Authors: Dorian Paul
"Go ahead. Look inside. Did you think I'd condemn my one true brother to dying unarmed?"
The sack held two khanjar, weapons for a battle to the death.
"Go ahead, Tiger, choose one."
The first of the curved daggers had a handle and scabbard fashioned of copper and enameled with pink and blue flowers, but he selected the second Persian knife to fight for his life.
"Yes. I thought you might be attracted to that one."
The handle, carved from a single piece of ivory, displayed a naked mother with two children, a boy and a girl, at her feet.
"I'm afraid Dr. Ashe will never bear your children. Pity. She was a most unusual woman."
David's thumb caressed the rounded belly of the female figure. Claire. She saw herself as surrounded by death – her parents, her husband, Sandra Cook, Francine Berger – but she was all about life, intent on using her talents to defeat Tivaz TB. He was the one who lived a life ruled by death. And Varat's death had been his aim from the day Jeremy died. Now that goal was in his grasp, a chance to kill Varat. But if he hadn't hunted Varat with such singular purpose, might Claire still be alive? Bobby was correct. Revenge clouds a man's judgment, and now the only woman left for him to hold was the carved image on the knife's handle.
He slid the dagger from its wooden scabbard and ran his finger the length of the arcing blade. Ten inches, he guessed. "Beautiful watered steel. Intriguing jawhar."
"Damascus pattern. Also known as wood grain," Varat boasted.
"I've only seen it in photographs."
"That means you've yet to view my grandfather's swords, newly added to the Wallace Collection. Toss me the bag that holds the khanjar with the floral motif. It was one of his special favorites."
He tossed, and Varat caught, both of them displaying superb accuracy and reflexes.
"Now we each have a weapon with meaning," Varat said.
"Your grandfather's taste was exceptional."
"If you succeed in killing me, you must return to the Wallace Collection to see for yourself how good his eye was."
"And if you kill me?"
"I watch the devastation from plots you've yet to uncover. Fair enough?"
"You still hold the Kalashnikov."
"So I do."
Varat stalked to the charred SUV, opened its hood, and ripped out essential wires. Then short rifle bursts shredded all four tires before he thrust the Kalashnikov through shattered windows and blasted the dashboard controls, whose plastic splinters littered the dead bodies in the front seat. Only when acid smoke from an electrical fire smoldered did Varat aim into the surrounding wasteland and fire until the magazine of his assault rifle emptied. He smiled and tossed his rifle aside.
"Now we face each other as men." He threw his head back and chanted, "I am Varat, son of Dastan, son of Sam . . . of Pahlawan descent."
My God, I was correct.
Varat's words reached back to the earliest Pahlawan warrior code.
"State your lineage," Varat demanded according to the ritual formula of ancient Persia. "Show me if you are worthy of challenging me."
Bloody hell, he was more than worthy. "I am David," he shouted back. "Son of Andrew, son of George . . . of noble Sherborne descent. I am –"
"You are Tiger," Varat snarled.
Tiger? Yes. Varat knew him best of all. David Ruskin was and always would be Tiger. And Varat was his mirror, a man he despised but whose kinship he could not disown. Why, even their knife-fighting stances were identical with right legs forward and the left foot poised to launch an attack.
Varat hit first, a downward slash at his scar-ridden thigh aimed at severing the old wound anew and cutting down his mobility. But David sidestepped, held the slice at muscle's surface, and struck Varat's wrist to propel his enemy past. They spun and faced one another under the rising sun. With thrusts and slashes they probed and cut, while each blocked and checked to stay the blades from their own vital arteries. Moving in a pirouette of attacks and counters, an image of the childhood dance lessons his mother forced on him flashed through David's mind. But this deadly terpsichore forsook social grace for the raw tang of male sweat and blood, the fleck of foam flying from Varat's upper lip, and the animation of their blades' jawhar.
Varat was right to revere these watered steel khanjar, daggers well designed for killing. Life wasn't a racquets match, but a struggle against death, and to die like this was to be part of the history of mankind . . . and such might be his fate.
He struck at his enemy's neck. But Varat redirected the downward slash by grasping David's knife wrist and using the blow's momentum to force him down and off balance. Advantage Varat, who raised his bejeweled khanjar. David caught the downward thrust by clutching Varat's own knife wrist. But his foe held the superior position and, strain as he might to hold the knife tip at bay, the tip pricked. Not the carotid, but close, very close.
Damn, he should have plunged his fork into Varat's own carotid that night in Tivaz when he gave Claire a black eye. Now, Varat lifted his right shoulder seeking leverage to deliver the
coup de gras
, searching for the one acute angle that would drive the knife home. In the vast blue sky above them, a single cloud masked the sun before rays of light broke through the vapor. David's eyes turned heavenward for an instant, and then he refocused on Varat, whose own eyes flickered to his grandfather's blade.
***
Varat's elation goaded the keen edge of death as it descended, now less than an inch from Tiger's neck. The knife blade mesmerized, but equally so Tiger's eyes. Like a true Pahlawan warrior, the Englishman's pupils refused to dilate with fear.
Yes, they were brothers at last, chest to chest in a final embrace, the wave of Tiger's long soft hair marking time to the rhythm of their struggles. Grandfather's blade was beautiful, but so were Tiger's manicured fingers. Longer than Varat remembered . . . and strong.
Tiger's eyes flashed at the blade closing in.
Yes. How beautiful is the jawhar of my ancestor's steel. Grandfather – strengthen my arm.
***
The eruption of blood through the wall of a severed vessel was the most shocking, the force of life gushing like a wave chasing the shore. His grip weakened and he failed to contain the blade's further movement but his eyes remained focused. He willed them to convey acceptance.
What was there to fear?
Soon they would be reunited . . .
Chapter 45
Claire huddled with her vaccine team in the plant's negative pressure room. They'd fled here at the first sounds of explosion, donned their protective suits, and waited for safety and security personnel to arrive. After a full day passed and not a soul appeared, they debated their options anew. The room's reinforced walls and ceilings still held, but the unit's dedicated air filtration system was starting to wheeze and everyone knew they couldn't stay here indefinitely. Some wanted to leave at once, before the situation worsened; others argued for staying until the last possible minute because they might not survive the heat and gases outside their sanctuary. Finally they agreed on a compromise: wait one hour more and if rescuers didn't arrive they'd all leave together.
Those sixty short minutes Claire used to trace the events of her life, toting up the good and the bad in the hand she'd been dealt. In the end, she decided, everything came down to people – the gifts they granted you and how you returned the favor.
She realized she'd spent too many days mourning her parents, too few appreciating Aunt Carrie and Uncle Tom. And then there was Ben . . . a comet in the night sky, dazzling her for a few brief years. Why hadn't she celebrated his radiance, instead of dwelling on the darkness of his loss?
She'd done better with Don Strong, her rock, her mentor, and the man who gave her the gift of confidence. At least she hadn't totally let him down. Roscoe was right; with Don's coaching she could lead a team as well as he, and Don would take pleasure in the fact of her success. Roscoe. Where would she be without his help on Tivaz TB? He'd been right; the two of them were a damn good team. Professionally. But Roscoe always wanted more. Still, on the night of Francine's death, he didn't take advantage of her as he might have. She missed him . . . and Sandra, and Francine, and Ian, and all her allies against Omar Messina's death wish for the world.
Tiger . . . David. Dangerous lover. Love of her life. She hated him when they first met at Tivaz, again when she saw him with Meg, and finally in his parting sting before she returned to Morocco. But how she loved him! He showed her she could be both scientist and woman with him . . . and that he valued both parts equally. Most incredible was her grief over not carrying his baby. She never imagined she'd want a child with any man after Ben died, but David succeeded in making her want to embrace life, a life with him. Deep inside she knew he loved her as much she did him. But neither of them had been able to say it. She had to make it out of here alive so David would know where she stood.
"Okay, people." She summoned her small band of survivors. "Time to go before the clean air in these suits sours."
Damaged girders groaned as her team picked their way through jagged metal and glass, carrying with them two stainless steel containers of the vaccines they were assembling when disaster struck. It wasn't much, but it would be needed outside – if they got it there. Smoldering fires throughout the building blew acid fumes into a toxic haze that hampered visibility, and collapsed roofs forced them to retrace their steps more than once. Only when they emerged into the misty glare of spotlights and the yellow taped perimeter beyond which safety lay, did Claire allow herself to believe they'd made it. The rescue personnel screamed and backed away from the sight of her crew emerging from the ominous vapor and she knew then they must look as ghostly and monstrous as she felt. It would've been comical, except those shouts brought men rushing at them . . . with guns.
She threw up her arms in submission and wondered if she should whip off her helmet so they could see her face. Or would sudden movement be interpreted as hostile? Without knowing if her voice could be heard through her facemask, she identified herself in English and Arabic, only to have another man charge forward. Speaking in Arabic, he calmed the crowd. Speaking English, he shouted instructions for their decontamination. Thank God he recognized their suits for what they were.
Now she felt safe to remove her helmet, but did so slowly, careful not to touch her skin with her gloves. At last she breathed freely and her first thought was to talk to David.
That turned into a tall order. Landlines were down and only a handful of cell phones were available. They put her on a list, but no matter which higher-up she spoke to she had no luck jumping the line. Until a person from the American Embassy heard her pleas and stepped in with a phone. She called David's office and they put her through to James.
"Claire? Wonderful to hear from you. We feared the worst."
"James, I'm trying to reach David. What's going on?"
He responded by telling her three of the planned attacks had been thwarted. She was relieved, but more than anything wanted to talk to David.
"Is David free, James? I'd like to speak to him, or is he busy looking for the last canister?"
"Bobby and I are handling things on this end. David left for Morocco the instant he learned of your plant explosion."
Warmth spread through her. He's coming for me, just like he did in Tivaz. "He's on his way here?"
"He was heading there."
"Was? What's happened?"
"David was traveling in a U.S. Embassy vehicle with Aziz Bouchta and a driver. The vehicle has been found on the roadway to your site."
"And?"
"Three bodies were found. Two were covered by the side of the road. The third –"
"Please. No!" Her vision blurred. She grabbed for the tent pole but it wobbled and she teetered, unsupported.
"Claire, I'm sorry to have to tell you this over the phone. The third –"
"No, James," she pleaded. "Don't say it. Please."
"When David heard of the plant explosion, his first thought was to go to you. It was all that mattered to him. His last act was to find you and bring you home."
She sank to the bare earth. He did love me. Did he know I loved him?
"Claire, are you all right, my dear?"
How can I ever be all right again? "I'm here James."
"The bodies are in transport to the makeshift morgue at your location. I dislike asking this of you, but it would be helpful for you to positively identify them."
"Yes, James." How she managed to speak was as much a surprise to her as it must've been to James. But then, experience with the grim reaper was not new. "I'll identify the bodies when they arrive."
She sat in the dirt and stared at the mute phone. Minutes earlier she'd clasped it in anticipation, eager to be connected with David to say 'I love you.' But now her fingers recoiled from the hateful thing that delivered the request to identify the body of her dead lover. Yet she knew she would go to him. She must say goodbye.
She made her way to the tent serving as a pavilion for the dead. When Ben lapsed from life to death at home, an antiseptic pain-free passing courtesy of hospice, she'd been by his side. But this gathering of the departed looked and smelled altogether different, far worse even than the hospital morgue she'd seen on her Zaire mission with Don. But she fought back her vomit, because she wanted to see David one last time. He was as close to being alive now, as she would ever see him again. And she yearned to touch him, to tell him of her love.
"Dr. Ashe, we were told to expect you," a gowned attendant said. "The bodies have only recently arrived. One of the three, I'm sorry to say, is badly mutilated."
Her sob brought the man to her side, but she backed away and squared her shoulders.