemesis Roux and dragging Annja into the battle.

Her interlocutor appeared to be no more than a solidly built man of intermediate height and apparently advanced age who stood by the white-enameled wrought-iron gates dressed in a camel-hair coat and a fedora that clung, despite the wind’s best efforts, to a head of hair that, though as gleaming white as his trim beard, still managed to suggest it had once been blazing red. He smiled a bit grimly as she looked at him, and nodded.

“I have information that might prove vital to you. It concerns the expedition you are involved with.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Please believe me,” he said, holding up gloved hands. “I assure you I have no official capacity in this country. Nor in any other, for that matter. Nor have I any financial propositions to make to you. Nor any other kind, should you be worried about that.”

His manner was disarming. Annja wasn’t so easily disarmed. Then again, that was literally true; and her ever-active curiosity was excited. As for his disavowal of official standing she was far from willing to take that at face value. He spoke with an accent she couldn’t identify—which itself was strange, given her expertise in languages, and wide travels.

Then again if he were some kind of Turkish secret cop all he’d have to do was snap his fingers and burly goons would magically appear on all sides of her, she thought. She knew it from past experience.

“Please allow me the honor of buying you dinner,” he said. “In a suitably public place, of course. That should reassure you as to my intentions—although I doubt you have much to fear from the likes of me.”

Her stomach growled. Her metabolism required frequent feeding. It hadn’t gotten one in too long. Still, she was wary.

“All right, Mister—”

“You may call me Mr. Summer.”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“Where but in the tower?” he said with a twinkle in his dark green eyes.

THE LIGHTS OF ANKARA by evening rotated almost imperceptibly by outside the window beside their table.

“It is good of you to indulge an old man’s whimsy,” her companion said around a mouthful of grape leaf stuffed with ground lamb and pine nuts. “The fare in the restaurant at the pinnacle, above us, is of higher quality. Or at least greater pretense. But this establishment, I daresay, offers quite acceptable local cuisine.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I can get French-style bistro cooking anywhere. Good Turkish food, not so much.” Although I halfway wish we’d stopped at the UFO Café, just on general principles, she thought.

The restaurant revolved once every hour and a half. It seemed to give Mr. Summer the pleasure a thrill ride gave an addict.

“I love the toys of our modern era,” he said, green eyes gleaming, as if to confirm her impression.

“So what’s this vital information you have for me?” Annja asked. Mr. Summer had made light conversation, mostly asking how she found the city and eliciting her views on the city’s historical artifacts. His own knowledge of these seemed beyond encyclopedic; she wished she were able to take advantage of his knowledge. But she sensed that this meeting would be their one and only. She had carefully eaten until her hunger was almost assuaged before bringing up anything potentially controversial.

“Simply that your expedition poses great danger.”

She frowned. “To me?”

“To you and to your companions, yes. To be sure. But also, quite possibly, to the world.”

Her frown deepened. “Isn’t that overstating things just a bit?”

He smiled thinly. “I wish I thought I was. For if your employers find what they seek it can be used to start the third—and likely final—world war. All the elements are in place, awaiting only a sign. Do you understand?”

She took another bite of rice and chewed slowly to give herself time to think. “Maybe,” she said in a neutral tone. “I’m aware there are Christian millenarialists in my country who believe that Jesus Christ is waiting for a particular set of prophesied conditions to come about in order that he can return.”

“And bring the Armageddon.”

She shrugged. “That seems to be the general plan.”

“You realize that certain such people are in what we might call a position to expedite the Last Battle?”

“Too well, as it happens. Are you telling me my employers are some of those people?”

“Not necessarily. But regardless of the particulars of their own belief, or their own degree of influence for that matter, if they conclude they have found that which they seek it could be more than sufficient for those who unquestionably do hold such beliefs and power.”

She sighed and put her fork down. “If I let myself be intimidated out of an expedition,” she said, “what kind of an archaeologist am I?”

“Spoken like the true heiress to Indiana Jones and Lara Croft,” he said, shaking his head with a sad smile. “Unfortunately, this is not a movie.”

“I can’t bring myself to accept the argument that there are some things humankind was not meant to know, Mr. Summer. However it’s couched.”

“There is a certain nobility in your position, Ms. Creed. Even if it arises from a courage born of ignorance. Have you considered what the consequences might be if you learn a truth your employers don’t like—for you and your friends?”

Anger stabbed through her. She let it pass without grabbing onto it. He seemed to mean well. He was clearly well educated and well-off—like some kind of Middle Eastern magnate, in fact, although he didn’t strike her as Arab or Persian.

He had a most convincing manner. He also knew way too much. Yet words could never hurt her. Could they?

“Yes,” she said, more tightly than she intended. “I have. But I’m just not prepared to throw over a commitment, professional and personal, simply because some mystical stranger utters Apocalyptic warnings. Please understand that.”

He finished his food and laid knife and fork carefully across his plate. “I do,” he said. “I also hope, most urgently, that you will reconsider. You are a most estimable young woman.”

“Thank you. But I have to tell you it’s highly unlikely. Thank you for the dinner, though. I enjoyed it thoroughly. The company as well as the scenery and the food.”

He smiled and rose, taking up his hat and coat. “Please give my regards to young Roux and his apprentice Garin.”

A light went on in Annja’s skull. If that was the proper metaphor for something that felt like a hefty whack with a sledgehammer. Had that garrulous old fart Roux been running his mouth to his poker buddies again? she wondered furiously.

The man with the silver-brushed red beard was laughing and holding up his hands. “Peace, please. Don’t be so hasty to blame Roux. Although indeed, it’s easy enough to do. I come entirely on my own initiative. And he’s not breathed a hint of your secret to me, although he’s far too enamored of mystery and mumbo jumbo for their own sakes not to drop heavy hints. Unfortunately he’s also so cagey that he never goes further, no matter how drunk one gets him. I will confess I’ve tried.”

“Then how?”

“My dear child, when one’s eyes have seen as much as these eyes have, one need see little indeed to discern the truth.”

He touched his hat. “I bid you good evening, and leave you with my sincere wish that the gods go with you and keep you. I fear you shall need it.”

He was gone then, disappearing around the curve of the corridor, before Annja had untangled his cryptic statement well enough to notice what else he’d said.

“Who calls Roux young?” she wondered aloud. She shook her head. “The old dude’s got to be delusional. It’s the only possible explanation.”

LIKE A LOT OF OLD CITIES Ankara had narrow twisty streets right alongside broad well-traveled thoroughfares, giant skyscrapers rubbing glass-and-steel shoulders with brick tenements and blocks of modest shops. Some of that could be found in the Kavaklidere south of the Sheraton.

Annja preferred the dimmer backstreets to the bright modern lights. They allowed a more pleasant walk with a degree of solitude. Even if her thoughts were too roiled and dark for her to enjoy walking through the exotic Turkish capital as much as she usually would. She still found it both odd and pleasing that she had these streets, even this particular relatively long and straight uphill stretch, pretty much to herself, when just a few blocks away on Talat Pafla Boulevard the traffic was flowing bumper to bumper and the nightspots were hopping.

A brisk wind edged with cold like broken glass sent dry leaves from the avenue’s many trees skittering along past Annja’s feet like small frightened animals. Not all the trees were bare; some were evergreen here, too, as in the botanic garden, and most impressive in size. The smell of spices and boiling water was stronger here than the inevitable city-center diesel stink. Floating from somewhere came the faint strains of Turkish music.

She didn’t know what to make of the aged Mr. Summer. It was tempting to dismiss what he said as nonsense. But there was the fact that he knew Roux. And Garin.

And also that she was off on a quest to prove the literal truth of the Old Testament, totally against the laws and wishes of their host country. Surreal? The whole damned thing was surreal.

She trudged up the hill toward the light-encrusted tower of the Sheraton. It was steep here. It didn’t tax her particularly. In fact she was thinking of hitting the hotel’s beautiful and well-equipped exercise room when she got back—maybe take a few laps in the indoor pool afterward. She was wary of jogging on the street under the circumstances; best not to attract undue attention to herself….

Striding down the hill toward her from the hotel she saw a familiar figure: the lean, beak-nosed general Orhan Orga. For all his near-depressive appearance at the negotiating table he walked with erect military bearing, looking taller than normal in his high-peaked cap, with his black leather greatcoat flapping around his stork legs. Behind him, and seemingly having to hustle to keep up, were a pair of huge and burly plainclothes goons. Apparently a Turkish army general worried more about being mugged on the Ankara streets than Annja. Then again, he probably had higher-level enemies than random street criminals on his mind.

A black SUV with dark tinted windows waited gleaming by the curb, nose toward Annja and two blocks uphill. Its lights flashed and its alarm system beeped reassuringly twice as Orga gestured grandly with a gloved hand. He thoughtfully slowed enough to allow one bodyguard to scuttle ahead of him to open the driver’s door and lever his bulk inside. The other stepped fast to open the passenger door for his master, then clambered into the backseat.

She heard the car’s big engine growl alive. The SUV rolled away from the curb toward her like a big black cat headed out for a nocturnal prowl.

Then it exploded with a brilliant yellow-white flash.

7

The heavy car flew skyward on a column of yellow flame.

At the same instant a sharp crack hit Annja’s eardrums. She was already dropping onto her palms on the sidewalk, preparatory to flattening herself like a lizard on a hot rock. As a louder, heavier boom rolled over her on a breath of hot wind she realized she’d just seen a two-stage explosion going off. The first, sharper blast had been to rupture the car’s fuel tank and turn the gasoline inside into an aerosol—which when ignited itself served as a high explosive.

The movies loved using two-stage blasts because they were showy, with lots of bright yellow fire. But out in the big bad world Annja knew they were relatively rare because they took extra effort and knowledge to plant. That meant they were reserved for those people who had really annoyed somebody who was really, really skilled.

I guess this means the Turkish government disapproves of our little scheme, she thought as chunks of debris began to rain down around her.

The blasts were still echoing around Kavaklidere when she thrust herself upright. She wasn’t superstitious but she sure believed in bad luck. As in, it was bad luck to be the only person visible on the street when a car containing a reasonably major public figure blew skyward atop a pillar of fire.

With her usual gymnastic grace she snapped to her feet in a single spasm of effort. Time to get off the street and find a nice dark corner to fold myself into, she thought. She figured her next priority after that was a call to the Sheraton to let her friends know they needed a brand-new set of plans. In one heck of a hurry.

Before she could take a step a heavy hand clamped her right bicep. Another got her left one. They felt like iron bands.

Despite the length of her legs and her lean muscle weight, she felt herself picked up bodily off the ground. She smelled stale male sweat and harsh tobacco. Not a good sign. Not one little bit.

Looking hurriedly around, as she was dragged back down the street and around the corner, she saw she’d been seized by a pair of burly, swarthy goons in ill-fitting suits. One had a shaved head; the other took the opposite tack with a shaggy head of hair. Both had thick moustaches. Both also wore impenetrably dark mirror shades.

“I don’t suppose the fact I’ve got an American passport will make much of an impression on you gentlemen, huh?” she said. “Huh. No. Thought not.”

It had been purely quixotic to ask—mostly to reassure herself with the sound of her own voice, and assert her personal power with a smart-ass remark.

They bundled her into a four-door Mercedes sedan, black and shiny and imposing. Keeping a low profile didn’t seem to be high on the agenda for this team.

One of Annja’s captors slid in beside her, staying firmly latched to her arm while the other went around to the other side and got in, pinning her between their bulky bodies. The car slid away from the curb.

“Just to be fair,” she said, “I’m giving you gentleman one last chance to let me go. Fair warning.”

Dark sunglasses still on, they exchanged looks past her. Then as one they started laughing.

Annja formed her right hand into half a fist. The sword’s hilt filled it with cool reassuring metal hardness. She leaned back against the luxuriant leather-upholstered seat, and jabbed before either man could comprehend what they had just witnessed.

The man to her right screamed shrilly as the blade’s edge bit into his face. The man to her left was struggling to shift his bulk. She felt him bunching to deliver some kind of retaliatory attack. She couldn’t get much hip into her own blows but she did the best she could, swinging her body hard to ram the sword’s pommel into his face. She felt teeth splinter.

The other guy was thrashing and bellowing. Glancing back she saw his face fountaining blood from a long gash. Seizing the hilt with both hands Annja did quick nasty work in the tight confines. Periodically she gave his partner a quick slam with the hilt. The man on her right shrieked and convulsed. The inside of the driver’s-side window and the rear window were sprayed with blood.

As he slumped into a bubbling mass of torn cloth and violated flesh his compatriot recovered from his facial battering enough to grab Annja’s arm again. He was still strong; she couldn’t break free, especially with too little room to really get her hips into it.

She opened her hand. The sword vanished. The astonishing sight made the assailant relax his grip slightly. Then she turned and jabbed him in the eye. He squealed.

His shades were broken and askew on his face. Half-blind he tried to grab her again. He still hadn’t given up the notion that he was big strong man and she was mere weak woman; he was relying on muscles and now adrenaline rather than going for the gun whose butt she could see tucked beneath his left armpit.