Part 35 (1/2)

In a scream of rubber and sparks, he leaned violently to hisright and swerved off the road. The bike's tires. .h.i.t thebottom of the embankment. Becker strained to keep his balance asthe Vespa threw up a cloud of gravel and began fish-tailing its wayup the slope. The wheels spun wildly, clawing at the loose earth.The little engine whimpered pathetically as it tried to dig in.Becker urged it on, hoping it wouldn't stall. He didn'tdare look behind him, certain at any moment the taxi would beskidding to a stop, bullets flying.

The bullets never came.

Becker's bike broke over the crest of the hill, and he sawit-the centro. The downtown lights spread out before him likea star-filled sky. He gunned his way through some underbrush andout over the curb. His Vespa suddenly felt faster. The Avenue LuisMontoto seemed to race beneath his tires. The soccer stadium zippedpast on the left. He was in the clear.

It was then that Becker heard the familiar screech of metal onconcrete. He looked up.

A hundred yards ahead of him, the taxi cameroaring up the exit ramp. It skidded out onto Luis Montoto andaccelerated directly toward him.

Becker knew he should have felt a surge of panic. But he didnot. He knew exactly where he was going. He swerved left onMenendez Pelayo and opened the throttle.

The bike lurched across asmall park and into the cobblestoned corridor of MateusGago-the narrow one-way street that led to the portal ofBarrio Santa Cruz.

Just a little farther, he thought.

The taxi followed, thundering closer. It trailed Becker throughthe gateway of Santa Cruz, ripping off its side mirror on thenarrow archway. Becker knew he had won.

Santa Cruz was the oldestsection of Seville. It had no roads between the buildings, onlymazes of narrow walkways built in Roman times. They were only wideenough for pedestrians and the occasional Moped. Becker had oncebeen lost for hours in the narrow caverns.

As Becker accelerated down the final stretch of Mateus Gago,Seville's eleventh- century Gothic cathedral rose like amountain before him. Directly beside it, the Giralda tower shot 419feet skyward into the breaking dawn. This was Santa Cruz, home tothe second largest cathedral in the world as well as Seville'soldest, most pious Catholic families.

Becker sped across the stone square. There was a single shot,but it was too late.

Becker and his motorcycle disappeared down atiny pa.s.sageway-Callita de la Virgen.

CHAPTER 88

The headlight of Becker's Vespa threw stark shadows on thewalls of the narrow pa.s.sageways. He struggled with the gear s.h.i.+ftand roared between the whitewashed buildings, giving theinhabitants of Santa Cruz an early wake-up call this Sundaymorning.

It had been less than thirty minutes since Becker's escapefrom the airport. He'd been on the run ever since, his mindgrappling with endless questions: Who's trying to kill me?What's so special about this ring? Where is the NSA jet?He thought of Megan dead in the stall, and the nausea creptback.

Becker had hoped to cut directly across the barrio and exit onthe other side, but Santa Cruz was a bewildering labyrinth ofalleyways. It was peppered with false starts and dead ends. Beckerquickly became disoriented. He looked up for the tower of theGiralda to get his bearings, but the surrounding walls were so highhe could see nothing except a thin slit of breaking dawn abovehim.

Becker wondered where the man in wire-rim gla.s.ses was; he knewbetter than to think the a.s.sailant had given up. The killerprobably was after him on foot. Becker struggled to maneuver hisVespa around tight corners. The sputtering of the engine echoed upand down the alleys. Becker knew he was an easy target in thesilence of Santa Cruz. At this point, all he had in his favor wa.s.speed. Got to get to the other side!

After a long series of turns and straightaways, Becker skiddedinto a three-way intersection marked Esquina de los Reyes. He knewhe was in trouble-he had been there already. As he stoodstraddling the idling bike, trying to decide which way to turn, theengine sputtered to a stop. The gas gauge read vacio. As if on cue,a shadow appeared down an alley on his left.

The human mind is the fastest computer in existence. In the nextfraction of a second, Becker's mind registered the shape ofthe man's gla.s.ses, searched his memory for a match, found one,registered danger, and requested a decision. He got one. He droppedthe useless bike and took off at a full sprint.

Unfortunately for Becker, Hulohot was now on solid ground ratherthan in a lurching taxi. He calmly raised his weapon and fired.

The bullet caught Becker in the side just as he stumbled aroundthe corner out of range. He took five or six strides before thesensation began to register. At first it felt like a muscle pull,just above the hip. Then it turned to a warm tingling. When Beckersaw the blood, he knew. There was no pain, no pain anywhere, just aheadlong race through the winding maze of Santa Cruz.

Hulohot dashed after his quarry. He had been tempted to hitBecker in the head, but he was a professional; he played the odds.Becker was a moving target, and aiming at his midsection providedthe greatest margin of error both vertically and horizontally.

Theodds had paid off. Becker had s.h.i.+fted at the last instant, andrather than missing his head, Hulohot had caught a piece of hisside. Although he knew the bullet had barely grazed Becker andwould do no lasting damage, the shot had served its purpose.Contact had been made. The prey had been touched by death. It was awhole new game.

Becker raced forward blindly. Turning. Winding. Staying out ofthe straightaways.

The footsteps behind him seemed relentless.Becker's mind was blank. Blank to everything-where hewas, who was chasing him-all that was left was instinct, selfpreservation, no pain, only fear, and raw energy.

A shot exploded against the azulejo tile behind him. Shards ofgla.s.s sprayed across the back of his neck. He stumbled left, intoanother alley. He heard himself call for help, but except for thesound of footsteps and strained breathing, the morning air remaineddeathly still.

Becker's side was burning now. He feared he was leaving acrimson trail on the whitewashed walks. He searched everywhere foran open door, an open gate, any escape from the suffocatingcanyons. Nothing. The walkway narrowed.

”Socorro!” Becker's voice was barely audible.”Help!”

The walls grew closer on each side. The walkway curved. Beckersearched for an intersection, a tributary, any way out. Thepa.s.sageway narrowed. Locked doors.

Narrowing. Locked gates. Thefootsteps were closing. He was in a straightaway, and suddenly thealley began to slope upward. Steeper. Becker felt his legsstraining. He was slowing.

And then he was there.

Like a freeway that had run out of funding, the alley juststopped. There was a high wall, a wooden bench, and nothing else.No escape. Becker looked up three stories to the top of thebuilding and then spun and started back down the long alley, but hehad only taken a few steps before he stopped short.

At the foot of the inclined straightaway, a figure appeared. Theman moved toward Becker with a measured determination. In his hand,a gun glinted in the early morning sun.

Becker felt a sudden lucidity as he backed up toward the wall.The pain in his side suddenly registered. He touched the spot andlooked down. There was blood smeared across his fingers and acrossEnsei Tankado's golden ring. He felt dizzy. He stared at theengraved band, puzzled. He'd forgotten he was wearing it.He'd forgotten why he had come to Seville. He looked up at thefigure approaching. He looked down at the ring. Was this why Meganhad died? Was this why he would die?

The shadow advanced up the inclined pa.s.sageway. Becker saw wallson all sides-a dead end behind him. A few gated entrywaysbetween them, but it was too late to call for help.

Becker pressed his back against the dead end. Suddenly he couldfeel every piece of grit beneath the soles of his shoes, every b.u.mpin the stucco wall behind him. His mind was reeling backward, hischildhood, his parents ... Susan.

Oh, G.o.d ... Susan.

For the first time since he was a kid, Becker prayed. He did notpray for deliverance from death; he did not believe in miracles.Instead he prayed that the woman he left behind would findstrength, that she would know without a doubt that she had beenloved. He closed his eyes. The memories came like a torrent. Theywere not memories of department meetings, university business, andthe things that made up 90 percent of his life; they were memoriesof her. Simple memories: teaching her to use chopsticks, sailing onCape Cod. I love you, he thought. Know that ...forever.

It was as if every defense, every facade, every insecureexaggeration of his life had been stripped away. He was standingnaked-flesh and bones before G.o.d. I am a man, hethought. And in a moment of irony he thought, A man withoutwax. He stood, eyes closed, as the man in wire-rim gla.s.ses drewnearer. Somewhere nearby, a bell began to toll. Becker waited indarkness, for the sound that would end his life.

CHAPTER 89