Muslim country. I’m not sure they’d react kindly to something that smells like a Second Coming, especially not in their own backyard.”
“It’s where it happened the first time,” Ogilvy remarked dryly.
“Hal, seriously,” Gracie shot back, “we need to tread carefully. In case you hadn’t noticed, this isn’t the most tolerant corner of the planet. I don’t want to put Father Jerome in any danger.”
“I don’t want to put anyone in danger either,” Ogilvy countered, slightly testily. “We’ll be careful. Just talk to him. We’ll take it from there.”
Gracie didn’t feel overly relieved. She relented—“I’ll call you after I meet him”—then snapped the phone shut and turned to the abbot. She needed to get something out of the way. “The documentary footage they filmed in the cave. Can we see it?”
“Of course. It’s on the DVD they sent us—I haven’t watched it as we don’t have a player here.”
“This laptop’ll play it,” Dalton told him, tapping his computer.
The abbot nodded and left them.
Dalton glanced worriedly at Gracie and Finch. “What if the shot we need didn’t make the final cut?”
It was a disheartening possibility neither of them wanted to consider right now, as it meant they would then have to contact the filmmakers for the outtakes. The abbot interrupted their concern by reappearing quickly, DVD in hand. Dalton loaded it up and fast-forwarded through it until the screen showed the small film crew climbing up the mountain and approaching what looked like an old door cut into the rock face.
“There,” the abbot exclaimed. “That’s Father Jerome’s cave.”
Dalton reverted to play mode, and the screen showed the cameraman’s point of view as he entered the cave. Gracie watched, heart in mouth, as it tracked through the dark chamber, an ominous, first-person voice-over describing the cave and its sparse, simple furnishings, giving her a preview of what she would imminently be visiting—then the camera banked around and, in a sweeping pan, covered the curving ceiling of the chamber.
“Right there,” Gracie burst out, jabbing the screen with her finger. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Dalton hit the pause button, backtracked a few frames, and played the clip again in slow motion. They all leaned in for a closer look. It was just a brief shot, no more than a passing glimpse at a curiosity within the cave—but it was all they needed. Dalton froze the image on one of the painted symbols. It was an elegant construction of concentric circles and intersecting lines that radiated outward. Despite its simplicity, it somehow managed to convey what they’d seen over the ice shelf and now, on the video, with surprising ease and clarity.
It was unmistakable.
Gracie turned to the abbot. Her nerves were buzzing with anticipation. “When can we go there and meet Father Jerome?”
He checked his watch. “It’s getting late. The sun will be gone soon. Tomorrow morning, first thing?”
Gracie winced, her heartbeat having a hard time pulling back from the frenzied quickening brought on by the footage on Dalton’s screen. “Father, please. I don’t mean to be a burden in any way, but . . . given what’s happening, I don’t think we should wait. I really think we ought to talk to him tonight.”
The abbot held her gaze for an uncomfortable beat, then relented. “Very well. But in that case, we should go now.”
LYING UNDER A SAND-COLORED CAMOUFLAGE net four hundred yards west of the monastery’s gate, Fox Two watched through high-powered binoculars as Gracie, Finch, and Dalton, accompanied by the abbot and another monk, climbed into the waiting people carrier.
His Iridium satphone vibrated. He fished it out and checked it. The text message told him Fox One and his team had just landed. On time. As expected.
He locked the phone and tucked it back into his pocket and watched as the Previa drove away in a swirl of dust.
He waited until they were half a mile away before pushing himself to his knees. Crouching low, he carefully folded the netting, stowed it in its pack, then slipped away to rejoin his two men, who waited nearby.
The mountain beckoned.
Again.
Chapter 31
Woburn,Massachusetts
The motel was grubby and run-down, but it provided Matt and Jabba with the basics: four walls, a roof, and the anonymity of a check-in alcove manned by a weedy daytime television addict who could barely string together a sentence. And right now, that was what they needed most. Shelter and anonymity.
That, and some answers.
Matt was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, his head tilted all the way back, resting against the lumpy mattress. Jabba,