The Sign

  TOUGH PART’S OVER, Buscema thought after hanging up with Darby. Now he’d have to wait and see if the self-obsessed blowhard would play nice and share. He needed Darby to play nice. He needed him to share his new toy with the other kids. And that, he knew, was never easy. Not when you were dealing with a spoiled brat, let alone one with a righteousness complex.

  He picked up his phone and hit another speed-dial key. The man on the other end had been waiting for the call.

  Buscema just said, “We’re on. Leak it,” then hung up.

  Chapter 65

  Shannon, Ireland

  The Gulfstream was parked by a service hangar, away from the small airport’s terminal. Gracie was pacing around by the plane as she spoke on her cell phone. She was out in the open and wasn’t really worried about being spotted. It was night, and there was no one around apart from a few dozy and disinterested maintenance guys who were refueling the jet.

  It was much colder there, another shock to her system after the chill of the South Pole and the warm embrace of the Egyptian desert. The cold, though, felt good. Bracing. Numbing. Which was helpful, given that she was on the phone with the abbot and reliving Finch’s death in all its grisly detail.

  He was on his way back from Cairo. He told her they’d delivered Finch’s body to the American embassy there. It hadn’t been easy getting there. He told her that fierce clashes had erupted among the hordes outside the monastery once news of Father Jerome’s departure had been made public. Jeep-loads of internal security men had stormed across the plain and contained the outburst, and were now clearing away the last troublemakers, but the situation had repeated itself in Cairo and in Alexandria and in other cities across the region.

  Gracie saw Dalton coming toward her, waving his BlackBerry, indicating there was a call for her. She was thanking the abbot when he remembered something and said, “I’m also very sorry about your friend’s glasses. One of my brothers broke them by accident. We put the frame in the pocket of his jacket.”

  Dalton was right up with her and mouthed “Ogilvy” to her. Seemed like it was pretty urgent. Gracie raised a pausing index finger at him, her foggy mind trying to make sense of what the abbot was talking about.

  “I’m sorry, Finch’s glasses?”

  “Yes,” the abbot said. “One of my brothers stepped on them by accident. He didn’t see them.”

  “That’s all right,” she said, nodding to Dalton like she was done. “I didn’t notice them either,” she added.

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” he corrected. “They weren’t outside. They were in the keep, and as you know, it’s quite dark in there. Anyway, I’m really sorry. I know it’s the kind of personal belonging that matters to loved ones at times like these. Would you please apologize to his wife on my behalf?”

  “Of course,” Gracie said, still distracted by Dalton. “Thanks for everything, Father. I’ll call you from America.” She clicked off and took the other phone from Dalton.

  It was Ogilvy. His news pushed any thought of Finch to the sidelines.

  “It’s out,” he told her, his tone urgent. “The word’s out that Father Jerome’s on his way here.”

  “What do you mean? It’s been leaked?” Gracie asked. “How?”

  “I don’t know. It came up on Drudge half an hour ago and it’s everywhere now.”

  She scanned around with her eyes, suddenly paranoid. A vision of converging mobs flashed before her, then evaporated. “Do they know we’re here?”

  “No, they didn’t mention that. All they know is that Father Jerome is out of Egypt and on his way here, to Houston. It doesn’t even mention Darby.”

  Gracie frowned. This wasn’t good. She pictured the media circus and the chaos that would be greeting them.

  “We’ve got to change destinations. Fly in somewhere else. Somewhere quiet.”

  “Why?” Ogilvy asked.

  “’Cause people are going to go nuts when they see him. We’ll get mobbed.”

  “I called Darby. He told me he’s got the cops lined up to help. They’re gonna cordon off the tarmac, provide a rolling escort. It’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Ogilvy asked. “This is still our story. Your story. Every reporter in America would give both arms to be in your shoes. Think about it. Every single TV set in the country is going to be watching you as you walk off that plane right alongside Father Jerome, with Dalton’s camera giving us a live inside track. And Darby wants you and Dalton to stick around. He’s going to put you up with them. I’m flying out too. So just relax and get some rest and get ready for it. We’ve got a show to do, and you’re about to get the biggest scoop of your life.”

  Chapter 66

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “Dad?” Rydell couldn’t believe his ears. His pulse raced ahead with equal doses of fear and hope. He could feel it pounding against his cell phone. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “They got me out. I’m fine.”

  Rydell’s heart cartwheeled. Her voice had a quaver in it, but she didn’t sound afraid.

  “Hang on,” she said.

  He heard some shuffling as the handset evidently changed hands, then he heard the last voice he was expecting.

  “Are you alone?”

  He recognized Matt’s voice. A sudden panic seized him. “Where are you? What have you done?”

  Matt ignored his question. “She’s safe. Can you get out without the escorts?”

  “I don’t know.” Rydell faltered. “I . . . I can try.”

  “Do it,” Matt ordered. “Do it right know. And meet us outside the place you took Rebecca for her eighteenth birthday.”

  The line went dead.

  Rydell didn’t know what to think. Was she Matt’s hostage now? Was that his plan? He wasn’t sure what he preferred—knowing she was in his hands, or in Maddox’s.

  He wasn’t sure either way. What he was sure of was that now that Rebecca was out, Drucker didn’t have any hold over him. Unless he tried to grab him and substitute him for Rebecca.

  He had to get out.

  Now.

  He picked up the hotel phone and hit the reception button. Got an answer on the first ring.

  “This is Rydell. I need security up here. Right now. As many guys as you can send. My bodyguards are up to something; I need protection right now. From them.” His tone left no room for doubt as to the urgency involved.

  The flustered voice on the other end was still fumbling through a reply when Rydell hung up. He darted to the bedroom, found his wallet and his coat, and pulled his shoes on; darted back to the door of his suite and eased against it for a peek through the peephole. He could see the two bodyguards, Maddox’s men, standing outside his door. Looking bored, killing time. He waited. About ten seconds later, he heard the whine of the elevator’s motor and the clunk of the doors sliding open. Four men rushed out and stormed over to the suite’s door. Rydell saw the bodyguards step toward the security guys, arms raised in a halting what’s-going-on gesture.

  Rydell grabbed his chance. He swung the door open and stormed out, sprinting past the surprised bodyguards and through the wall of security guys, waving a panicked finger back toward his bodyguards and shouting, “Stop them. They’re trying to kidnap me. Help me get out of here.”

  The security guys flinched with confusion, as did the bodyguards, who were caught flat-footed by Rydell’s rushed exit. Maddox’s men stepped forward forcefully, one of them reaching for his holstered handgun, but the security guys weren’t cowed. Two of them were beefy bouncer types, and they just stood their ground and closed in on each other, creating a barrier across the corridor. One of them, the biggest one of the lot, held up a stern warning finger and had his handgun out too, a mocking you-really-don’t-want-to-do-this grimace across his face. Rydell didn’t wait to watch the outcome. He slipped into the elevator, jabbed the down button repeatedly until the doors rumbled shut, and rode down to the
lobby, his nerves on fire. The short ride felt like forever. He raced out the second the door opened, flew out of the lobby, and hurtled into a lone, waiting cab. He ordered the guy to just go, and craned his head back as the cab drove off, to make sure they weren’t being followed. He made the driver take a few rudderless lefts and rights. When he was satisfied that they were on their own, he told him where to go.

  IT WAS A SHORT HOP around the Common and past Faneuil Hall to get to the Garden. That late at night, the traffic was light, despite the holiday rush. As the cab turned to pull into the arena’s parking lot, Rydell spotted Matt across the street, leaning against a dark sedan. Rydell got the cabbie to drop him off at the gate, waited for him to drive well clear, and crossed the road to join them. He was halfway across when the rear door swung open and his daughter clambered out of the car and ran over to him.

  He hugged her tight. He still couldn’t quite believe it. He looked over her shoulder. Matt was just standing there, leaning back against the car, his arms crossed, an angry look on his face. Rydell kept a firm grip on Rebecca’s hand as he went up to him.

  “You did this?” Rydell said. More like a statement than a question.

  “My friend’s in the hospital,” Matt told him crisply. “He’s been shot. Bad. I need you to make a call and make sure they give him everything he needs.”

  Rydell nodded and reached for his phone. “Of course.”

  “He’s also going to need protection,” Matt added. “Is there anyone you can call?”

  “I’ve got the number of the detective who came out to the house,” he said. “I can call him.”

  “Do it,” Matt said.

  Rydell kept hold of Rebecca as he made the calls. It didn’t take long. His name usually helped speed things up.

  They told him Jabba was in surgery, and that the prognosis was uncertain. He hung up and informed Matt.

  “He’s in good hands,” Rydell told him. “He’ll get the best of care.”

  “I damn well hope so.”

  Rydell studied him, unsure about where they stood. “I’m sorry about your friend. I just . . . I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” he said, hesitantly.

  “I just don’t like your friends,” Matt replied tersely. “They have this habit of locking people up.”

  Rebecca turned to meet Rydell’s guilty look.

  “And . . . ?” Rydell braced himself for more. Were they now both his prisoners?

  “And nothing. My friend’s been shot and your buddies still have my brother.” Matt stared at him, hard. “I thought you might want to help me make things right.”

  Rydell brought his hand up and massaged his temple. He looked at Matt, then slid his eyes over to Rebecca. She was eyeing him with a mixture of confusion, fear, and accusation.

  He didn’t know what to do. But he had no one left to protect.

  “They’re bringing him back,” he finally said.

  “Who?” Matt asked.

  “The priest. Father Jerome. He’s left Egypt. He’s on his way here.”

  “Where here?”

  “They’re saying Houston,” Rydell said. “It’s only just hitting the wires. Wherever it is, they’re bound to put a sign up over him, and the odds are, that’s where you’ll find Danny.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “You were right,” he finally conceded. “They’re planning something. Something they needed me around for. I don’t know what it is, but what I thought the plan was, what they insisted was still their plan . . . it’s not it. It’s something else. It’s all about the priest now.”

  “Who would know?” Matt asked him, fixing him squarely.

  “The others.”

  “I need names.”

  Rydell held his gaze, then said, “You only need one name. Keenan Drucker. It’s pretty much his show. He’ll know.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “D.C. The Center for American Freedom. It’s a think tank.” Just then, Rydell’s BlackBerry trilled. He fished it out of his pocket, checked its screen. And frowned at Matt.

  Matt looked a question at him.

  Rydell nodded. It was Drucker.

  He hit the answer key.

  “What are you doing? Where the hell are you?” Drucker asked sharply.

  “Working late, Keenan?” He looked pointedly at Matt, holding up his free hand in a stay-put gesture.

  “What are you doing, Larry?”

  “Getting my daughter back.” Rydell let that one sink in for a beat. Drucker went mute. Then Rydell added, “Then I thought I might head down to the New York Times and have a little chat with them.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “’Cause I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with what we set out to achieve,” Rydell shot back fiercely.

  Drucker let out a rueful hiss. “Look, I made a mistake, all right? Taking Rebecca was way out of line. I know that. And I’m sorry. But you didn’t leave me any choice. And we’re in this together. We want the same thing.”

  “You’re not doing this to save the planet, Keenan. We both know that.”

  Drucker’s voice remained even. “We want the same thing, Larry. Believe me.”

  “And what is that?”

  Drucker went silent for a moment, then said, “Let’s meet somewhere. Anywhere you want. Hear me out. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. After that, you decide if you still want to bring this whole thing down on top of us.”

  Rydell swung his gaze around to Matt and Rebecca. Let Drucker sweat it out for a beat. He knew he needed to hear him out. Too much—his whole life, everything he’d achieved, everything he could still achieve—was at stake. “I’ll think about it,” he replied flatly, then hung up.

  “What did he want?” Matt asked.

  “To talk. To convince me to play ball.”

  Matt nodded, then pointed at Rydell’s BlackBerry. “They might have a lock on you.”

  Rydell held up the device, a curious expression on his face. “What, this?”

  “They were tracking us. Through my friend’s phone. Even though we’ve been careful. We only had it on for short bursts.”

  Rydell didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “We can do it in the time it takes your phone to send out a text message.”

  Matt didn’t get it.

  “It’s one of ours,” Rydell assured him. “A piece of spyware we developed for the NSA. But there’s nothing to worry about here. We’re fine. My phone’s vaccinated against it.”

  Matt shrugged, looked away, then swung his gaze back at Rydell. “What are you gonna do?”

  Rydell pondered his question. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t had any time to think and strategize. Not that he felt overwhelmed with options. Everything felt like it was crashing down around him. But Rebecca’s call had changed all that.

  He gazed at his daughter. Her safety was paramount. “We can’t stay here,” he told Matt. “Not in Boston. Not after your little visit. There’s nowhere to lay low, not in this town. Anywhere we go will get flagged to the press—and to Maddox.”

  Matt nodded, mulled it over for a moment, then said, “Don’t you want to see it?”

  “What?”

  “Your handiwork. In all its glory.”

  Rydell thought about it for a beat, then said, “Why the hell not. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 67

  Houston, Texas

  The crowds were visible from the sky. Gracie didn’t spot them at first. The jet was banking around the small airport, coming in on a low-altitude, looped approach. From a height of around a thousand feet, all she noticed was a solid mass, a dark blot staining the pale wintry scrub that surrounded the acres of gray concrete. The traffic jams gave it away. All the small roads leading to the field were clogged with cars. Vehicles were just strewn all over the place haphazardly, like Lego bricks tossed out of a box. They were all jammed up one against another on the fields on either side of the roads, and weren’t going anywhere anyti
me soon. The traffic was backed up all the way to the Beltway, which was choked for a couple of miles in each direction. People were just abandoning their cars and making their way to the field, following those ahead of them like groupies converging on a big open-field rock concert. They were swarming in from all corners, heading for the northwestern corner of the airport, not far from the northern tip of the runway.

  Gracie wasn’t familiar with the airfield. Darby had explained to her that the chief of police had requested they avoid Hobby and Bush Intercontinental and use Ellington Field instead. For one thing, it wouldn’t disrupt the commercial flights in and out of the city. Ellington was a small, mostly military airfield. A handful of private jet operators had FBOs there, but it wasn’t used by any airlines. It didn’t even have a terminal. It was no more than a couple of runways and a row of uneven hangars that were home to the Coast Guard, NASA, as well as the Texas Air National Guard, where, famously, George W. Bush had been based during the Vietnam War, ready to thwart any Vietcong attack on Houston. Crowd control would also be easier there. The airfield was used to handling public events, especially since it was home to the annual Wings Over Houston air show.

  Still, Gracie was willing to bet they hadn’t experienced anything like this.

  The jet touched down faultlessly and veered off to the left at the end of the runway. It rolled on for a hundred yards or so before coming to a stop by a large single hangar that had its frontage wide open. A twin-jet helicopter was parked nearby, a couple of men standing beside it. The captain throttled back and killed the Gulfstream’s engines, and as they whined down, the noise from outside seeped in, an eerie wave of clapping and cheering that was loud enough to defy the air seals of the cabin and its triple-glazed windows.

  Gracie looked at Father Jerome. His face was tight with anxiety and glistened with a sheen of sweat. She reached out and put her hand on his, smiling supportively.