The Prophecy

35

Jones drove the Chevy Suburban into the heart of the city where the three of them checked into the Westin Philadelphia, a luxury hotel within walking distance of some of the most famous historical landmarks in America. Normally Jones would have taken the long way round, driving past Independence Hall, the Betsy Ross House, and the Liberty Bell, but none of them were interested in sightseeing with armed gunmen possibly lurking behind every corner.

To conceal their whereabouts, Payne used a fake ID and cash to rent two connecting rooms on one of the upper floors. Megan wasn’t comfortable sleeping with her connecting door open — she had known Payne and Jones less than two hours, and one of them had pulled a gun on her — so they reached a compromise. The guys’ door would stay open all night, always giving her a secondary exit, if she needed it. They doubted it would come to that, though. They had been on high alert during their drive to the hotel and were confident they hadn’t been followed.

By the time they finally got into their rooms, it was nearly 11 p.m.

Payne unzipped his overnight kit. ‘I’ve been thinking about the letter, trying to figure out where Ashley got it from.’

Jones put on a T-shirt. ‘What’d you come up with?’

‘Nothing yet, but I know somebody who can help. What time is it in France?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Almost 5 a.m. Why?’

‘Never mind. It’s too late to call him now.’

‘Call who?’

‘Nick.’

Jones smiled at the mere mention of his name. He was the perfect guy to give them information about their mission, plus they could trust him with their lives. ‘Come on! This is Nick we’re talking about. The chances are pretty damn good he isn’t even in France. Every one of his cases takes him somewhere new. Besides, we saved the guy’s life and made him a millionaire to boot. I assure you, he won’t be pissed if we call.’

Nick Dial rolled over in his bed in Lyon, France, and stared at the clock on his dresser. He was a very unhappy man. Not only was it the middle of the night, but he had an important meeting scheduled for the morning. Groaning loudly, he snatched his cell phone from his nightstand and answered it. ‘Who the hell is this, and what the fuck do you want?’

Payne’s eyes widened at the unexpected use of profanity. He moved the phone from his lips and whispered to Jones. ‘Oh, shit. He’s pissed.’

‘Hang up!’ Jones urged. ‘I’m not gonna hang up. I’m not in middle school.’

Dial shouted into his phone. ‘Who the hell is this?’

Payne took a deep breath and answered. ‘Hey, Nick, it’s Jonathon Payne. Sorry to call you so late, but something important came up.’

There were very few people in the world that Dial truly respected, but Payne and Jones were at the top of the list. The trio had met several years ago at Stars and Stripes, a pub in London that catered to Americans who worked overseas. Payne and Jones were in the MANIACs at the time, and Dial was rising through the ranks of Interpol. The three of them hit it off, and they had kept in touch ever since — occasionally bumping into each other in the strangest places. Once at an airport in Italy. Another time in the mountains of Greece.

After years of fieldwork, solving some of Interpol’s most important cases, Dial had been selected to run the newly formed homicide division at Interpol. Since it was the largest international crime-fighting organization in the world, he dealt with death all over the globe. His job was to coordinate the flow of information between police departments any time a murder investigation crossed national borders. All told he was in charge of 186 member countries, filled with billions of people and hundreds of languages.

Dial sat up in his bed, groggy. ‘How important are we talking?’

‘Pretty important, Nick. Someone tried to kill us.’

‘Give me five minutes, and I’ll call you back on a secure line.’

One of the biggest misconceptions about Interpol was their role in stopping crime. They seldom sent agents to investigate a case. Instead, they used local offices called National Central Bureaus in the member countries. The NCBs monitored their territory and reported pertinent information to Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon. From there, facts were entered into a central database accessed via Interpol’s computer network.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t always enough. Sometimes the head of a division (drugs, counter feiting, terrorism, etc.) was forced to take control of a case to cut through red tape or handle a border dispute or deal with the international media. All the things that Dial hated to do. In his line of work, the only thing that mattered to him was justice. Correcting a wrong in the fairest way possible. That was the creed he had lived by when he was an investigator, and it had continued in his new position. If he focused on justice, he figured all the other bullshit would take care of itself.

Still waking up, Dial stumbled into his kitchen and returned Payne’s call, using a landline that was routinely checked for listening devices. ‘Who’d you piss off now?’

Payne laughed at his directness. ‘You mean, besides you?’

‘Sorry about that. As you know, I’m not a morning person.’

‘Which is why I called you now. It’s not even morning yet.’

Dial shook his head as he turned on his coffeemaker. ‘With that kind of logic, no wonder someone wants you dead.’

Payne shrugged. ‘It’s happened before; it’ll happen again.’

‘So, how can I help?’

‘Let’s start with the people I’ve killed.’

Dial rubbed his eyes. ‘Before you say another word, let me remind you what I do for a living. I arrest guys who kill people. Are you sure you want to tell me this?’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be charged. One shooter fell of a cliff, the other got hit by a bus.’

‘Were you driving the bus?’

Payne laughed, then explained the incident on the Pitt campus, the mysterious letter, and everything that had happened on Mount Washington. He also mentioned the nationality of the first shooter.

‘The guy was Belgian?’ Dial said as he sat down at his kitchen table. ‘We rarely run across killers from Belgium. Crime-wise, Brussels is on par with most European capital cities of the same size. There is some violence there, but most of their crimes centre on the tourist trade — pickpockets, purse snatching, street drugs. Not hitmen and homicides.’

‘What about Antwerp or Ghent?’

‘As the cities get smaller, so do the crime rates. Rural areas are virtually crime-free.’

‘We’re still waiting for an ID on the second shooter. Once we get that, we might have a clearer picture of what we’re up against.’

‘Until then, what would you like me to do?’

‘Do you have any trustworthy contacts in the world of antiquities?’

‘I have several,’ Dial assured him. ‘Over here, art forgery is a billion-dollar business. We have an entire floor at headquarters devoted to nothing else.’

‘If you have the time, I’d appreciate if you could poke around a little bit — maybe see if anyone is familiar with the type of letter that I described.’

‘Not a problem. I know who I’m going to call already. Of course, I’ll wait until the guy is actually awake before I bug him.’

‘Sorry about that. I wasn’t sure what time zone you’d be in.’

‘Relax. I’m just busting your balls. Do me a favour, though. Try to stay out of trouble.’

‘I’ll try,’ Payne said. ‘Two shootouts in one weekend are more than enough for me. I’m supposed to be retired.’

‘Yet you still manage to kill more bad guys than any cop I know.’

Payne shrugged. ‘What can I say? Old habits are hard to break.’