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 shiftand 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 shifted 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

The morning sun was just breaking over the Seville rooftops andshining down into the canyons below. The bells atop the Giraldacried out for sunrise ma.s.s. This was the moment inhabitants had allbeen waiting for. Everywhere in the ancient barrio, gates openedand families poured into the alleyways. Like lifeblood through theveins of old Santa Cruz, they coursed toward the heart of theirpueblo, toward the core of their history, toward their G.o.d, theirshrine, their cathedral.

Somewhere in Becker's mind, a bell was tolling. Am Idead? Almost reluctantly, he opened his eyes and squinted intothe first rays of sunlight. He knew exactly where he was. Heleveled his gaze and searched the alley for his a.s.sailant. But theman in wire-rims was not there. Instead, there were others. Spanishfamilies, in their finest clothes, stepping from their gatedportals into the alleyways, talking, laughing.

At the bottom of the alley, hidden from Becker's view,Hulohot cursed in frustration.

At first there had been only asingle couple separating him from his quarry. Hulohot had beencertain they would leave. But the sound of the bells keptreverberating down the alley, drawing others from their homes. Asecond couple, with children. They greeted each another. Talking,laughing, kissing three times on the cheek. Another group appeared,and Hulohot could no longer see his prey. Now, in a boiling rage,he raced into the quickly growing crowd. He had to get to DavidBecker!

The killer fought his way toward the end of the alley. He foundhimself momentarily lost in a sea of bodies-coats and ties,black dresses, lace mantles over hunched women. They all seemedoblivious to Hulohot's presence; they strolled casually, allin black, shuffling, moving as one, blocking his way. Hulohot dughis way through the crowd and dashed up the alley into the deadend, his weapon raised. Then he let out a muted, inhuman scream.David Becker was gone.

Becker stumbled and sidestepped his way through the crowd. Follow the crowd, he thought. They know the way out. Hecut right at the intersection and the alley widened.

Everywheregates were opening and people were pouring out. The pealing of thebells grew louder.

Becker's side was still burning, but he sensed the bleedinghad stopped. He raced on.

Somewhere behind him, closing fast, was aman with a gun.

Becker ducked in and out of the groups of churchgoers and triedto keep his head down. It was not much farther. He could sense it.The crowd had thickened. The alley had widened. They were no longerin a little tributary, this was the main river. As he rounded abend, Becker suddenly saw it, rising before them-the cathedraland Giralda tower.

The bells were deafening, the reverberations trapped in thehigh-walled plaza. The crowds converged, everyone in black, pushingacross the square toward the gaping doors of the Seville Cathedral.Becker tried to break away toward Mateus Gago, but he was trapped.He was shoulder to shoulder, heel to toe with the shoving throngs.The Spaniards had always had a different idea of closeness than therest of the world.

Becker was wedged between two heavyset women,both with their eyes closed, letting the crowd carry them. Theymumbled prayers to themselves and clutched rosary beads in theirfingers.

As the crowd closed on the enormous stone structure, Beckertried to cut left again, but the current was stronger now. Theantic.i.p.ation, the pushing and shoving, the blind, mumbled prayers.He turned into the crowd, trying to fight backward against theeager throngs. It was impossible, like swimming upstream in amile-deep river. He turned. The cathedral doors loomed beforehim-like the opening to some dark carnival ride he wished hehadn't taken. David Becker suddenly realized he was going tochurch.

CHAPTER 90

The Crypto sirens were blaring. Strathmore had no idea how longSusan had been gone. He sat alone in the shadows, the drone ofTRANSLTR calling to him. You're a survivor ...you're a survivor... .

Yes, he thought. I'm a survivor-but survivalis nothing without honor. I'd rather die than live in theshadow of disgrace.

And disgrace was what was waiting for him. He had keptinformation from the director. He had sent a virus into thenation's most secure computer. There was no doubt he would behung out to dry. His intentions had been patriotic, but nothing hadgone as he'd planned. There had been death and treachery.There would be trials, accusations, public outrage. He had servedhis country with honor and integrity for so many years, hecouldn't allow it to end this way.

I'm a survivor, he thought.

You're a liar, his own thoughts replied.

It was true. He was a liar. There were people hehadn't been honest with. Susan Fletcher was one of them. Therewere so many things he hadn't told her-things he was nowdesperately ashamed of. For years she'd been his illusion, hisliving fantasy.

He dreamed of her at night; he cried out for her inhis sleep. He couldn't help it. She was as brilliant and asbeautiful as any woman he could imagine. His wife had tried to bepatient, but when she finally met Susan, she immediately lost hope.Bev Strathmore never blamed her husband for his feelings. She triedto endure the pain as long as possible, but recently it had becometoo much. She'd told him their marriage was ending; anotherwoman's shadow was no place to spend the rest of her life.

Gradually the sirens lifted Strathmore from his daze. Hisa.n.a.lytical powers searched for any way out. His mind reluctantlyconfirmed what his heart had suspected. There was only one trueescape, only one solution.

Strathmore gazed down at the keyboard and began typing. Hedidn't bother to turn the monitor so he could see it. Hisfingers pecked out the words slowly and decisively.

Dearest friends, I am taking my life today ... This way, no one would ever wonder. There would be no questions.There would be no accusations. He would spell out for the worldwhat had happened. Many had died . .

. but there was still one lifeto take.

CHAPTER 91

In a cathedral, it is always night. The warmth of the day turnsto damp coolness. The traffic is silenced behind thick granitewalls. No number of candelabras can illuminate the vast darknessoverhead. Shadows fall everywhere. There's only the stainedgla.s.s, high above, filtering the ugliness of the outside world intorays of muted reds and blues.

The Seville Cathedral, like all great cathedrals of Europe, islaid out in the shape of a cross. The sanctuary and altar arelocated just above the midpoint and open downward onto the mainsanctuary. Wooden pews fill the vertical axis, a staggering 113yards from the altar to the base of the cross. To the left andright of the altar, the transept of the cross houses confessionals,sacred tombs, and additional seating.

Becker found himself wedged in the middle of a long pew abouthalfway back.

Overhead, in the dizzying empty s.p.a.ce, a silvercenser the size of a refrigerator swung enormous arcs on a frayedrope, leaving a trail of frankincense. The bells of the Giraldakept ringing, sending low rumbling shock waves through the stone.Becker lowered his gaze to the gilded wall behind the altar. He hada lot to be thankful for. He was breathing. He was alive. It was amiracle.

As the priest prepared to give the opening prayer, Beckerchecked his side. There was a red stain on his shirt, but thebleeding had stopped. The wound was small, more of a lacerationthan a puncture. Becker tucked his shirt back in and craned hisneck. Behind him, the doors were cranking shut. He knew ifhe'd been followed, he was now trapped. The Seville Cathedralhad a single functional entrance, a design popularized in the dayswhen churches were used as fortresses, a safe haven against Moorishinvasion. With a single entrance, there was only one door tobarricade. Now the single entrance had another function-itensured all tourists entering the cathedral had purchased aticket.

The twenty-two-foot-high, gilded doors slammed with a decisivecrash. Becker was sealed in the house of G.o.d. He closed his eyesand slid low in his pew. He was the only one in the building notdressed in black. Somewhere voices began to chant.

* * * Toward the back of the church, a figure moved slowly up the sideaisle, keeping to the shadows. He had slipped in just before thedoors closed. He smiled to himself. The hunt was gettinginteresting. Becker is here ... I can feel it. He movedmethodically, one row at a time. Overhead the frankincense decanterswung its long, lazy arcs. A fine place to die, Hulohotthought. I hope I do as well.

Becker knelt on the cold cathedral floor and ducked his head outof sight. The man seated next to him glared down-it was mostirregular behavior in the house of G.o.d.

"Enfermo," Becker apologized. "Sick."

Becker knew he had to stay low. He had glimpsed a familiarsilhouette moving up the side aisle. It's him! He'shere!

Despite being in the middle of an enormous congregation, Beckerfeared he was an easy target-his khaki blazer was like aroadside flare in the crowd of black. He considered removing it,but the white oxford shirt underneath was no better. Instead hehuddled lower.

The man beside him frowned. "Turista." He grunted.Then he whispered, half sarcastically, "Llamo un medico?Shall I call a doctor?"

Becker looked up at the old man's mole-ridden face."No, gracias. Estoy bien."

The man gave him an angry look. "Pues sientate! Thensit down!" There were scattered shushes around them, and theold man bit his tongue and faced front.