Decker gawked at the documents on his desk. “I don’t know what to say. Thanks, Otto.”
Warhaftig smiled. “One hand washes the other.”
“If you two lovebirds are finished,” SAC Johnson cut in. He was approaching them down the aisle. “I want you and Warhaftig to help Novak coordinate the field teams, and to—”
“Sir, excuse me, sir,” said Decker.
“What is it now?”
“I’d liked to chase down that Canary Island lead.”
Johnson looked horrified. He sat back on Bartolo’s desk. “You want to what?”
“I want to go to the Canary Islands.”
Johnson laughed. “And I want to go to Jamaica. So what?”
“Seriously, sir. The bomb isn’t going to New York. It’s going to La Palma. It may already be there.”
“Let me get this straight. You want to leave New York just as she faces her gravest threat? You’ve got to be kidding. We need you here.”
“But, sir—”
“That’s an order, Decker. You’re staying.” Then he softened and said, “Of course, if Warhaftig has a compulsion to share your theories with the CIA, he’s perfectly free to do so.” The SAC looked at Warhaftig and smiled. “That’s the whole point of Homeland Security. Everybody working together.”
Decker stood up. He gathered the papers Warhaftig had given him, as well as the translation of the shadow copy that he’d jotted down earlier. “Yes, sir. Is that all, sir?” he said.
“Yeah, that’s all. Now get your skinny little ass out on the street, and get me some results.” Johnson nodded toward Warhaftig. “You go with him,” he said. Then he spun about and stormed off to his office.
Warhaftig looked thunderstruck. “Great,” he said, staggering to his feet. “One minute I’m the untouchable CIA guy. Then I do you a favor, and I’m on the boss’s shit list. Good work,” he added ruefully.
Decker smiled. “No one told you to hitch your wagon to this mule. Why’s he got such a hard-on for me, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Warhaftig said. “I guess he blames you for what happened to Bartolo. I don’t,” he added quickly. “Probably because you were forced down his throat. According to Williams, when you joined the team, Johnson couldn’t promote someone else he’d promised to take care of.”
“Figures,” Decker said. “Come on, Pancho. Let’s roll.”
“Why do I have to be Pancho? Why can’t I be Don Quixote? I’ve got the Roman nose, the distinguished features.” Warhaftig displayed his profile.
“Perhaps I should call you Pauncho. Besides, you’re shorter.” Decker started toward the door.
“Well, this paunch has got to go. I’ll meet you by the elevators.”
When they had walked a couple of blocks from FBI headquarters, just as Warhaftig was lighting up a Camel, Decker got another message on his cell. It read: Grand Central Terminal; Metro-North; New Haven Line; Gate 12. He turned to Warhaftig and said, “I’ve got to make a stop. Grand Central Station.”
They got into Warhaftig’s car, a beefy Land Rover Discovery, and tore up the FDR to Twenty-third Street. Then they got off the highway and headed up Park Avenue. At Forty-second Street, Warhaftig suddenly swung right, cut down the ramp, and took a left cross-town. He skidded to a stop in front of Grand Central Station. Decker jumped out of the car and dodged into the terminal. He ran down the marble causeway, through another set of doors, and entered the massive central hall, with its majestic vaulted ceiling, pale green, outlined with constellations. The terminal was packed. He could hear footsteps echoing, reverberating through the hall. He noticed Orion, the hunter, far above, the bold sweep of his bow, like a great wave washing across the sky. He looked beyond the bold brass Information Booth. There it was. Gate twelve.
Decker dashed across the hall, weaving in and out of gray commuters. Hassan was standing by a shoeshine stand under a marble arch, reading a copy of The New York Times. As soon as Decker approached, Hassan climbed up onto the stand. Decker slipped into the seat beside him. Hassan plucked at his trousers, lifting the hems up so that the polish wouldn’t smudge his clothes. He continued to read his newspaper. Decker started to say something, but Hassan cut him off with a glance. “Sure, you can,” the Professor said. His voice was a trifle loud. “How about Arts?” He handed Decker a section of the paper.
When they were both cocooned behind their newspapers, Decker looked over at Hassan and said, “I was just about to call you—”
“I found it,” the Professor hissed.
“What?”
“The source of the third quote: Death will overtake you. It’s from An-Nisa, The Women. The full quote is: Wherever you are, death will overtake you, though you are in lofty towers, and if a benefit comes to them, they say: This is from Allah. Let’s face it, Agent Decker — there aren’t too many towers loftier than the skyscrapers of New York.”
Decker shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it,” he replied.
Hassan looked hurt. “I checked it several times and—”
“No, I don’t mean you. I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t believe that whatever’s planned for New York is anything more than a ruse, a non-nuclear event, a diversion from the bombing at 0. Why have a countdown if you’re going to set the bomb off prematurely? It doesn’t make sense. No. The fourth wallpaper. That’s the key. The grand finale. The crescendo. I figured it out this morning.”
“You did?”
“It’s dimensional, Jusef.”
“What do you mean, dimensional?”
“Picture a piece of graph paper,” Decker said. “The first wallpaper featured a single line, both literally and geometrically. One axis — X. One dimension. The second featured two intersecting lines. Two axes — X and Y. Two dimensions, where the words Well and Seven coincided. The third, I’ll bet, is three dimensional, either semantically or geometrically. Three axes — X, Y and Z. And the fourth, I know, is temporal. Three physical dimensions… over time. Just like light — the manner in which El Aqrab paints — and water — the Islamic purifying agent — contribute a dynamic quality to Islamic architectural decoration, extending forms and patterns into the fourth dimension. That’s what it said in ben Saad’s book, the one you loaned me.”
“I was with you,” the professor said, “until the fourth dimension.”
Decker sighed. He looked over his newspaper and saw Warhaftig watching him from behind the Information Booth. Their eyes met and the CIA operative began to make his way across the terminal.
“I had a dream,” Decker continued, “that opened up the patterns. I took an image of the fourth wallpaper, cut out the negative space, and shaped it into a kind of dome, just like the Shaykh Lutfallah Mosque in Isfahan.”
“Muqarnas. Okay. I think I’m following you.”
“I spun it counter-clockwise. It cast a shadow and all this text came spilling out: His are the vessels with lofty sails raised high on the ocean like mountains. All that is on the earth will perish and only that will survive which is under the care of the Lord, Master of Glory and Honor.”
Hassan dismounted the stand and paid.