Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📕

in prismatic shapes across the table’s dark surface. Benyamin was no appraiser, but the vibrant colors and clarity indicated these were rubies and diamonds worth more than he could earn in a lifetime.

“It’s stunning,” he said.

“It doesn’t belong here.”

“I agree.” Benyamin handed the pouch back, tossing a glance over his shoulder. The café was still virtually empty. “It should be locked in a safe.”

“It should be back in Jerusalem. But where do you think I found it, huh? Any guesses? Right here-o in your own backyard-o.”

“I’m not sure I understand. I live in an apartment.”

“Ha! That’s good. You’re a funny guy.”

Benyamin stared straight ahead.

“No.” Nickel backpedaled. “What I meant is that the armband was used to buy an old vineyard near Lipova, maybe twenty miles . . . uh, let’s see, thirty kilometers from here.” He opened a folder of recon photos. “You ever been to the ruins of Soimos? You can see the property from up there. The purchaser’s name was Mr. Flavius Totorcea, but I’d betcha that’s a cover. I mean, how does a Romanian winemaker end up with an artifact like this?”

“Maybe he’s into antiques. He could be a collector.”

“A Collector.” Nickel barked out a wry laugh. “Yeah, you got that right.”

Benyamin scratched his heel against a table leg and wondered if the bar served anything stronger than this coffee concoction.

“I’m in places all around the world, my eyes peeled for certain things—well, one thing in particular.” Nickel waved his hand, as though to wipe that statement from the air. “I’ve held Templar relics, Egyptian treasure, and trinkets of the tsars. But this baby here, it’s unique. Experts took a look and dated it to the first century AD, even isolated clay and lime particles matching the soil’s properties there.”

“Where? What soil?”

“The Field of Blood. In the Valley of Hinnom. The very place that Norwegian kid bulldozed into before getting torn apart. His work buddy—you remember Thiago, the Brazilian?—he turned up the day after you and I talked. Even worse shape than the kid. Missing an eye. Throat ripped out. His body wasn’t far from the tombs, buried under a coupla inches of dirt.”

“Please tell me you apprehended the culprit.”

“Culprits. With an s. There were eighteen individual bite patterns.”

“Eighteen?”

“Pretty sick, huh?”

“There should be a separate chamber of hell for such people.”

“Prisons of darkness,” Nickel mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a passage from the book of Jude.”

“Not familiar with it. Tell me this: have the killers been locked away?”

The shake of the intel broker’s head was nearly imperceptible.

“What?” Benyamin narrowed his eyes. “It’s over seven years already.”

“Longer than that,” Nickel said. “We’ve been at this for ages.”

“We?”

The American seemed to recede behind his words. His green-eyed gaze slid away, as though fleeing mistakes he would rather forget.

Chattanooga

Gina decided to keep her pregnancy a secret for now. She wasn’t sure what Jed’s reaction would be, and her mother could wait for the news. Much less complicated this way.

With that settled, Gina worked through her list of morning errands. She picked up stamps at the post office, took a lunch to Jed—who, big surprise, had forgotten his bag on the kitchen counter—and stopped for an everything bagel and coffee.

No caffeine, of course. She was going to do this right.

No more liquor or beer, either, which was easy since she’d never been much of a drinker. But she would miss the occasional puffs on her coworkers’ Camels.

With her chores completed, she walked onto the Walnut Street Bridge and propped one black boot against the lower railing. Beyond the next bridge, the Southern Belle riverboat was docking for another sightseeing cruise.

Gina tucked her skirt between her stockinged legs to keep it from catching the breeze and leaned out over the water. The Tennessee River flowed with a life of its own, curlicues and temporary ripples adding nuance to its personality. It wasn’t particularly clean or clear, coursing as it did between miles of mud banks and clay, but it moved with an unhurried, unshakable purpose.

She stood straight and hugged her stomach, worried for the first time about the metal rail pressing into her middle. Her child was in there.

Did one more life really matter, though? Would it make a difference?

She gazed down in her search of an answer, mesmerized by the water’s elusive swirls. Eddies were here and gone in seconds, mostly unnoticed, yet each adding to the dance, reflecting the river’s essence. Each beautiful in its own way. Yes, each one mattered.

Gina’s thoughts turned to Cal the Provocateur. Although it seemed illogical—maybe the hormones kicking in already—she found herself worrying about him. Cal was older than her, yet there was something boyish about him. He’d folded to her mother’s wishes with childlike subservience, even wielding the knife upon her command.

After all these years, she still found herself going back to the moment in the Borsa safe house. Would he ever track her down as promised? What had compelled him to lead their escape from Cuvin?

Was he out there, still looking for her?

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

Arad

The night was growing older. Benyamin drank from his iced coffee, then asked Cal Nichols across from him, “What’re you implying, when you say you’ve been at this for ages?”

Nickel blinked. “It’s a long story.” The very thought seemed to tug at his countenance, to etch lines into the corners of his eyes and mouth.

And then something began to change.

Although Benyamin Amit took a rational approach to life, that didn’t mean he had never faced incidents that eluded explanation. While some people carried their questions on the tips of their tongues, he preferred to shelve his until further notice. The most persistent ones he’d always dipped in alcohol, numbing them till they stopped kicking.

Now, sitting in an Eastern European cafe on a typical midweek evening, he was confronted with another of those inexplicable events.

Before his eyes, Cal Nichols began to transmogrify.

Nickel shrank back in his seat, ribs and chest collapsing between the jaws of an invisible vise. Arms curled and drew together. Wrinkles turned his smooth