The Judas Strain - James Rollins [125]
He slowly read the rest.
Upon escaping the city, Marco Polo related how a plague struck his fleet, stranding the ships and crew at a remote island. Only those who consumed the medicine offered by these glowing men remained untouched. Marco left the City of the Dead with enough additional medicine to treat his father and uncle, along with Kokejin and two of her maids. They ended up burning the ships and bodies of the diseased, many of them still alive.
Vigor read the final section.
May the Lord forgive my soul for disobeying a promise to my father, now dead. I must make one final confession. In that dread place, I discovered a map of the city, a chart which I destroyed upon the will of my father; but set to mind not to forget. I’ve recorded it here anew, so as to keep such knowledge from being lost forever. May whoever reads this take good warning: the gateway to Hell was opened in that city; but I know not if it was ever closed.
6:22 P.M.
AS GRAY LISTENED to the story and its cryptic ending, he worked on the puzzle in the notebook. It helped him concentrate to listen to Vigor while contemplating the mystery in hand. It distracted him from the terror clutching his own heart.
And as the story unfolded, he began to understand.
He’d been a fool.
He studied his notebook, blurring his eyes, seeing the answer hidden in the code. And with the three keys, perhaps a way to read it.
He flipped through the pages, looking for the right one. When he found it, he leaned closer, tracing with a finger. Could this be right? He needed to investigate it more.
He checked his watch.
With less than a half hour left, do I have enough time?
Before he could find out, a rattle of automatic fire echoed to them, sounding like firecrackers. Pop, pop, pop, pop…
Gray leaped up.
God, no…had Nasser found them?
He crossed to the chapel opening and stared out into the dark halls.
“Get everything together,” he urged without turning. “Now!”
Backlit by the filtering sunlight, Gray made out the slim shape of a figure running toward him. Bare feet slapped stone—then a voice called out, balanced between urgency and stealth.
“Hurry!”
It was Fee’az.
The boy did not slow and ran straight at them.
Farther out, coming from the direction of the castle courtyard, angry shouts in Farsi echoed.
Gray caught the thin boy’s shoulder as he flew up to them, breathless.
“Hurry. Smugglers.”
Fee’az did not wait and rebounded back into the outer hall and headed in the opposite direction, paralleling the rear of the castle.
Gray turned to the others. “Grab what you have…leave the rest!”
They set off after Fee’az.
The boy waited halfway down the hall, then fled onward.
Fee’az continued a running commentary. Apparently even the threat of smugglers did not stifle his tongue. “You take so long. With your prayers. I sleep. Under palms.” He waved back in the general direction of the courtyard. “They not see me. Almost step on me. I wake and run. They shoot. Bang, bang. But I am fast on the legs.”
Proving it, he flew through the back rooms and halls.
Behind them, shouts changed in timbre, indicating the raiding party had entered the castle.
Fee’az led them to crude stairs leading down. “This way.”
They reached a narrow, low tunnel, barely taller than a crawlway. It shot off to the south. Fee’az scurried ahead.
After fifty steps, it ended at an old rusted iron grate. The bars had long been sawed away, leaving only stumps. They pushed through and out into the castle’s silted-up moat. Crumbled stone walls marked the boundary.
Gray glanced behind him. The crawlway must have been the castle’s old sewer line.
Waving them to stay low, Fee’az led them along the moat, toward the eastern bay. Shouts still echoed from the castle. The smugglers had not yet realized the mice had fled.
Reaching the water, Gray saw the plane still waited, unmolested.
Fee’az explained, “Dirty smugglers. Never steal plane. They pinch little.” He demonstrated by holding his fingers apart, almost touching, then shrugged. “Sometime kill. Throw bodies to sharks. But never take something