Number: 54,000
Originally Displayed: Incident in Beersheba
Harbinger of: (?)
Date/Time, forthcoming event: Midnight; Wednesday, Feb. 2
A collection of Arabesque designs, with an island of copy at the center; the worldwide Hajj (?)
Text: On the ocean like mountains (?)
Number: 0
Originally Displayed: (?)
Harbinger of: (???)
Date/Time, forthcoming event: 3:00 PM; Thursday, Feb. 3
“I don’t know for certain where it started,” Decker said. “Although, I’d bet it was Tel Aviv. The timing coincides. We know the first wallpaper predicted the hijacking in Kazakhstan, and the second the bombing in Beersheba.” He pointed at the board. “We can also deduce from the first and second wallpapers that the numbers represent time — in seconds. Unfortunately, since we don’t fully understand the third and fourth quotes, we can’t know what disasters they portend. But we do know when they’ll happen: the third event at midnight, tomorrow night, confirmed by Gallagher’s postcard invitation; and the fourth, and last event, at three PM on Thursday, day after tomorrow.”
“You’re saying the numbers are some kind of countdown?”
“That’s right. We’re running out of time,” said Decker. “If we don’t decipher the last two images soon, we won’t have a prayer of stopping them.”
He walked around the desk and pressed a button on the DVR. The explosion from Beersheba came to life. Hassan stepped in beside him and they began to examine the video together, over and over again. They studied the drawing Decker had found in Moussa’s locker, the musalla or idgah, the prayer of the Community mosque. And they puzzled over the fourth wallpaper with its tortured arabesque and cryptic phrase: On the ocean like mountains, and the ominous number 0.
Professor Hassan retrieved several books on Arabic calligraphy and Islamic architecture that Decker and he consulted. One, in particular, caught Decker’s eye. It was by a Dr. Jamal ben Saad of the Arab University in Beirut, an authority on Islamic architecture and design. Given the architectural context of the first two prayers, Decker tried to understand the third and fourth accordingly. But interpreting the images was tough going. Decker was convinced the third wallpaper would reveal some additional connection, no matter how oblique, to New York City. But all they could interpret were the same few words: Death will overtake you.
The calligraphy was written in a block-like kufi script, the lettering surrounded by a labyrinth of arabesque designs, twisted organic stems, splitting off and re-uniting. The entire illustration was ringed with sun wheels, female swastikas.
“The design forces the eye counterclockwise,” Decker mused.
“That’s pretty common,” Hassan said. “Counterclockwise circumambulation is standard practice at Muslim shrines, especially at the Ka’aba, where pilgrims walk around and kiss the Black Stone seven times. And they circumambulate against the sun, so as to achieve the maximum exposure possible to Baraka, the invisible psychic fluid that emanates from every sacred object.”
Decker’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he muttered, and flipped it open. “Decker,” he said.
It was Emily Swenson. He heard her voice and the tension he’d been feeling all day evaporated in a second.
“I tracked down Dr. White. He’s on the island of La Palma, in the Canaries,” she said.
Decker wasn’t surprised. “Wasn’t he working on a book about the Cumbre Vieja on La Palma? That’s what you said before.”
“Last year,” she said. “Before Doris got sick. Before she got terminal cancer. Then he came back.” She sighed and he pictured her inside her office, fidgeting at her desk, her mouth, her lips right next to the receiver. “Don’t you see?” she said. “Why would he leave like that? Why would he just take off? James is devoted to Doris.”
“Well, perhaps he had to finish his research. Or—”
“His wife is dying, Agent Decker. He’s not like you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look, it doesn’t matter. It’s all moot anyway. I went to see her, John. Do you hear me? I went to the hospice and she’s gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean? She passed away?”
“No, no,” said Swenson. “God, I hope not. She’s been kidnapped!”
Decker hesitated for a moment. He looked over at Hassan. Then he said, “Where are you now?”
“I’m in Manhattan, at Penn Station.”
“OK,” he said. “I’ll meet you at your hotel.”
“I don’t have a hotel. I tried to call from Woods Hole, but they all seem to be booked up.”
Decker closed his eyes. “Take a cab and meet me on Eighth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. Northwest corner. You can crash at my place tonight,” he said. “I’ll be there in less than twenty minutes.” Then he hung up. He turned toward the Professor. “I’m sorry but I have to run.”
Hassan nodded. “I’d better walk you out,” he said.
They made their way upstairs, back through the kitchen, past the masjid and out onto Ninety-seventh. As soon as they hit Second Avenue, a cab swung by and Decker raised his hand. It pulled over immediately.
“I’ll talk with you tomorrow,” Decker said. “Call me if you come up with anything.”
Hassan waved and turned away. He started across Ninety-sixth Street as Decker’s cab whooshed by and disappeared. He stopped and looked up at the sky. Despite the ambient light, he could see stars. They seemed so far away, almost imaginary. Then they were gone, hidden by clouds. It looked like it was going to snow. He crossed the street and opened the door to a Land Rover Discovery parked in the shadows.
“Well?” said the driver. His face was hidden in the dark.
The Professor turned the collar of his coat up. “Let’s just get the hell out of here,” he said, and slipped inside.
The driver laughed. He shifted the car into gear and they sidled into traffic. They shivered down the street, illuminated by the streetlights as they raced cross-town. At one point, the driver attempted to switch lanes and a taxi cut him off.
“I hate this fucking town,” Warhaftig said. He pressed the accelerator, and they were gone.
Chapter 30
Decker unlocked the front door of his apartment and flicked on the light. Emily Swenson peered inside. Beyond the narrow corridor, immediately to the right, the hallway opened up onto a living room. There was a small cherry wood dining table in one corner beside a kind of kitchenette. Swenson closed the door behind her and Decker helped her off with her coat. There was another door at the end of the front hall that Swenson surmised must lead into the bedroom. The bathroom was to her right. “Cozy,” she said.
Decker hung her coat up in the closet. A large metal bar angled up from the floor in the hallway, reinforcing the front door. “Police lock,” Decker said as he spied her staring at it.
“Is that to keep people out, or in?” she said with a smile.
Decker looked surprised. He hesitated, then slipped his coat off and hung it in the closet next to hers. “Want a drink?” he asked as he moved off toward the kitchenette.
There was a large bookcase built into one wall of the apartment packed with books. Beside it, Swenson noticed a large silver steamer trunk with a CD player parked on top. At the far end of the room, between two windows facing the street, stood a small wooden desk; probably maple, she thought. It was inlaid with mother of pearl. And along the near wall ran a large green sofa, well worn and somewhat threadbare. The kitchenette was spotless. Either Decker was very clean, or he seldom ate at home.