Red Ibis
by
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He looked up and, in the dim light, gazed out across the pews to the right side of the cathedral for the young Carabiniere. He saw only two elderly nuns, in traditional habit, bent and walking abreast slowly toward the exit a few meters from his back. The police officer was nowhere to be seen. Ibrahim watched tendrils of smoke rise from the candles burning at the chapels and near the altars, and he whiffed the tart aroma of an unfamiliar incense. He turned to the left and saw a priest in coat and collar turning into the pew. The man had a tan brief case. He sat to Ibrahim's left and put the case on the floor beside its twin. The priest looked to the main alter and said, "Come stai, amico?" "Where have you been?" Ibrahim whispered, staring ahead, barely moving his lips. "We have a Carabiniere here and he may have seen me this morning at the pick-up." "There was an accident on the Autostrada and the police dragged me over and wouldn't let me through until I gave the victims last rites. I don't know any last rites, so I faked them and mumbled my way through. The police didn’t know the difference, but they delayed me." He paused a few seconds, then continued. "Is all proceeding?" "I don't know who's behind the operation. What have you learned?" "Nothing. Everything is quiet. No word of where it's coming from. My suspicion is the Serbs or the Iraqis." "Suspicions don't help me." Ibrahim breathed out slowly, pausing a moment, then pointed toward the briefcase. "I want you to get this into the two-year-old accounts in the subsidiaries, and see to it that the school in Cairo is taken care of first. You probably won't hear from me for some time. You have the computer codes if you learn anything. There will be a major event in America. You will know. At that time, go to your country house and take your family and remain there, incommunicado. Your lives may depend on it." He shifted in his seat, removing one of the flat plastic containers from his pocket, handing it to the priest. "The keys," he said. The priest nodded, pocketing the container, then stood with Ibrahim’s tan briefcase and walked away, leaving the same way he had entered. Ibrahim allowed a few minutes to pass then rose with the empty briefcase, walked down the pew and turned into the aisle toward exit. Ahead, he saw the Carabiniere speaking to the two nuns near the big exit doors. He continued walking toward them, slowed, and stopped before a large column six or seven meters from the exit. The column was covered with carved graffiti, some of it more than six centuries old---greetings, messages, even curses in Latin, Greek and Vulgate Italian. He glanced up toward the exit. The nuns and Carabiniere were still there. He read the graffiti, finding a message in Latin. The writing was worn and barely legible, but he made it out. It read, "Quick, Santorus, bring Pulia and children to the lake in the mountains, we are there, Aurio." The message was dated October-something, 1348. He reread the message and stared at the date, rubbing his fingers over the cool stone, thinking. He remembered. In October, 1348 the Black Death ravaged Italy, killing as many as half those alive in some areas in a year or less. Milano had fared better, but this messenger and his family had fled to the mountains in an attempt to avoid the plague. He wondered if they had survived. He rubbed his hand over the writing again and turned toward the exit. The nuns and the Carabiniere were gone. For a few seconds he felt a strangeness, an odd sense of relief and dread together. And a shiver. Then he rolled his shoulders and walked out into the cold and the fog. Soon, he would be in America.
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About the Book
Adam Trent, divorced single father and washed-out Wall Street whistleblower, is trying to get his life back together in Miami in a low-pressure consultant business among old friends. On a four-day trip deep into the Everglades with his nine-year-old daughter and an archeologist friend, they discover an ancient Calusa temple mound. A cold, February dusk settles on the mound as they explore its surface and minutes later Adam’s world is shattered. An unmarked, black helicopter lands near them and assailants attack with automatic weapons. Adam is wounded and his daughter and friend are killed. He escapes by his own effort and, after recovering, mounts an all-out hunt for the killers. He is not aware that he crossed paths with elements of a deep cover Arab terrorist group about to launch a catastrophic attack on the United States with a deadly smallpox-like virus for which there is no vaccine and no cure. He teams up with beautiful, exotic physician Laura Vasalli and finds himself propelled into a web of intrigue around the terrorist cell, learning at the last minute that they plan to launch the first blow of their attack during the World Series. Time and options are running out by the time Adam can make his own, last-ditch assault on the terrorists.
About the Author
WALT DOZIER is a former journalist and investigative reporter who wrote for daily newspapers in Miami and South Florida. He is a graduate of the University of Miami and served in the U.S. military. He also lived and studied several years in Italy, traveling extensively in Europe, the Middle East and North Africa. Mr. Dozier lives with his wife, Abby, in South Florida and Northern Virginia. He is now at work on a second novel about newly discovered, stolen paintings of Italian Master Caravaggio and their connection to the murder of a U.S. Supreme Court justice.