The young woman’s defence surprised Lourds. For a moment he forgot to tap. Evidently it had the same effect on Joachim because he just stared at her silently.
‘He’s trying to do something here,’ Cleena continued. ‘You’re expecting him to do in days what you people couldn’t do in eight hundred years. You might want to chill out a little and think about that.’
Lourds smiled at that. Cleena joined him at the wall. She took out a knife and began tapping the stone surface as well.
‘You’re listening for hollow noises, right?’ Cleena asked.
‘I am,’ Lourds agreed. ‘When did you become a believer?’
‘Me?’ Cleena shook her head. ‘I’m a lapsed Catholic. Way lapsed.’
‘Not in God.’ Lourds moved out a few inches and tapped again. The stone still sounded solid. ‘In me.’
‘I wouldn’t let it go to your head if I were you. It’s a choice between you and the sourpuss over there. I’d rather believe in you. Otherwise we’re going to be back at that hidey-hole they’ve carved out for themselves watching you read books. Personally, I’m up to my eyeballs with watching you read.’
‘I wasn’t just reading,’ Lourds said defensively.
‘I understand that, but you know what I mean.’ Cleena moved down a little bit and started tapping again.
Olympia picked up a loose stone from the ground and used it to tap on the wall as well. ‘You’re sure it’s this side of the passageway?’
‘Yes. This is where it has to be according to the scroll I deciphered.’ Despite his own insistence, Lourds felt his confidence waning. He had measured the distance himself, then measured it twice more. According to everything he had worked out, the entrance to the Passage of Omens had to be within this general vicinity. He didn’t know how they could have missed it.
Only solid stone met his efforts.
‘You’re sure about the distance?’ Cleena asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did they use different measurements back in those days?’
‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ Olympia asked sarcastically.
‘Careful,’ Cleena said. ‘You keep up with that ill-tempered attitude and somebody may just drop a house on you.’
‘Really?’ Olympia said. ‘You did not just say that. We’re here, following in the footsteps of a man who gave us the most intriguing and important book in the Bible, and you’re talking about The Wizard of Oz?’
‘Actually it wasn’t the wizard. That was an allusion to one of the wicked witches.’
‘I knew what the allusion was to. I just think maybe-’
‘Ladies,’ Lourds interrupted.
They looked at him, faces lifted out of the darkness by the flashlights everyone carried.
‘I can’t hear the sound of tapping,’ Lourds pointed out. ‘If I can’t hear the tapping, I can’t hear the hollow sounds.’
Both the women turned back to the search. In both directions down the hall, Joachim and the other monks were busy tapping as well.
Lourds brushed the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then resumed his task. He was right about the translation. The door had to be here. Somewhere.
Central Business District
King Abdullah’s Economic City, Saudi Arabia
24 March 2010
‘My God,’ Vicky whispered. Her eyes never left the television. She held a sat-phone to her ear. ‘Keep them in there. This footage is amazing.’
Crossing the room, Webster joined her. The camera angle was sketchy at best, bouncing around crazily. On the screen, Saudi tanks rolled through the street. From the angle and the geography, Webster guessed the tanks were somewhere near the row of buildings that had just blown up. A wave of gunmen backed away from the approaching tanks. The men took cover behind buildings, but ultimately it did no good. The tank crews fired into them, blasting through stone walls with main guns and.50-cal machine guns. Dead men and broken buildings littered the street amid an ocean of blood. Like mechanical predators, the tanks rolled over the corpses and debris, grinding them into dust and organic pulp.
The cameraman was shooting from only a few steps behind the wave of rebels in fear for his life, judging from the quick awkward movements he made as he dodged and scampered. Another man trailed him with a microphone clenched in his fist, mixing with the line of rebels. Tension knotted his face.
‘… can see that Prince Khalid’s shock troops aren’t holding any…’ the man with the microphone said.
‘Stay in line with that camera, Jernigan,’ Vicky ordered in a hard voice. ‘These shots are money. I’ll make sure your name is known in every household in the United States. Just calm down and stay with-’
At that moment, a round from one of the heavy machine guns caught the reporter in the back of the head. Blood, bone and brain matter exploded in a liquid rush. Some of it caught the camera lens and put a scarlet film over the view.
Vicky cursed. ‘Harrison! Listen to me! I know he’s dead. I saw it happen. Stay with the shot. This is the kind of footage that makes cameramen legends.’
It’s also the kind of footage that will be played on YouTube for years, Webster knew. And he knew that Vicky DeAngelo was more interested in that aspect. All the footage would be watermarked with her media logo.
The tanks advanced over the bodies that had fallen in the street. One of them belonged to the reporter.
The camera wavered hard to the right. Webster knew from the angle the man was considering diving into the nearest shop.
‘Harrison,’ Vicky stated coolly, ‘stay on task. Stay on the tanks. We need-’
The camera view suddenly swung away and up. It focused on the leaping flames overhead for a moment, then whirled to the ground in a kaleidoscope of spinning landscapes.
Vicky swore and punched another button on her sat-phone. ‘Harrison, you’d better be dead or missing a body part!’
Webster smiled as he listened to Vicky directing the news producer to move to the next hot spot in the city. As the view shifted, Webster’s sat-phone rang. The Caller ID confirmed it was coming from the White House. He thumbed the button and answered.
‘Hello?’ President Waggoner said. ‘Elliott? Elliott, is that you?’
‘Yes. I’m here, Jack.’ Crackles echoed along the connection.
‘Thank God,’ Waggoner said. ‘We’d lost touch with you.’
Actually, Webster deliberately hadn’t answered the last call and he knew that the secret service agents’ effort to remain in contact with their primary handler had been blocked. Spider had seen to that. The man sat in the corner of the room and stayed hooked into his computer. Spider was in his element, weaving tactical forays through the domestic and international internet. He was also responsible for making certain Vicky DeAngelo’s broadcasts got out to the communications satellites. Spider was the man behind the curtain, the wizard who made the whole experience work round the globe.
‘We’re still here,’ Webster said.
‘Is there any way you can get clear of that place?’ Waggoner asked.
‘Not without considerable risk.’
‘You’re already in considerable risk. I just watched a reporter get killed on national television.’
When Webster glanced at the television, he saw Vicky had already looped the action on the broadcast. It spun again and again in a screen-in-screen presentation. By tomorrow morning, that would be one of the images most remembered from tonight. As Webster watched, the reporter died again and the camera view turned red. Then it began once more.
‘I have Prince Khalid’s promise nothing will happen to us,’ Webster said.
‘Even if the king’s army doesn’t lay a finger on you, the rebels are gunning for you. The CIA has intercepted encrypted communications in that area between the Shia terrorists.’
That was also courtesy of Spider. Of course, the idea for that had come from Webster. Humans thrived on drama. Nothing divided them more quickly and breaking television news had become the drug of choice. That was one of the weaknesses of giving humans free will. They had to be constantly stimulated in order to use it. When the stimulation didn’t occur naturally, they artificially created it.