The Omega Factor(3)

He rounded a bend in the trail and ducked beneath an outstretched limb. His horse was in full gallop, the hooves skimming across the hard ground. He saw another of the carved vultures in a trunk ahead, along with more Arabic symbols. Just as he passed the tree the horse’s front legs found a soft patch of shale and together they plummeted toward the ground. He knew what was coming, so he leaped as the animal pounded the earth and hoped his suit of mail would protect him from the worst of the fall.

He slammed into the hardpan next to the horse. While he rolled left, the horse tumbled on, a sickening whelp signaling that the animal was in pain. He somersaulted several times. Chain mail dug into his sheepskin shirt. He brought his arms to his head and shielded his face from rocks as he careened off the trail. He continued to tumble until finally coming to rest against the gnarly roots of one of the beeches.

He sat still for a moment and assessed the damage. There was pain, a multitude of cuts and scrapes, but nothing excruciating. He tested his arms and legs. Nothing seemed broken. He moved his head from side to side. His neck was unaffected. Jesus, almighty God. He’d been lucky. The smell of mold and moss filled his nostrils. He immediately listened for sounds of the Moors.

But there was nothing.

The thought of his pursuers roused him to his feet.

He pushed back the coif and allowed the hood to droop onto the nape of his sweaty neck. He swiped blood from his brow, then staggered back to the trail. The horse was on its feet, ready.

What a tough stallion.

He looked to the right.

The Moors were farther down the trail, still atop their mounts, simply watching him. Thankfully, they were far enough away that their bows would be useless. He waited for them to charge. He would be easy prey since both his sword and ax were with the horse. Good thing. He might not have survived the fall with those strapped to his waist. He stared at his enemy and decided that if they advanced, he would flee into the woods and take his chances. Perhaps he could disarm one of them and gain a weapon.

“They will not come forward,” a voice said from behind him.

The language was Occitan.

He turned and spied a black-garbed nun who stood alone in the center of the trail. No feature on her face betrayed a shred of fear or anxiety. Odd. He could not decide which was the greater threat—the known antagonists or this out-of-place character.

“What do you mean?” he said, staying with Occitan, then turned his attention back to the Moors.

“They will not come forward,” she said again.

He did not take his eyes off the riotous band.

“There is no danger,” the nun declared, the words calm, like the echo of a voice from heaven.

“They are a mighty danger,” he made clear.

“Not here.”

But he was unconvinced.

So he decided to test the declaration.

He took a few steps forward and raised his arms above his head. He crisscrossed them back and forth and screamed at the horsemen in the language of Aragon, which they would surely understand. “Come forward, you cowards, and do battle.”

They did not accept his offer.

“Are you afraid of a single man, unarmed? Of a nun?”

No response came from their dark, scathed faces.

He lowered his arms.

“By God, you are afraid,” he yelled.

Ordinarily, to challenge a Moor was to invite a fight to the death. Arabs had not held power in the Iberian Peninsula by being weak. Yet these heathens merely turned and trotted their horses away. He wondered if his eyes were deceiving him. So he continued to watch until they disappeared around a bend, and all that remained was dust twisting in the air. He turned back to the nun and wanted to know, “The birds carved to the trees. What are the words in Arabic beneath?”

Somehow he knew this woman could answer the inquiry.

“The devil will have his own.”

“Those are their words?”

The nun nodded. “We adopted it from them. A warning from long ago.”

He stepped close and noticed the chain around her neck and the symbol, in silver, it supported.





A fleur-de-lys.

He’d seen knights, kings, and dukes display them. But a nun? He pointed. “Why do you wear that?”

She beckoned with an outstretched arm.

“Come, and I will show you.”





Present Day





Chapter 1

Ghent, Belgium

Tuesday, May 8

8:40 p.m.



Nick Lee rushed toward the flames and smoke, growing more concerned by the moment. He’d flown to Ghent to see a memory that had haunted him for a long time, the images of her as crisp and vivid as if from yesterday, not nine years ago. They’d come within a week of marriage, but a life together had not been meant to be. Instead, she chose another path, one that had not, and would never, include him. His words at the time had stalled in his throat. Hers were definitive.

I have no choice.

Which seemed the story of his life.

A volatile mixture of good and bad, pleasure and pain. Right place, wrong time? Definitely. Wrong place, right time?

Damn right.

More than he liked to admit, in fact.

He’d started in the army as an MP, then tried for the Magellan Billet at the Justice Department but was not offered a position. Instead the FBI hired him, where he stayed five years. Now he worked for the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, more commonly known as UNESCO. Part of the UN since the beginning, its mission was to advance peace through education, science, culture, and communication. How? Mostly through initiatives like World Heritage Sites, a global digital library, international literacy days, and a thousand other programs designed to promote, preserve, and sustain human culture.