"Where hopefully Seichan will have already found the last key," Vigor said.
"Then we'll have something to bargain with," Gray said.
Still, Gray knew all of these plans hinged on one last hope.
That Painter found a way to free his parents.
And of course, that Gray had not made any gross miscalculations himself.
1:06 p.m.
Seichan waited inside the hotel room across from Hagia Sophia's west entrance. She sat by the fifth-floor window. Her cheek rested against the stock of her Heckler & Koch PSGi sniper rifle. She stared down its telescopic sight, focused on the plaza in front of the church.
She had watched the police come and go, stopping only briefly.
What had happened?
Behind her, Kowalski lay stretched on the bed, chewing on olives and cleaning five hand pistols and a 5.56 mm NATO A-9I assault rifle.
They had gone shopping, stocking up on the essentials.
Kowalski whistled around an olive pit as he worked. It was getting on her nerves as she kept her post. But at least he knew his armaments.
From her vantage, Seichan had a clear view of the street, park, and plaza. She watched for anyone taking an inordinate interest in the church, more than the typical flash-and-go tourist. She also watched for any telltale sign of someone carting heavy weaponry.
So far so good. Either that or she was losing her edge.
Through her telescopic sight, she watched everyone leaving or entering through the western Imperial Doors of Hagia Sophia. She adjusted the focal length to get a clear view of the faces. She kept inventory. To see if any of the same faces came and went, indicating someone who was canvassing the place.
She wanted to know where as many of the hostiles were positioned as possible.
In case an assault proved necessary.
So far nothing. It made no sense.
Where were Nasser's men? They should have been here by now, taking up positions. The Guild had many resources and assets in Istanbul. The supply of arms behind her was proof enough of that. Or was Nasser operating lean? Keeping his manpower to a minimum? It was easier to blend one or two men into the scenery than a half dozen.
Still, Seichan wasn't buying it.
"Something's wrong," she muttered, hobbling her view.
What was his game?
She concentrated back on her duty. A large man exited the church, crossing in large strides, not attempting to hide. Seichan focused on him, bringing up his bearded face.
That's more like it.
She didn't know his name, but she had seen the man before, meeting with Nasser, two years ago. A fat envelope had passed between them. Nasser hadn't known Seichan had tailed him, spied on his rendezvous. Seichan had a series of photographs of the unknown operative somewhere in her Swiss bank vault. Something tucked away for a rainy day.
Or a sunny one like today.
"No wonder Nasser is operating lean," she mumbled.
The bastard had someone positioned inside Hagia Sophia. That did not bode well. If this man was leaving, that meant someone else had already relieved him. She watched him stop in the plaza and take out a cell phone.
Probably calling Nasser, letting him know his quarry was safe and sound inside the church.
Her cell phone rang.
Odd.
She reached blindly to the phone, pressed talk, and lifted it to her ear. "Ciao," she said.
"Hello," the caller responded, his voice bright. "I am looking to speak to a woman named Seichan. I was told to call at this number, to arrange for us to get together. A certain monsignor and an American would like us to meet."
Seichan's skin chilled as she listened, focused on the figure, watching his lips move in synchronization with the voice in her ear.
'This is Balthazar Pinosso, with the Vatican's art history division."
At least Seichan finally had a name for the man in the photograph with Nasser. Balthazar Pinosso. A Guild operative. She breathed through her nose. Nasser didn't just have someone positioned inside the church—he had someone inside their own goddamn inner circle.
Seichan mentally kicked herself. It wasn't Sigma that had a Guild mole. The Vatican did.
"Hello," the man repeated, with a trace of worry.
Seichan leaned her cheek tighter against the stock, taking dead aim.
Time to plug the leak. "Kowalski. . ." she whispered.
"Yeah."
"The shit's about to hit the fan."
"Hell of about time!"
Seichan pulled the trigger.
10
Out of the Frying Pan
July 6, 7:12 p.m. Aboard the Mistress of the Seas Thank God, the cocktail party had finally ended.
Lisa hurriedly unbuttoned the hand-beaded silk coat that overlay her black cocktail dress, a pleated silk charmeuse. The Vera Wang-designed ensemble was well over her budget, but she had found the dress spread out on her bed earlier when she returned to get ready for Ryder Blunt's soiree, welcoming the cruise ship to the pirates' homeport.
Dr. Devesh Patanjali must have handpicked the dress himself from the ship's luxury shops down on the Lido Deck. That was reason alone to get it off her body. Lisa had not wanted to go to the party, but Devesh had left no choice. So she had joined the other senior staff up in Ryder's suite.
Champagne and chilled wine had flowed. Hors d'oeuvres were passed atop silver platters, borne aloft by liveried wait staff, while iced trays of caviar surrounded by toast points decorated the buffet table. Apparently there remained enough members of the ship's orchestra still alive to form a string quartet. The group played quietly out on the balcony as the sun set, but they were forced to disband when the winds kicked up and rain began to pelt down in heavy, stinging drops.
Thunder rumbled overhead even now as the storm grew in intensity. At least the ship remained steady, sheltered in the caldera of a sunken volcano. Still, word of a typhoon and countless responsibilities had soon ended Ryder's impromptu party.
It had lasted only a couple of hours.
Lisa stripped to her bra and panties, glad to be done with the matter. She climbed back into her jeans and slipped a loose blouse over her head, shimmying it in place. Barefoot, she crossed to the evening purse on the bed, another gift of Dr. Patanjali, a Gucci frame bag with silver tassles. The bag had a price tag still on it.
Over six thousand dollars.
Still, what it held was of far greater value. During the festivities, Ryder had discreetly passed to her a pair of party favors, which she had quickly tucked into her purse.
A small radio and a pistol.
And the news that accompanied the gifts was even more welcome.
Monk was alive!
And on board the ship!
Lisa quickly hid the gun in the waistband of her jeans and covered it with the edge of her loose blouse. Radio in hand, she crossed to the door and listened with her ear pressed against it.