Obligingly, the target stopped long enough to say something to someone behind him, someone Levanto could not see. Levanto used perhaps a tenth of a second of the unexpected time to make a minor adjustment to the scope to compensate for the increased wind on the rooftop and estimate the prop wash from the blades. He inhaled deeply, exhaling and beginning a slow, gentle squeeze of the trigger.

Almost at exactly the same time as the Walthers recoil thumped against Levanto's shoulder, something whirled across the scope, something large and blurred. Without thought, he chambered another round.

Lang was never quite sure of the exact following sequence. Gurt climbed aboard with him a few feet behind. There was a clang of metal on metal, the unmistakable whip crack of a rifle and the whine of a ricocheting bullet that buzzed past Lang's head like a hungry mosquito. By reaction rather than plan, he lunged for the aircraft's open door, colliding with the marine escort who was fumbling with the holster on his webbed belt. Both men tumbled to the floor as the ship lifted off.

Lang struggled uncertainly to his feet. He was about to wonder if any damage had been done to injuries still healing when the pilot's head dissolved, splattering blood and brain tissue across the windscreen and cockpit.

It was unlikely Lang would forget any of what happened next, but what stood out was the calm assurance with which the copilot grasped the controls in front of him with one hand while wiping the gore from his helmet's visor with the other. Use of this ship as a messenger service might be wasting the taxpayers' money, but the man's piloting skill was worth every dime.

The Black Hawk/Seahawk was vibrating slightly as it banked sharply left and climbed. Holding on to a series of overhead straps that reminded him of a New York subway car, Lang made his way forward.

He had not had time to put on the headset. "What…?" he screamed at the copilot's back.

The copilot's answer was to hold up a hand, signaling to stand by. Lang guessed he was on the radio, seeking instructions from the consulate.

When he had finished, he turned slightly in his seat, pushing the boom mike away to speak to Lang. "Dunno. Somebody took a shot through the rotors before shootin' the lieutenant." He pointed to a bank of incomprehensible dials and gauges. "Doesn't look like he hit a vein, the hydraulics that angle the blades so we can control the ship. He did take a nick outta one of the blades, though. That's what's causing the vibration. I'm gonna try to get the lieutenant to the nearest hospital."

Lang glanced at the blood-soaked corpse reclining in the pilot's seat. He caught himself before saying something to the effect the lieutenant was in no hurry. Instead, he waited for this thing to shake itself into pieces in midair.

Levanto cursed for the second time in less than thirty minutes. Unbelievable! His first shot had been deflected by the helicopter's rotor blades. By the time he had worked the rifle's bolt and recentered the sight, moves he had practiced hundreds of times, he knew he had less than a good chance of hitting the pilot as the ship lifted into the air. He had, though. And with a killing shot. Yet the helicopter had not spun out of control as he had anticipated. He had not seen a copilot but clearly someone had taken charge quickly despite what was possibly the best shot of Levanto's career, a feat he suspected his client would not fully appreciate.

For an instant, he contemplated a third try, one for the helicopter's engine. His discipline overrode his anger. At this range, such an attempt would serve more to divulge his location than to bring the chopper down. Best he keep his rendezvous with the horse and wagon.

To Lang, the trip back seemed much shorter than the outbound leg. He did, however, have time to think. Perhaps too much time. Despite the parts of the radio conversation he could hear and the consensus of the three remaining marines, he was certain this was not a terrorist plot to kill the pilot in an attempt to intercept communications between the consulate in Istanbul and the embassy in Ankara. Muslim jihadists had bigger goats to fry, more important infidels to kill. Or just more important than a marine lieutenant. And there were certainly more significant messages to intercept and bigger things to blow up than a single helicopter. Like schools, churches and other places the innocent might gather.

All in the name of peace, Islam and their Prophet.

No, the bullet that had nicked the rotor blade had been meant for him.

The thought wasn't exactly self-flattery. Or comforting.

A glance forward showed splatters of red congealing into mud brown. That could just as easily have been his blood, his brains. Although this wasn't the first time such a thing had happened, he felt the sourness rising in his throat. Because the bullet had been meant for him or because it had found someone else, he could not have said.

In what seemed like seconds, the helicopter was dropping onto a pad on top of what Lang assumed was a hospital, an impression enforced by the crew of white-clad men surrounding a gurney. They removed the lieutenant under the cocked and ready weapons of the remaining crew. While everyone else was attending to the mortally wounded officer, Lang took Gurt's arm, leading her away from the group.

"What?"

"Get your bag. We're leaving."

"Leaving?"

"There're always taxis around hospitals. One can drive us to Ankara."

"Why did we not do that before?"

"Because the police were watching us. There was good chance they would have followed a cab, stopped us before we got far. I doubt they've had time to figure out where we are now."

"Once the inspector finds we have left the city, the police will question cab drivers until they find the one who has driven us to Ankara."

"By that time, we'll be halfway home."

Chapter Six

I.

Over the North Atlantic

That Night

For once, Lang's flight-induced insomnia was a benefit. He had left Gurt snoring gently in the Gulfstream's stateroom. As is so often the case, proximity to sudden and violent death had stirred a passion that had resulted in wild and noisy lovemaking shortly after the stewardess cleared the dinner dishes. In fact, it had taken some restraint to wait until the woman had discreetly retreated to the galley before both made a dash for the plane's bedroom as they undressed en route. Now Lang looked around in case some of Gurt's more intimate garments might, yet be decorating the seating area.

Occasionally Lang wondered if he and Gurt were the

subject of gossip among the crews of the world's biz jets. He didn't necessarily care, he just wondered. But not tonight.

He was far too engrossed in the translation he held in his lap. He was surprised at its length, only a few pages. It seemed very little to have cost the lives lost since its discovery. He reread the first lines. It seemed to be a letter.

Since you asked me to send thee a secret book which was revealed unto me and Peter by the Lord, I could not refuse thee. I send this with wishes. Peace be with thee, Love from love, Grace from grace, Faith from faith, life from Holy Life. But inasmuch as thou art a minister of the Salvation of Saints, endeavor earnestly and take care not to recount this book to many-this which the Savior did not desire to recount to all of us.

Us? Who was "Us," Lang wondered. The disciples? No, hadn't Francis suggested James, this James, Jesus's brother, had not been a disciple, that he had probably stayed at home to run the family business?

The ever-annoying indefinite antecedent. But he read on.

This book was revealed only to Peter and me, James, brother of Our Lord.