Mitchell and T.J…”
Matt jumped. “They were there? I don’t remember them going skiing with us.”
“They arrived at the monastery later. I guess it was after you passed out.” She stared at the teapot.
“Did some other people show up, two Arab men maybe?”
“Yeah, those two were weird.”
Just then the phone rang. Anne-Marie went into the kitchen to answer it. She called back. “I have to take this call. It’s the gallery in Boston. Won’t be too long. Why don’t you go out and take a look at the lake? It’s beautiful this time of year.”
Matt and Nicole put on their overcoats and strolled down the neat gravel path to the frozen lake. A flat gray light hit the surface, accenting the frozen, rippled texture. Cold air swept off the lake in gusts. Matt pulled his collar up. “Perfect place to inspire a painter,” he said. Nicole pressed close.
They trod the worn planks of the wooden dock, soaking up the peaceful surroundings after days of fear. Canadian geese honked overhead. Matt smelled smoke from a nearby cottage. “Someone is enjoying a leisurely morning by a warm fire.
A massive explosion turned the grey light into an orange hell. Splinters of wood and debris flew past them as if expelled from a cannon. The shock wave threw them from the dock onto the frozen lake. Matt landed on his hands. Screaming in pain he grabbed his wrist and twisted onto his back. The house was a wall of flames and billowing smoke. Burning shingles rained down on all sides, sizzling as they hit the lake ice. Samir Hussein’s blazing body seared through his mind. “Not again,” Matt groaned, but this time he forcefully pushed the paralyzing image away. “Nicole! Nicole!” He grabbed at her.
“Get down! Crawl along the edge of the lake,” he yelled in her ear. “They might still be watching. Keep hidden beneath the weeds along the bank. We need them to think we were inside.”
They dragged themselves toward the weedy bank. From there they rose into a half-crouch and skirted the lake until they reached a neighbor’s boat dock, 200 yards away.
Matt stopped. “I’ve got to go back.” He was turning around when Nicole gripped his arm.
“Don’t play the hero now, Matt. I need you alive, with me.”
“But I’m a doctor, I’ve got to try and-”
“You’re a doctor, not a miracle worker. She’s dead.” Nicole held him close, her body absorbing his pain. In a few moments he stopped shaking.
Sirens blared across the small community of Concord. “The volunteer firemen are responding,” said Matt. “They’ll be here soon. We’ve got to get away.”
They sprinted a short distance to the dock, scrambled through the reeds and up onto a snow covered lawn. In seconds they stood panting alongside a wooden garage.
“What is it?” Nicole asked, feeling Matt jerk as if struck by an electric shock.
“A phony gas company serviceman must have rigged the house. The timer was probably detonated remotely. They must have been watching the house.” Matt slid down onto the cold ground. “To top it all off I left my journal on the coffee table.”
“Not quite,” said Nicole. “Call it habit or reporter’s instinct, but I always carry important papers with me, even when I go to the bathroom. I crammed your journal inside my bag just before we stepped outside,” she pulled it out and held it up.
“Thank God!” he said. “Now what?”
“Let’s see what’s inside this garage. Maybe we’ll be lucky.”
Matt broke a small window with his elbow, reached in and opened the door. A shiny 1956 Packard caught the light.
“Matt, I can hotwire this antique. You’ll have to decide where we go.” In less than a minute she found a screwdriver, pried open the steering column and was arching two wires together. The motor purred to life and the gas gauge showed half full. She looked at Matt, some of the strain leaving her face.
The wail of the fire engines grew louder. “You are definitely your father’s daughter,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “Let’s pay a visit to Dr. Karl Mitchell. He’s all we’ve got. Our research had him pinpointed as a retired professor of geology at the University of Rhode Island. That’s on the way back to Washington. When we get clear of here call your father and ask him to track down Karl’s most recent address and phone number.”
The old Packard lumbered from the garage. The sirens were closer now. They watched the mirrors and checked the road ahead. No one seemed interested.
Rock Creek Parkway, Washington, D.C.
The usual joggers were out in the late afternoon braving the cold and wind of Washington’s Rock Creek Parkway, intent on getting their exercise fix for the day. “Running is one of the few positive addictions,” said the slim doctor, slightly winded as she approached her halfway mark and the endorphins began to kick in. Every day Dr. Margaret Khalid took a 5 mile run in the mid-afternoon and then went back to work, usually until late evening. It was a good thing her apartment was only a few blocks away from the office; daily runs helped keep her sanity.
As she ran along the asphalt path that wound through the canyon a lean male runner in blue leggings and a dark hooded jersey slowly overtook her.
“Just keep your natural pace,” he said. His breathing was easy and relaxed. “We’re moving the timetable forward. You must be ready to act within the next seven days. Go to an Internet cafe every morning for the next week. Log into www.beirut69.com and sign on as ‘asset1’. We’ll send you instructions about the exact date.” He sprinted away opening a large gap between them, then took one of the many uphill trails to the main streets lining both sides of the narrow canyon. In less than a minute he had vanished.
Maggie Khalid finished her run, added another tube of black rinse to her hair while showering, cleaned and reinserted her brown-tinted contact lenses, and was back in Dr. Melikian’s office in less than an hour.
Kingston, Rhode Island
“I’m looking for Dr. Karl Mitchell.” A thin, attractive man answered the door of a two-story home on a street next to the University of Rhode Island campus. Matt recognized the man right away, Theodore Janus. But everyone always called him T. J.
“Are you the person who called about Matt Richards, his cousin?”
“Yes, I’m Thomas Black, and this is my wife Veronica. It’s good of Dr. Mitchell to see us on such short notice.”
“I’ll tell Karl you’re here. Come in. You’re in luck. He’s having one of his better days.” T. J. led the way through a living room adorned with white rugs and marble statues. It had the look of a boudoir. Matt glanced at Nicole, raising his eyebrows. They emerged onto a south-facing sun porch where a fragile-looking man with a ponytail was sitting up in a hospital bed, reading Stephen Hawking’s Brief History of Time.
“This is the man who phoned yesterday, Matt’s cousin,” said T. J., arranging a blanket over Karl’s feet. “Keep your feet covered or you’ll get pneumonia again.”
Dr. Mitchell studied his guests over the rims of his bifocals. “I’ve been reading Hawking’s book. Funny thing about time. There are moments when it seems as if the past and the present are the same, only separated by the blink of an eye. Like now, wouldn’t you say, Matt?”
“No, Karl,” T. J. sighed, “he’s Matt’s cousin, not-”
“Karl knows what he’s talking about, T. J.,” Matt said. Still sharp as a tack.
“Who did the work, Matt?”
“Wish I knew. I was kidnapped and the surgery performed against my will.”
“Your face has been on the news. Every hour.”
“Just what I need.” Matt waited as T.J. stepped closer.
“Jesus. How does that feel? Does it hurt?”
Matt smiled. “Actually, it itches more than it hurts.”
“How can I help you, Matt?” Karl Mitchell closed the book and tossed it on the floor.