The Testament, page 48
Khalif returned, pulling the hidden door shut behind him. "He hasn't seen anything suspicious," Khalif said as he retook his seat. "He said he'd call Djura to warn him."
Bravo hardly heard him. "Give me the overseas code for Munich, Germany," he said, because they would be different here than in England.
He dialed the number, and when he heard the deep male voice on the other end of the line, he felt as if the floor had given way beneath him. Nightmare came rushing at him with a ghoulish grin.
It was Karl Wassersturm's voice he heard in his ear. It was to the Wassersturm brothers that Uncle Tony had been transmitting the rogue code. From his eidetic memory he unspooled part of the conversation he'd had with Camille on their way to St. Malo:
"The Wassersturms were in a rage when their deal was terminated," Camille said in his mind. "Jordan is worried that they're out to take their revenge on you. What's gotten him so upset is that he spent three days in Munich working on another deal with them simply to calm them down."
"He shouldn't have done that; there's no reason to trust them."
Camille laughed. "You know Jordan. If he can get his terms, he'll make a deal with the devil."
But the thing was, what had stuck in Bravo's mind, what he hadn't been able to make sense of, was that Jordan should have known better than to do business with the Wassersturms no matter what kind of terms they offered. They were bad news-tied into illicit arms dealers and, possibly, terrorists-bad to the bone.
"Karl, it's Jordan." He spoke in German, summoned up Jordan's intonation, his French vocal quirks.
"Why are you using this line?" Wassersturm said in his gruff, no-nonsense manner. "We agreed to leave it solely to relay the… information."
Here was the reason, the connection between the Wassersturms and Jordan, revealed in all its ghastly glory.
Grimly, Bravo said, "You missed this month's, didn't you?"
"You know, like clockwork always." The anxiety in Karl Wassersturm's voice was palpable. "You get the information minutes after I pull it off the transmission, almost no delay, that's how you set things up. It isn't my fault, I swear. No transmission came through this month."
"If you're holding out on me, Karl, I swear-"
"But, no, Jordan, absolutely not. The thought never entered my mind. You told me, didn't you? It's your cipher. I don't understand it, you warned me it couldn't be broken, what good would holding out do me?"
"None at all," Bravo said in Jordan Muhlmann's sternest voice. "See you remember that, Karl. I'll be in touch."
He threw the cell phone across the room. Overwhelmed by the personal horror-the unimaginable betrayal-staring him in the face, he put his head in his hands.
Cornadoro's truck was empty when Jenny and Camille pulled up behind it. Jenny, the Witness handgun she had bought from Mikhail Kartli at the ready, got out, made a thorough search. By the time Camille joined her, she had found something interesting.
She hauled the battered metal box out of the well below the truck's front seat. "Look at this," she said, flipping open the too Inside were three layers of theatrical makeup; bits of hair in different colors for eyebrows, mustache, beard; small plastic cases containing colored contact lenses.
Camille fingering the selection of prosthetic noses, chins, cheeks and ears, said, "What does this mean?"
Jenny had already grabbed her phone, was pressing the speed dial over and over, without success. "Shit, he's not answering." She began to sprint toward the high-rise.
Camille knew exactly what the contents of the box meant-she'd seen Damon in a number of his disguises and knew he was an expert at changing his appearance, the reason the Order had never been able to obtain an accurate photo of him. Hurrying after Jenny, Camille considered her options. She could, of course stop Jenny right now, just as she had done in the corridor of the Church of l'Angelo Nicolo`, just before she'd murdered Father Mosto. But that would be the height of folly. She needed Jenny now as the lure to bring Bravo to her. What she didn't need was Damon tramping around, killing people right and left Up to this point, he had been useful, that was true enough but the situation in the field had changed drastically, and any general unable to alter the plan of battle as the fighting saw fit would inevitably go down to defeat.
"My best friend is an actor. I've seen those kits before, Camille said, coming up on Jenny's right shoulder. "I saw what was missing, I think I know what he's going to look like.
Camille had been right, Bravo realized, though in a way she couldn't possibly know. Jordan had, indeed, made a deal with the devil. He hadn't been scammed by Damon Cornadoro-he'd asked for Damon Cornadoro. Jordan, his best friend was a Knight of St. Clement-not simply a Knight but the leader, because he was the architect, he was behind everything-Dexter's murder, the concerted attack on the Haute Cour the pursuit of the Order's cache of secrets.
Bravo groaned. To top it all off, he'd been working at Lusignan et Cie, for Jordan, toiling away for years in the enemy's shell corporation. What if Jordan had given him tasks that destroyed businesses secretly owned by members of the Order? Oh, God, had he himself been doing the devil's work?
He didn't want to believe it, couldn't believe it wholly, not yet-it was too huge, too terrible, it was unthinkable. And yet, the evidence was irrefutable. This couldn't be happening, not to him. But, in this instance, denial was lethal. Bravo knew that, and he shook himself, urging himself to come to terms with a truth he never could have imagined he'd one day be forced to face.
How to understand the nature of a human being who could be so false, so two-faced: your best friend, your most implacable enemy. It was as if the sun had suddenly begun to rise in the west or the oceans had turned to stone. But when he took a mental step back, like it or not, he was struck by Jordan Muhlmann's brilliance: what better place for Jordan to camp than on his enemy's doorstep, what better vantage point from which to observe and to plot the order of battle?
And with this realization came the beginning of acceptance-a sadness so piercing it left a pain in his chest.
He lifted his head, a sudden terrible thought bubbling up to the surface: what if Camille knew everything, what if she was part of Jordan's scheme? Why not? They were close, she worked at Lusignan et Cie, she would do anything for her son, she had told him so herself. Even the devil's business? He didn't know. Her shocked reaction to learning of Cornadoro's identity seemed genuine enough, but how could he know with any certainty?
He felt the swift, bitter flood of paranoia. He heard his father's voice, as if from far away, coming nearer with each beat of his heart. "Paranoia is a skill to be developed in certain professions," Dexter Shaw had told his son. "The most useful thing about being a paranoiac is that you won't be shaken by failure."
What profession had his father been talking about? the young Bravo had wondered. Now he knew. He'd have to be wary of Camille, gauge her reactions in a different light until one way or another she proved her loyalties.
A tremendous percussion shook the walls and rattled the electronics on their steel shelves. It sounded as if a bomb had gone off in the part of the apartment beyond the hidden door. He jumped and Khalif leapt to his feet. Ominously, three reports followed one upon the other-shots from a handgun, there was no mistaking the sounds, no doubt at all. A moment later, something hard slammed into the front side of the refrigerator.
Khalif hurried to the bank of electronics and, as the pounding started up rhythmically, quickly and methodically pressed a series of buttons.
"I'm wiping all the hard drives," he said, as much to himself as to Bravo. "I have all the critical data backed up elsewhere." Then he drew back one of the blackout curtains. Pushing two raw metal levers up freed the plywood panel he had attached over the window. Together, he and Bravo took the panel down.
Khalif threw open the window to a blast of noise and a mini-tornado of concrete dust from the sandblasting. Below was a sloping concrete ledge, no more than a decorative stripe on the milk-carton facade. It was so narrow there would be no room for error. One misstep would send him hurtling to his death below.
The crashing on the other side of the refrigerator was louder, more immediately threatening.
Bravo hesitated only a moment before he followed Khalif out onto the ledge. Khalif had already begun to edge to his right, toward the corner of the building. To Bravo, it seemed like a long way away, though it couldn't be more than a hundred meters. Where was Khalif headed? To a window in another apartment on the floor? That would only postpone the inevitable.
Bravo watched Khalif and, like him, refused to look down. Instead, he concentrated on keeping one hand against the concrete block of the building facade, putting one foot in front of the other in the straightest line possible. A sudden gust of wind swirled up the sheer building face, rippling against his left flank, causing him to stop and steady himself until it died back.
Khalif reached the corner and vanished around it. Screwing up his courage, Bravo followed, his hands gripping the corners, and he slid around it.
Beyond, he could see the workers' bamboo scaffold. His view was distorted by the shroud of plastic sheeting the workers had erected in a futile effort to keep the concrete dust at least marginally controlled. Bravo could make out two figures in overalls, faces goggle-eyed behind masks that kept their lungs clear. One of them was hunched over, wielding the heavy sandblaster, working slowly and deliberately. The other, just beyond him, was bent over the rope railing of the scaffold, presumably calling to the workers below down. They looked like old men; their hair was white with dust.
Khalif had reached the edge of the scaffold. He swung the plastic sheeting out of the way. As he stepped over the rope barrier, the worker nearest him turned, awkwardly waved one arm, warning him away. Khalif ignored him and the worker put down the sandblaster.
Khalif was trying to explain the situation, but the generator that powered the sandblaster was still pumping out noise at deafening decibels, and it was clear the worker couldn't hear him. By this time Bravo, too, had swung onto the scaffold. The two men were now so close that Bravo lost sight of the worker behind Khalif's broad back. It was natural then for Bravo's gaze to fall on the second worker. He was still bent over the railing, but now, without the interference of the plastic sheeting, Bravo could see his bloody hands, his bloody mouth, his bloody neck, ripped from one side to the other.
Bravo leapt forward. The first worker was removing his mask, a natural gesture as far as Khalif was concerned. Obviously, the man wanted to hear what Khalif was saying. But Bravo knew the movement was a ruse-a misdirection-for while Khalif's gaze was drawn to his face, the worker had produced a push-dagger from a pocket of his overalls.
"The worker," Bravo shouted, "it's Cornadoro!"
Khalif stepped back, but Cornadoro was already swinging the push-dagger, the arc of the blade sweeping in on the Turk's chest. Khalif swiveled, leaning heavily into the rope barrier as the blade ripped through the light linen of his shirt, baring his flesh. But the blade kept going, its arc continuing, until its target became clear.
The honed steel sliced through the rope barrier against which Khalif had tumbled. His arms shot out as he lost balance. Bravo threw himself forward, reaching out for Khalif's hand. Too late, he snatched at dead air. Looking over the side, he saw Khalif, clutching the end of the cut rope, swinging back and forth under the scaffold. Eleven floors below, he caught a glimpse of Jenny and Camille running toward the building.
Bravo took one lunge at the rope in hopes of hauling Khalif up, but Cornadoro swung the push-dagger, forcing Bravo to roll away from the edge, away from the only position from which he could save Khalif from falling to his death.
Lashing out with his right foot, Cornadoro drove Bravo's body beneath the rope barrier at the inner edge of the scaffold and into the side of the building. The scaffold rocked, banging against the concrete facade as Bravo struggled to keep from falling through the gap between it and the building.
Cornadoro struck him as he got to one knee, then grabbed him, pulled him off his feet. Their faces were very close. Bravo could smell the animal stink of the man, could feel the heat of his bloodlust and something else, something cool and detached: the total absence of fear.
"I want the cache of secrets." Cornadoro's voice was like a file sawing against Bravo's flesh. "Where is it? I want it. Where is it?" He flung Bravo against the side of the building. "Give me the information, or by Christ I'll rend you limb from limb. I'll leave you no man at all, or worse. When I'm done you won't even be human, you'll beg me to kill you."
From the first, Bravo had tried to get to Lorenzo Fornarini's dagger, but when he'd struck the concrete wall the knife had shifted, and now he couldn't reach it no matter how hard he tried. In any event, there was no time now because Cornadoro, swinging the push-dagger like a reaper, was about to make good on his threat.
The point of the push-dagger rushed in at Bravo. He tramped heavily on Cornadoro's instep, and as the bigger man reacted, he went straight for the inside of his wrist, digging thumb and forefinger into the nerve and tendon bundle. The push-dagger clattered to the bamboo beneath their feet.
With an animal growl, Cornadoro rabbit-punched Bravo in the kidney, then drove his knee into Bravo's chin. Bravo went to his hands and knees. Cornadoro smashed his fists into Bravo's spine. Bravo collapsed onto the sandblaster.
It was the machine's vibrations that kept him from slipping into unconsciousness. As Cornadoro stooped down to deliver the paralyzing blow, Bravo grabbed the sandblaster and flipping onto his back, aimed the nozzle at his tormentor, pulled the trigger.
Cornadoro bellowed, staggered back, and Bravo got to his feet, pressing his attack. Cornadoro let him commit himself before using powerful arms, elbows first, to knock the sand-blaster away. Now Cornadoro clapped one huge hand around Bravo's neck and pressed on his carotid.
Bravo's arms flailed, he gasped for breath, but the blackness of the abyss was all around him, obliterating his senses one by one.
Both Jenny and Camille saw what was happening eleven floors up on the scaffold. For Jenny, her worst fears were being realized-Bravo was going to die, and she would be too late to save him. Camille, too, felt the unfamiliar stab of fear. Just as Jordan had predicted, Damon had overstepped his authority. What did he think he was doing attacking Bravo? Unless he wanted the location of the cache of secrets for himself, unless he thought he could torture the location out of Bravo. The fool.
And so both women ran, side by side, both locked in their own fears and anxieties. No doubt that was why neither of them saw the man hurtle out of the trees where he had been hiding. He leapt onto Jenny because she was the one with the gun. He tackled her, digging his heels in while twisting his upper torso, using her own momentum to bring her down so hard that the heel of her hand struck the concrete rim of the walkway and the gun skittered away from them both.
Camille stood less than eight meters away. She knew the man-the Albanian, one of Jordan's hand-picked Knights of the Field. The implications of his being here, spying on Damon-and on her-were as immediate as they were dire. Jordan no longer trusted her; he meant to get the Order's cache of secrets for himself. Camille experienced a moment of indecision, unusual for her. She could either help Jenny against the Albanian or try to save Bravo, she couldn't do both. Picking up the Witness, she turned and ran.
Using his last ounce of strength, Bravo slammed his knee into Cornadoro's groin. He had the angle, the angle at which the genitals are at their most vulnerable, when the proper force could produce the maximum damage.
The moment he connected, bone against soft tissue, the big man bellowed and let Bravo go. The primitive part of the brain, the part a human being used to keep himself alive, told him that he'd never survive alone on the scaffold with Damon Cornadoro, so he'd done the other thing. Without hesitation, he vaulted over the scaffold's side.
He fell.
But not far. He grabbed onto Khalif, wrapping both arms, heavy as lead weights, around the Turk's waist. Together, they swung in dangerous arcs, while Khalif groaned at the strain on his arms, shoulders and back. Above them, Cornadoro was on hands and knees, his eyes were watering and his head was wagging back and forth like a wounded bull. Then, ignoring all pain, he scooped up the push-dagger and began to saw at the hanging rope-Bravo and Khalif's lifeline.
"My shoulder is dislocated, I can't get to him," Khalif said. "But you have a chance. When I let go, grab the rope and pull yourself up."
"Are you crazy?" Bravo said. "You're not sacrificing yourself for me."
"Why not? It's my life," Khalif said. "Besides, you'd do the same for me."
Camille ran until she had a clear shot up through the folds of plastic sheeting to the scaffold on the eleventh floor. Kneeling, she raised the Witness, bracing one hand on the other, forming a steady tripod. She got Damon in her sights, took a breath, exhaled. Her forefinger tightened on the trigger.
Bravo, fighting to keep Khalif from dropping off the rope, scrambled up the Turk's body, grabbed the rope and clamped his legs around Khalif's waist, holding the man fast.
"These heroics will do you no good," Khalif said as he tried to free himself from Bravo's embrace. But at that instant two shots sounded from below, a spray of blood struck them, hot and strong, and Cornadoro staggered backward across the scaffold. They glanced down to see Camille in her marksman's position. Then Jenny had joined her and the two women were running toward the pulleys that controlled the scaffold's vertical movement.
"Jesus Christ," Bravo said, as the scaffold began its descent.
"God is good," Khalif breathed.
A moment later, a body fell past them, spraying them in the face and chest with more blood-Damon Cornadoro on his long journey to hell.
Chapter 30
