His shouts and heavy-footed blundering had woken her. She had inadvertently fallen asleep, seated in a chair in front of the hotel room’s small television. The channel had been tuned to Fox News. She had the volume on low, just loud enough to hear if Gray’s name was mentioned again.

Startled awake by her husband’s shout, she had hurried to the bedroom. A foolish mistake. One didn’t surprise a patient in his state. Jack had slapped her away, striking her in the mouth. With his blood up, it took him a full half minute to recognize her.

When he finally did, he had retreated to the bathroom. She’d heard his sobbing. It was the reason he had locked the door.

Pierce men didn’t cry.

“Jack, open the door. It’s okay. I’ve called a prescription into the pharmacy down the street. It’s all right.”

Harriet knew it was a risk, calling in the prescription. But she couldn’t take Jack to a hospital, and if untreated, his dementia would only grow worse. And his shouting threatened to draw the wrath of the hotel’s management. What if they called the police?

With no choice, her teeth aching from the blow, she had made a decision. Using the phone book, she had called a twenty-four-hour pharmacy that delivered and ordered a refill. Once the medication arrived and her husband was treated, she would check out, move to a new hotel, and disappear again.

The doorbell chimed behind her.

Oh, thank God.

“Jack, that’s the pharmacy. I’ll be right back.”

She rushed out of the bedroom and across to the front door. Reaching for the dead bolt, she paused. She leaned forward instead and peeked through the door’s peephole. It offered a fish-eye view of the hallway. A lone woman, black hair cut into a bob, stood outside the door. She wore a white jacket with the pharmacy logo on the lapel and carried a white paper bag, stapled with a clutch of receipt.

The woman reached out of view. The bell chimed again. The woman checked her watch and began to step away.

Harriet called through the door. “Hold for a moment!”

“Swan Pharmacy,” the woman called back.

To be extra cautious, Harriet crossed to the telephone on an entryway table. She caught a look at herself in the wall mirror above it. She looked haggard, a melted wax candle of a woman. She tapped the button on the phone and rang the front desk in the lobby.

It was answered immediately.

“Phoenix Park. Front desk.”

“This is room 334. I wanted to confirm a pharmacy delivery.”

“Yes, ma’am. I checked her credentials three minutes ago. Is there a problem?”

“No. Not at all. I just wanted—”

A crash sounded from the bedroom behind her, followed by a spat of cursing. Jack had finally opened the bathroom door.

The receptionist spoke in her ear. “Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am.”

“No. Thank you.” She hung up the phone.

“Harriet!” her husband called, a note of distress behind the anger.

“I’m here, Jack.”

The doorbell chimed again.

Frazzled, Harriet undid the door’s dead bolt, hoping Jack would not fuss about taking his pills. She pulled open the door.

The delivery woman lifted her face, smiling — but there was no warmth, only a feral amusement. A shock of recognition froze Harriet. It was the woman who had attacked them at the safe house. Before Harriet could move, the woman kicked the door the rest of the way open.

Startled, the edge struck Harriet in the shoulder and knocked her into a stumbling fall onto the hard tile. She tried to absorb the impact with an outstretched arm — but her wrist exploded under her with a sharp snap. Fiery pain shot up her arm.

Gasping out, half on her hip, she rolled away.

Jack stalked out of the bedroom, only in his boxers.

“Harriet…?”

Still addled, Jack took too long to register the situation.

The woman stepped over the threshold and raised a thick-barreled pistol. She pointed the weapon at Jack. “Here’s your medication.”

“No,” Harriet moaned.

The woman pulled the trigger. A snapping pop of electricity exploded from the barrel. Something spat past Harriet’s ear, trailing wire. It struck Jack in the bare chest, sparking and crackling blue in the dim light.

Taser.

He gagged, arms flying out — and crashed backward.

He didn’t move.

In the stunned silence a Fox News announcer whispered from the half-muted television: “Metro police are still continuing a manhunt for Grayson Pierce, wanted in connection to the arson and bombing of a local D.C. home.”

Alone at the roof rail Gray struggled to think of some secure channel to communicate to Washington. About the dangers at Christmas Island. He would have to be circumspect, some private communication that would not spread beyond Painter. But how? Who was to say that the Guild was not monitoring all manner of communication?

Seichan spoke behind him, back at the table. Her words were not directed at Gray. “Monsignor, you still have not explained why you called us to Istanbul. You claimed to have understood the angelic inscription.”

Curiosity drew Gray back to the table, but he could not sit. He stood between Seichan and Vigor.

The monsignor swung up his backpack and settled it in his lap. He fished through it and pulled out a notebook, flipping it open on the table. Across the page was a charcoal-etched line of angelic letters.

“Here is the inscription on the floor of the Tower of Wind,” Vigor said. “Each letter of this alphabet corresponds to a specific tonal word. And according to the father of angelic script, Trithemius, when combined in the right sequence, such groupings could open a direct line to a specific angel.”

“Like long-distance dialing,” Kowalski muttered from the other side of the table.

With a nod, Vigor flipped the sheet to the next page. “I went ahead and marked the name for each letter.”

Gray shook his head, not seeing any pattern.

Vigor slipped out a pen and drew a line under the first letter of each name, reciting as he did so. “A. I. G. A. H.”

“Is that some angel’s name?” Kowalski asked.

“No, not an angel, but it is a name,” Vigor said. “What you have to understand is that Trithemius based his alphabet on Hebrew, claiming power in the Jewish letters. Even today, practitioners of Kabbalah believe that there is some form of divine wisdom buried in the shapes and curves of the Hebrew alphabet. Trithemius just claimed his angelic script was the purest distillation of Hebrew.”

Gray leaned closer, beginning to understand the direction of Vigor’s track. “And Hebrew is read opposite from English. From right to left.”

Seichan traced a finger across the paper and read backward. “H. A. G. I. A.”

“Hagia,” Vigor pronounced carefully. “The word means ‘divine’ in Greek.”

Gray’s eyes had narrowed — then widened with sudden understanding.

Of course.

“What?” Seichan asked.

Kowalski scratched the stubble on his head, equally clueless.

Vigor stood and drew them all up. He walked them to face the city. “On his journey home, Marco Polo crossed through Istanbul, named Constantinople at the time. Here is where he crossed from Asia and finally reentered Europe, a significant crossroads of sorts.”

The monsignor pointed out to the city, toward one of the ancient monuments. Gray had noted it before. A massive flat-domed church, half covered in black scaffolding as restoration work was under way.

“Hagia Sophia,” Gray said, naming the structure.

Vigor nodded. “It was once the largest Christian church in all the world. Marco himself commented on the wonders of its airy spaces. Some people mistake Hagia Sophia to mean ‘Saint Sophia,’ but in fact, the true name of the structure is the Church of Divine Wisdom, which can also be interpreted as the Church of Angelic Wisdom.”