The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,106

as being Atlantis-like in advancements?

Elena’s mind spun, making it hard to concentrate on the misdirection she needed to build, layer by layer, mixing truth and fiction until they were indistinguishable.

If I fail to deliver . . .

She pictured Rabbi Fine’s body crumpling to the ground, the pool of blood spreading. She stared over to Monsignor Roe, remembering her father’s threat: the next death will not be so quick and merciful.

Knowing this, she left the windows and returned to her stacks and piles of books. Somewhere in there were the answers she needed.

Roe joined her with a sigh. “If we don’t figure something out, I fear our captors will lose patience, especially after days of searching the Spanish coast.”

“Fat lot of good it’ll do them,” she said bitterly.

Roe turned to her, a quizzical look on his face. “What do you mean?”

She waved away his question. “Nothing. Just irritated.”

He nodded and placed his palms on his hips. “Then where do we even begin?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

And I need one desperately.

11:31 A.M.

The forty-eighth Mūsā enjoyed the privileges afforded him—not just from his ambassadorship but also from his rank among the Apocalypti. He sat before the remains of a late breakfast, which included Beluga caviar on toast points, eggs with shaved black truffles. The plates and dinnerware were silver and gold.

Over the years, he had used his official role in the Turkish government to grift millions from his own country, from its military, from those who would trade with the United States. From the Apocalypti—with their near-bottomless global financial resources—he embezzled funds for personal gain, while building his own army to serve the cause.

Firat knew the man seated across the dining table did the same. Senator Cargill had his own aspirations. He had siphoned Apocalypti money into his personal campaign coffers—after some diligent laundering, of course. Firat did not begrudge Cargill his share of such riches, nor his ambitions. In fact, if the man ever became president, it would strengthen Firat’s ambassadorship as much as it would serve the Apocalypti.

Cargill finished his glass of Syrah and checked his gold Patek Philippe wristwatch. “I should return to the communication room. The morning break at the EU summit must be close to ending. I have a noon panel on economic development in former East Bloc countries.”

Firat stood and waved toward the doors of the suite, which occupied the entire top level of the yacht’s superstructure. “I understand.”

“As to the search along the Spanish coast, I may not be able to stay longer than another day. At some point, I’ll need to fly back to Hamburg to take a few face-to-face meetings.” He shrugged. “And I believe I’ve done all I can to motivate Elena.”

Firat gave a brief bow of his head. “And we certainly have the tools at hand to keep her properly motivated.”

“But I still insist that no harm come to her.” Cargill’s eyes flashed with an unspoken threat. “Is that also understood?”

Firat bristled but merely bowed his head again. “Of course.”

Silently, Firat fumed. To calm himself, he imagined all manner of tortures he planned to inflict upon the woman. The last would be to leave her with Kadir for a night. But first, he would wring all he could from the senator’s daughter. After that, after the tortures, the seas would wash away his crimes after he dumped her body. He would blame it on suicide.

What could this kuffār do?

The two of them stared at each other, as if each knew the other’s heart.

The spell was broken by a knock on the door. Firat nodded to his personal butler, who crossed and opened the door. Nehir stalked in, leading another.

The newcomer pushed past, his face flushed with anger.

What’s he doing here? What’s wrong now?

Before Firat could inquire, the man blurted out, “Elena Cargill is lying. She’s been playing you for fools all along.”

12:18 P.M.

Elena already knew something was wrong.

Twenty minutes ago, Monsignor Roe had been dragged out brusquely by Kadir. The two had not yet returned. And now Nehir appeared behind the glass, her face glowing with a self-satisfied smirk that set Elena’s heart to pounding. As the library door was unlocked, the yacht lurched, sending Elena dancing toward the bow to keep her feet.

Uh-oh.

Elena glanced out the windows. The Morning Star continued to slow, dropping swiftly as its twin foils sank into the sea.

Why are we stopping?

But she knew.

Nehir entered. “Follow me.”

Elena had no choice, especially as the woman had come with two armed escorts out in the hall. Elena set down