And it seemed his expertise was needed once again.
Vigor settled to the seat with a long sigh. The tea waiter returned and settled a steaming cup of tea in front of their new arrival.
"Tesekkurler," Vigor said, thanking the man.
Kowalski shifted straighter as the waiter departed, staring between his empty glass and the back of the man's embroidered vest. He slumped, swearing softly under his breath about the poor service.
"Commander Pierce. Seichan," Vigor began. "Thank you for honoring my request. And Seaman Joe Kowalski. Wonderful to make your acquaintance."
A few other pleasantries were passed around. Vigor haltingly mentioned his niece Rachel-It was an awkward subject. Rachel and Gray's breakup had been a mutual understanding, but Vigor was still very protective of his neice. Not that she needed it. It seemed Rachel was faring well as a lieutenant with the Italian carabinieri, even gaining a pay grade.
Still, Gray was happy when Seichan interrupted. "Monsignor Verona, why did you summon us all the way to Istanbul?"
Vigor silenced her with a raised palm, sipped from his tea, then lowered his cup precisely to the tabletop. "Yes, we'll get to that. But before that, 1 want two things settled at the start. First, wherever this leads, I'm coming with you." He pinned Gray with a firm, unwavering stare—then swung his sights on Seichan. "Second, but no less important, I want to know what all this has to do with our illustrious Venetian explorer Marco Polo."
Seichan started. "How did you... I never mentioned anything about Marco Polo?"
Before Vigor could respond, the waiter returned. Kowalski glanced up, hope in his eyes. Those same eyes widened further when the waiter produced a full bottle of raki and propped it in front of the former seaman.
"I ordered you a half liter," Vigor explained.
Kowalski reached over and squeezed Vigor's arm. "Padre, you're all right in my book."
Gray turned his attention to Seichan. "So what does all this have to do with Marco Polo?"
Midnight Washington, D. C.
The black BMW sedan turned off Dupont Circle and glided through the darker streets. Its xenon headlights carved a bluish path down the elm-lined avenue. Rows of apartment buildings framed the street, creating an urban canyon.
It was nothing like the canyons of Nasser's own land, where only goats roamed and caves and tunnels served as homesteads for the wandering Afghani tribes. Yet even that land was not truly his home. His father had left Cairo when Nasser was eight years old, off to Afghanistan after its liberation from Russian forces, to join those who sought a purer Islam. Nasser's younger brother and sister had been dragged there, too. They'd had no choice. On the eve of their departure, his father had strangled his mother, using Nasser's own school scarf. His mother had not wanted to leave Egypt, to vanish forever beneath a burka. She had talked, complained in the wrong ears.
The children had been forced to watch, kneeling in obeisance, as their mother's eyes bulged, tongue swollen, punished by their father's hand.
It was a lesson Nasser learned well.
To be cold. In all ways.
The xenon lamps swept around a corner. From the passenger seat, Nasser motioned to the middle of the block. "Stop there."
The driver, his broken nose bandaged after the failed kidnapping, slid the sedan to the curb. Nasser twisted around to face the rear seat. Two figures huddled close together.
Annishen, dressed all in shades of black, almost faded into the leather furniture. She even wore a hood over her shaved scalp, giving her a monkish appearance. Her eyes shone brightly out of the darkness. She had one arm around her companion, leaning close, intimate.
He still mewled around the gag. Blood blackened one side of his face and throat. In his bound hands, clutched between his knees, he still held his own right ear. Nasser had discovered the man's name in a Rolodex.
A doctor.
"Is this the place?" Nasser asked.
The man nodded vigorously, squeezing his eyes shut after verifying the address.
Nasser studied the building's lobby. A night watchman was stationed behind a desk inside. A security camera protruded above the bulletproof glass doors. Full security. Nasser rubbed his thumb along the edge of the electronic key in his hand, a gift courtesy of their passenger.
After a full day, Nasser was finally back on the trail of the American and the Guild traitor. Last night, he had searched the small home in the Takoma Park neighborhood. He had discovered Seichan's damaged motorcycle in its garage, but little else. There had been no sign of the obelisk, except for a broken fragment of Egyptian marble in the driveway.
But inside the house, Allah had smiled upon him.
Nasser had discovered a Rolodex.
With several doctors' names.
It had taken the rest of the day to find the right one.
He turned around again.
"Thank you, Dr. Corrin. You've provided the leverage I'll need."
Nasser had no need to nod to Annishen. Her blade slipped between the man's ribs and opened his heart. It was a Mossad technique that Nasser had taught Annishen. He had employed it himself only once before.
As his father knelt in prayer.
Not a child's vengeance. Only justice.
Nasser shoved open the door to the sedan. He owed his father—if only for the lesson taught to an eight-year-old boy, kneeling before his strangled mother.
Such a lesson would serve him again this night.
To be cold. In all ways.
Exiting the car, Nasser crossed and opened the rear door. Annishen unfolded out of the backseat, rising with a rustle of black leather, resplendent in an Italian-designed calfskin jacket and a dark suede outfit, a match to his Armani suit. There was not a drop of blood on her, proving again the artistry of her craft. He slipped his arm around her and closed the door.
She leaned against him. "The night is just beginning," she whispered with a contented sigh.
He pulled her closer. Just two lovers returning from a late dinner.
The summer night was still muggy, but the apartment lobby was air-conditioned. The doors sighed open to greet them with a swipe of Dr. Cor-rin's key card. The guard glanced up from his desk.
Nasser nodded to him, striding toward the neighboring elevator bank. Annishen offered a tinkling giggle, purring up against Nasser's side, plainly anxious to get to their apartment. Her hand sidled to the holstered Glock at his waist.
Just in case . . .
But the guard merely nodded back, mumbled a "good evening," and returned his attention to the magazine he was reading.
Nasser shook his head as he reached the elevator bank. Typical. What passed for security here in America was more show than substance.