Annishen waved to her. "One more try."
Harriett leaned against her husband's cheek, holding his head with one hand, the glass in the other. He jerked back, but she held tight. "Jack, I love you. Please drink. For me."
She dribbled water over his mouth. His lips finally parted, an animal reflex. He must be thirsty. He finally drank, gulping the offered water. It even seemed to calm him. He sagged in his bonds.
Harriett sighed in relief.
"Did he take it?" Annishen asked.
"It should calm him in about an hour."
"We don't have an hour."
"I understand . . . but.. ."
Harriet knew someone must be looking for them. The longer they stayed in one place, the greater the chance they might be tracked. The more moves, the trail would grow colder.
"Get him up!" Annishen said.
The woman grabbed Harriet by the scruff of her shirt collar and hauled her to her feet. She was strong. She shoved Harriet toward the back exit. Her goons untied Jack. Her husband was slung between the two gorilla-size men, Armenian, heavy eyebrows. One held a pistol in a jacket pocket, against her husband's back.
Annishen gripped Harriet's elbow.
Jack howled as they began to move him, struggling. "Noooo."
"Maybe we zap him again," the guard said in a thick accent.
"Please don't," Harriet pleaded. "I can keep him calm."
The guard ignored her.
Annishen seemed to be weighing this choice.
"It's daylight," Harriet said. "If you carried him out unconscious .. ."
"There are taverns," one guard said. "On the street. I pour vodka on his shirt. No one think twice."
Annishen soured at the idea. Harriet imagined it was mostly because it wasn't her own. She pushed Harriet toward Jack.
"Keep him quiet or I'll Tase him into a drooling baby."
Harriet rushed to her husband's side. She took the place of one of the guards, an arm around Jack's waist. She rubbed his chest with her other hand.
"It's okay, Jack. It's okay. We have to go."
He looked suspiciously at her, but the angry set to his eyes and lips softened. "I want... to go home."
"That's where we're going.. . c'mon now, no fussing."
He allowed them to lead him to the back exit and out to a narrow alley, barely large enough for the overflowing trash bin. The sunlight stung her eyes.
They were marched out to the street.
They had been in a boarded-up butcher's shop, one of a row of closed businesses on the block. Harriet searched around for landmarks. They were somewhere in Arlington. Harriet knew they had crossed the Potomac after being kidnapped.
But where?
A black Dodge van was parked half a block away.
Morning traffic was already picking up. A few homeless men and women were gathered in an alcove of a Laundromat. A shopping cart stood by them, piled high with stuffed plastic bags.
Annishen ignored the homeless and led her group to the van. She unlocked it with her remote and the rear side door slid open on its own.
Jack walked in a leaden daze, barely noting his surroundings.
Harriet waited until they were even with the men gathered around the shopping cart. Her right hand still rested on Jack's belly.
I'm sorry.
She pinched his skin through his shirt and twisted.
Jack jerked straight, snapping out of his passivity.
"Noooo!"
He fought the guard.
"I don't know you people!" he hollered. "Get away from me!"
Harriet tugged at him. "Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack. Calm down."
He swatted at her, striking her hard on the shoulder.
"Hey!" one of the homeless men called out. He was skeletally thin with a ragged beard. He clutched a bottle, snugged in a paper sack. "What are you doing to that guy?"
Some faces inside the Laundromat lifted to stare out the steamy, streaked windows.
Annishen stepped back toward Harriet. She wore a thin smile, staring straight at Harriet. One hand rested in the pocket of her light hooded sweater, the threat plain.
Harriet rubbed Jack's belly and faced the bearded stranger. "He's my husband. He has Alzheimer's. We're . . . we're taking him to the hospital."
Her words soothed the wary cast to the man's face. He nodded. "Sorry to hear that, ma'am."
"Thank you."
Harriet led Jack into the van. They were soon settled in, and the doors closed. Annishen sat in the front passenger seat. As they pulled away, she turned to Harriet.
"Those pills had better kick in," she said. "Or next time, we'll leave him hanging from one of those butcher's hooks."
Harriet nodded.
Annishen turned back around.
One of the men reached from the backseat and pulled a black hood over her head. She heard a moan of protest from Jack as the same was done to him. She reached a hand over and gripped her husband's hand. His fingers gripped hers back, if only in a reflex of love.
I'm sorry, Jack. . .
Harriet's other hand slipped into the pocket of her sweater. Her fingertips nudged the pile of pills—the pills she had only pretended to give her husband. Before and now. She needed to keep Jack agitated, confused enough to act out.
To be seen ... to be remembered.
She closed her eyes, despairing.
Forgive me, Lord.
12
Of a Map forbidden
July 6, 4:44 p.m. Strait of Hormuz
The Russian seaplane, a Beriev 103, coasted up from Qeshm Island International Airport and sailed out over the aquamarine waters of the Strait of Hormuz.
Gray was impressed with the short turnaround at the airport. Their jet from Istanbul had touched down only ten minutes ago. The amphibious plane had been waiting: fueled, engine warmed, its twin propellers slowly turning. The seaplane sat only six people, including the pilot, three sets of paired seats, lined one behind the other.
But it was swift.
The sea crossing to the island of Hormuz would take no more than twenty minutes. They had made good time. Still, it would leave them only two hours to find the last key and use it and the others to decipher the angelic script on the obelisk.
Gray had used the time aboard the private jet, provided via Seichan's black market connections, to study the obelisk's complicated code. Even on such a short flight as this, every minute counted. Seated in the back row by himself, he pulled out his notebook again, scribbled with notes and possibilities. He had already tried converting all the obelisk's scripts into letters, like Vigor had done with the Vatican's angelic script, which spelled out HAGIA. But he had made no real headway.
Even with Vigor's help.