Sebastian simply nodded and embraced her.
Di Sangro burst into the stately mansion at first light like a demon, brandishing a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, screaming for Sebastian to appear before him, but his shouts went unanswered. He pushed and kicked at the servants who appeared and tried to reason with him and bounded up the central staircase to the upper floor, where the bedchambers lay. He kicked in the carved double doors to Sebastian and Thérésia’s bedchamber, only to find it empty.
They were long gone, and in his heart of hearts, he knew he’d never see either of them again.
He dropped to his knees, the weapons tumbling noisily onto the tiled floor beneath him, and wept.
Sebastian watched as the porters carried Thérésia’s chest and dressing case onto the ship. The harbor was teeming with vessels of all sizes, from the small, Phoenician, crescent-shaped fragatas that performed lighter-age duties around the port to the three-masted tall ships that plied the Atlantic and linked the old port city to the New World.
His heart contracted at the thought of the crossing his wife and son would soon be undertaking. The decision had haunted his every waking moment since they’d all abandoned their house on that night, barely days ago.
They would never find peace. Not from di Sangro, not from others who would inevitably hear about it. Not as long as they were together.
And he had work to do.
A promise to keep.
A destiny to fulfill.
“Why won’t you change your mind and let us come with you?” Thérésia asked him. Miguel stood beside her, holding her hand, watching in wonderment as the last crates were loaded onto the towering vessel.
“It’s not safe,” Sebastian answered, the words barely escaping through his lips.
He knew what he was talking about. He’d been there before — and he was about to journey there again. He’d return to Constantinople. Assume the persona of a sheikh, just as he’d done half a century earlier. And travel into the Levant, to the bustling cities of Beirut, Jerusalem, Damascus, and Baghdad, and across the mountains and deserts in between, in the hope that this time his search would be more fruitful.
The ship’s first mate called for the gangway to be withdrawn and the lines released.
Thérésia’s hand gripped Sebastian’s tightly. “Come back to me,” she whispered in his ear.
He took her in his arms and kissed her, then knelt down and kissed his son.
“I’ll do my best” was all he could promise.
And with a tremulous heart, he watched as the ship’s sails unfurled and took away the only true happiness he’d ever known.
Chapter 66
They were marched out of the house at gunpoint — Kirkwood, Corben, along with the mokhtar and his family — under a patchwork sky of purples and grays. Frothy clouds scudded along the horizon, backlit by the setting sun.
The cemetery was at the far end of the village. Simple gravestones clustered around the mazar, a small, conical local funerary monument. The mokhtar led them through the rough, barren ground until they reached a small headstone. He stopped there and, with a morose expression etched across his face, pointed it out.
Kirkwood knelt down and examined the old marker. The austere piece of limestone barely jutted out of the ground. It was bare, except for a small, circular carving in its center. Kirkwood reached out and brushed the moss and dust away from its edges. The head of the snake appeared more clearly, its simple detail eaten away by the passage of time.
He noticed something else below it. He passed his fingers over the etching, clearing the detritus of time off it.
It was a date, in Arabic numerals.
“Eighteen oh two,” Kirkwood read out in a hollow voice.
His mouth felt dry as a feeling of infinite loss came over him.
So this was where his journey had ended.
The hakeem’s voice broke through Kirkwood’s swirling memories, scattering them. “Eighteen oh two,” he repeated, thinking aloud. “My ancestor died in 1771. Not a huge difference, you might say. Except for one minor detail. Our ancestors met in the middle of the eighteenth century, around 1750 or so. At the time, your ancestor, according to di Sangro’s diary, seemed to be a contemporary of his, that is, approaching the age of forty. Which means that, at his death, he would have been, oh, close to a hundred years old. But here’s the thing. My ancestor died an old man. Your ancestor, well…according to the story that was passed down, the man who came down from the mountain and died here wasn’t an old man. He had walked down the mountain, alone. And it was a fever that killed him, not old age. The mokhtar was very clear about that. Which either means that your ancestor found something up in those mountains that kept him young, or — and this is the explanation I favor — that, as the principe suspected, he’d been using the formula for years. Only you said he didn’t have the complete formula. Which I find confusing. He abandoned his wife and his child to travel to this dangerous and distant corner of the globe, to search for something he already had?”
Kirkwood stiffened. “He didn’t have it.”
The hakeem took a menacing step forward, and his brow darkened gravely. “You know something? I think you’re lying. I believe he had it,” he said acidly. “I believe my illustrious ancestor was right all along. I believe Sebastian Guerreiro used the formula to live an extraordinarily long life. And,” he added fiercely, “I believe you’re doing the same.”
Kirkwood tried to rein in his anger and his fear. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice didn’t waver.
He felt Corben’s eyes on him, but didn’t dare turn to him. The hakeem was watching him too closely.
“Really?” the hakeem coldly observed. “Let’s see.”
He barked an order to his men. Two of them trudged off and disappeared behind one of the houses. The remaining guards raised their machine guns cautiously, watching over Corben and Kirkwood like hawks.
Moments later, the two men returned, bringing back a prisoner who was dressed in camouflage fatigues and whose hands were cuffed. The prisoner’s head was concealed under a black cloth sack, like the one they had used on Corben. They stood the prisoner next to the hakeem and backed off.
Even before the hakeem made his introduction, Kirkwood saw through the baggy outfit and the mask. The realization paralyzed him. He glanced sideways at Corben, but he couldn’t read the agent’s shuttered expression.
“You were saying…?” the hakeem asked gruffly, before yanking the sack off his prisoner.
Evelyn’s eyes squinted a few times, adjusting to the light. Then she saw Kirkwood standing before her, and her jaw dropped.
“My God…Tom?”
Chapter 67
The sight of Evelyn’s bewildered eyes sent an ice pick through Kirkwood’s heart.
“Evelyn, thank God you’re…” He shook head with anguish. “I’m so sorry.”
The hakeem was scrutinizing Evelyn’s reaction with resounding satisfaction. He turned to Kirkwood, his face beaming with the most irritating self-satisfaction, and stepped closer to him until he was only inches away.
“I know plastic surgery does miracles these day, but this…,” he said to Evelyn, waving his hand down Kirkwood’s body, “this is far more than cosmetic, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re…” The words were catching in her throat. “How is it possible?”
The hakeem nodded to one of his men, who grabbed Evelyn and pulled her back. The hakeem turned to Kirkwood, his face contorted with renewed menace. “You have the formula,” he seethed. “What are you really after?”