changed the way virtually every major data protection company in the world approached the securing of high-risk and top secret information. For three years running, he had been named Man of the Year by the National Association of Artificial Intelligence, yet no client ever referred to these accomplishments. Only when the New York Times reported that Gil was the creator of the computer program that had eradicated the data-eating virus that held the Internet hostage for almost a month, did anyone take notice. The whole thing might have faded if People magazine hadn’t jumped on the story. They spent three-quarters of the article describing his “rugged good looks” and barely mentioned his work.
Lucy had teased him unmercifully. Within days of the article’s publication, an ever-hungry storm of reporters and paparazzi began to beat a path to his—or rather to CyberNet Forensics, Inc.’s—door.
The company’s worth had gone through the roof, Gil’s salary had more than quadrupled, and he had been dragged, kicking and screaming, from the privacy of his little computer room to the bright lights of celebrity.
That had been four years ago. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Lucy had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and, though every minute away from her felt like the greatest betrayal he could imagine, Gil had convinced himself that he had to cash in on his fame so that he could pump up his salary while he could. It was the only way he could be sure that Lucy would get the best possible care in the hard times that lay ahead.
A sour taste of bile rose in his throat.
Son-of-a-bitch doctor.
Right from the beginning the bastard had known that Lucy didn’t have more than six weeks left. Had the quack told Gil the truth, he would have spent every precious minute with her. But, instead, the doctor had led him to believe that because of her youth and strength, Lucy’s decline would be unmercifully slow. Months—maybe a year—of painful deterioration were inevitable, the doctor had said; an unthinkable time in which Lucy’s pain could be eased by the best medical care that money could buy.
Instead, she was gone in less than a month, only two weeks before her thirty-fourth birthday. Gil had spent much of that time away from her, in endless interviews, answering asinine questions posed by one stupid reporter after another. Less than a week after it was over, one tabloid cover sported his photo, snapped at the cemetery. The inside copy reported that he was recently widowed and implied that after a suitable time of mourning, he would be an excellent catch.
Gil swallowed against the lump in his throat and forced himself to think about something else.
I’m out of here.
He rose and kicked his chair back hard. As he reached to keep it from falling, something caught his eye.
Gray hair flying, short fat legs waddling, and looking a great deal like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, Dr. Arnold Ludlow, Professor of Antiquities and consultant on Early Christian Artifacts to the Israel Museum, arrived.
Breathless and dripping, he pealed off his wet raincoat and draped it on his seat back then settled into the chair.
“Sorry I’m late,” he began without introduction. “Your taxis, you know. You can never get one in the rain.”
Gil managed a nod before the Professor continued an account of the many difficulties he’d confronted in a city that seemed bent on preventing him from making this meeting.
“Sabbie didn’t show at the airport but no worries,” Ludlow added, “that’s not unusual for her.”
Gil surrendered to the mounting wave of disappointment. It didn’t really matter anyway. He would sit and wait while the old man prattled on and, when enough time had elapsed so that he could do so without seeming terribly impolite, Gil would reach for the menu.
But he never got the chance.
TWO
A few minutes later
Hotel Agincourt, New York City
Abdul Maluka stepped from the shower and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Black hair dripping, dark skin glistening in the bright light, he liked what he saw. He was short by Western standards, but every inch of his frame was pure muscle. He patted his flat stomach and surveyed his tan shoulders.
Not bad for an old man of forty.
The crescent-shaped scar across his right cheek was the perfect finishing touch. It made him look interesting. Even…sexy.
He had sustained the injury as a result of one of his father’s infamous thrashings, in this case as a direct result of Maluka’s refusal to stand silently by as his father announced to the family that his advanced age no longer permitted him to participate in the Fast of Ramadan.
“You are well enough to lay with your whore whenever she will tolerate you,” a twelve-year-old Maluka had sneered. “How can you say you cannot keep the Fast?”
His father had attempted to stare the boy down.
Maluka’s mother had been in easy earshot. The older man’s discomfort fueled Maluka’s outrage.
“Surely, you can forgo some pleasure in the name of Allah. Or can you not even wait until the sun sets to bury your face in the flesh of that pig,” the youth had added with a laugh.
His father had ripped the worn brown leather belt from the waist of his Western suit of clothes and had beaten the young Maluka with all the strength he could muster. Only when the boy fell to the floor under the torrent of blows, did his father’s fury subside.
“You are not my real father,” the young Maluka had declared. “My father is the spirit of Islam. The poorest devotee to Allah is more my father than you.”
His father added one final blow for good measure; one the boy would never forget. The sharp edge of the buckle caught Maluka across the cheek and left a gash from which blood poured. It was only then that his father smiled with satisfaction.
“Let your faith heal that for you, boy!” he had said triumphantly, then turned, left, and never spoke of the matter again.
Nearly three decades later, the token left by his father’s fury now declared to the world, proof of Maluka’s commitment to Islam. With age, the wound had transformed into a perfect crescent shape whenever he smiled. Not that he smiled all that often.
Maluka pulled on a pair of finely tailored slacks and selected a new silk shirt delivered fresh from his New York shirtmaker, then entered the living room.
Aijaz Bey looked up guiltily. His bulbous bald head, set on a thick neck and huge shoulders, would have made him look unintelligent even if he were bright—which he was not. At six foot six, weighing two hundred and eighty pounds, he was indeed as dangerous as he appeared—and as obedient; two essential attributes which made him the perfect assistant.
The remnants of torn plastic wrappings, wadded up linen napkins, and empty plates, littered the rolling dining cart. Maluka shook his head in resignation. Although Aijaz’s huge hands were skilled at carrying out whatever delicate act with a knife was required, and his skill with a gun was quite remarkable, the man seemed incapable of removing his dinner from a room-service tray without making a mess.
“Couldn’t wait,” Aijaz explained with a shrug and an obsequious smile.
“No problem.”
Aijaz breathed a sigh of relief.
At the sound of the knock at the hotel door, both men straightened.
Aijaz waited for instruction. Maluka raised his hand and silently signaled him to halt. At the second knock, Maluka nodded and Aijaz opened the door.
Clearly startled by Aijaz’s bulk, the man hesitated, then entered. Though no more than forty years of age, his bent back and the downward thrust of his head betrayed the attitude of a man who had been broken on the rack of life. Tall and gaunt, his gray hair slicked back from an overabundance of grease or sweat, their guest offered his right hand to Maluka in greeting.