'All clear,' Meat confirmed with a second set of eyes.

Jason parked the truck close to the bridge. He and Meat got out and slogged over to the dead man.

'Is it one of them?' Meat asked, focused on the headwrap and tunic.

'No,' Jason said. He pointed to the feet. 'He's wearing marine-issue combat boots. And that's the same turban Al-Zahrani's driver was wearing.' He crouched next to the body, clasped the shoulder, and turned it over.

The head slumped back and the throat yawned open like a grisly smile where it had been deeply sliced from ear to ear.

'Awh, Christ,' Meat said, putting his hand to his mouth. 'That's foul.'

Immediately, they both recognized the face ... and it was no Arab.

'Staff Sergeant Richards,' Jason said, shaking his head. 'Figures.'

'I never liked that guy,' Meat said. 'What a p.r.i.c.k.'

Jason kicked the body into the water. 'd.a.m.n, Crawford. What were you thinking?' he seethed.

'Hate to state the obvious, Google. But there must've been more of those guys under this bridge. 'Cause they killed this f.u.c.k,' he pointed at the dead staff sergeant, 'and the truck he was driving isn't here any more. I think that means Al-Zahrani is gone.'

'Not exactly,' Jason replied confidently.

58.

LAS VEGAS.

Brooke Thompson and Thomas Flaherty strolled up the cathedral's centre aisle, their eyes pulled in every direction by the interior's ambitious design.

Shafts of muted sunlight penetrated the gravity-defying geodesic dome and wove together above the voluminous prayer hall. The outer walls were clad in alternating blocks of polished and crenulated Jerusalem limestone. The central altar, dominating the rear wall, resembled a concert stage with its huge viewing screens, speaker cl.u.s.ters and spotlighting arrays.

Most impressive to Brooke was the magnificent bronze baldachin that formed a lofty canopy over the altar. It depicted the haloed Jesus with rockstar hair and flowing robe, His welcoming arms spread wide in blessing, His feet surfing a cloud. Throughout the s.p.a.ce she noticed no other iconography: no Holy Mother; no apostles or saints; no dove nor crucifix. Simply the Saviour.

Thousands of seats arranged in tiered arcs had already been installed on the main floor, but the balcony was still an unfinished piece of curved concrete.

'I guess t.i.thing really does pay,' Flaherty said.

'I'd say,' Brooke agreed.

'Welcome,' a cheery voice called to them from somewhere in the front of the hall.

Flaherty spotted the greeter first. 'Over there,' he said, pointing near the centre stage where a small hive of workers was busily a.s.sembling a mammoth pipe organ. Off to the left, a gaunt man with a pure white pompadour waved and headed for the front steps to meet them.

The guy shot like a bullet up the main aisle, and opened his arms as wide as the bronze Saviour overhead. 'Welcome, my friends!' He planted himself at arm's length and proffered a hand, first to Brooke. 'Minister Edward Shaeffer, at your service.'

'Hi, I'm ... Anna,' she said, accepting his soft, manicured hand.

'May Christ's love shine shine upon you, Anna,' he said with Broadway flair, clasping his other hand over hers. upon you, Anna,' he said with Broadway flair, clasping his other hand over hers.

Anxious to get her hand back, she said, 'And this is my fiance, Thomas.'

'Oh ... fiance fiance. How exciting. Such a joyous time. Congratulations.'

'Thank you,' Brooke said. She noticed that when the minister glimpsed her modest ring, his enthusiasm diminished notably.

Shaeffer relinquished her hand and took up Flaherty's.

'Thomas,' the minister repeated, 'A name straight from the gospels,' he said. 'Though I trust you are not a doubter, Thomas.'

'Seeing is believing, but I'm flexible,' Flaherty said with a smile.

'Excellent.' The minister stage-whispered to Brooke, 'He'll make a find husband, I'm sure.'

'We've just moved into town,' Flaherty explained, 'and we were hoping to have our wedding ceremony here.'

'I'm sure we can work that out, though the cathedral won't be open for another three or four months.'

'We were thinking about next October,' Brooke said.

'That should do just fine.'

'While we're here, would it be possible to meet Pastor Stokes?' Flaherty asked.

The directness of the request caught Shaeffer off guard. 'Oh, I'm afraid he's indisposed at the moment.' The minister hadn't a clue as to why Pastor Stokes had been holed up in his office all day. Typically Stokes was a diehard advocate of 'open-door' management. But Shaeffer had twice been turned away by Stokes's a.s.sistant, even when he'd made it clear that the company who'd delivered the organ had important questions about the installation. 'Been a very busy day.'

I'm sure it has, thought Flaherty. 'But he is here today?' he delicately pushed.

'Last I checked, yes,' the minister said with growing incredulity. 'Though for wedding arrangements, you'll need to speak directly to our Minister of Ceremonial Rites, Maureen Timpson. And she's on vacation until next Wednesday. I'll gladly give you her card and some information ...'

'That won't be necessary, Edward,' a warm voice called out.

A tall figure materialized from the shadow beneath the balcony.

Brooke immediately recognized Randall Stokes from the glitzy picture in Flaherty's file.

'Well, I stand corrected.' The minister's blushing cheeks showed genuine surprise.

'Did I hear "wedding"?' Stokes said with a well-rehea.r.s.ed smile. Striding down the main aisle, his artificial leg limped slightly on the incline. 'How exciting.'

Brooke immediately understood how Stokes had achieved celebrity status. The man had presence - tall and handsome, meticulously dressed. Though she noticed his complexion was pallid and his red eyes showed fatigue.

'I'd shake your hand, but I'm feeling a bit under the weather today,' Stokes apologized. 'Edward, I'll talk to Anna and Thomas so you can finish what you're doing.'

The minister was momentarily stumped, but knew not to question Stokes. 'Splendid. That will do just fine. It was very nice to meet you Anna, Thomas. Once again, welcome. And we look forward to seeing you on Sunday!' He put his hand over his heart and half bowed before ambling back towards the altar.

'Please, walk with me,' Stokes said, giving each of them equal attention. 'We have so much to discuss. We can talk in my office.'

'I figured I'd save you some trouble,' Stokes said, pressing the b.u.t.ton for the elevator at the end of the long corridor that connected to the lobby. 'I'm sure you have many questions.'

Unsure of the context of his remark, Brooke and Flaherty remained silent.

'However, if we're all going to be honest,' Stokes added, 'shouldn't you use your real name, Ms Thompson?' He looked deep in her eyes. 'Ms Brooke Thompson. Isn't that right?'

Brooke gave Flaherty an uneasy glance.

Flaherty spread his hands and squared his shoulders. 'Look Stokes-'

'I must admit ... I don't know who you really are, my good man. And I don't like that.'

'Smith. John Smith,' Flaherty replied curtly.

Stokes grinned tightly. 'Of course. Have it your way, Mr Smith.'

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. 'Please,' Stokes motioned them inside.

'Maybe we'll take the stairs,' Flaherty said.

'Fine by me, though it's seven flights to the top.' Stokes boarded the elevator and kept his thumb on the control panel to hold the doors.

With reluctance, Brooke and Flaherty stepped in beside him.

'Good choice.' Stokes pushed the top control b.u.t.ton, the doors glided shut, and the elevator began its imperceptible ascent. Gospel music pumped in from overhead speakers.

'How was your flight from Boston?' Stokes asked.

'Smooth sailing,' Flaherty said. In close quarters, he noticed Stokes was wheezing. And the crisp overhead lighting highlighted a film of perspiration that masked the preacher's face.

'Are you CIA or FBI?' Stokes asked.

'Neither,' Flaherty replied truthfully.

Stokes gave him an appraising stare. 'I'm not surprised. Feds love to travel in pairs and wave their credentials around. Makes them feel special. You're not the cowboy type. So let me guess ... You've got a Boston accent' - he thought aloud - 'Bostonians prefer to stick to their own.' Simple deduction led to only one conclusion: must work for the same outfit as the mercenaries who'd found the cave. 'Therefore, I'd guess you're with Global Security Corporation.'

'Lucky guess,' Flaherty replied flatly. 'Agent Thomas Flaherty.'

'All right, Agent Flaherty. Now we're getting somewhere.'

The elevator came to a stop and the doors whispered open. They stepped out into a cosy antechamber trimmed in cherry wood and with modern leather furnishings and an empty reception desk.

Stokes led them around the desk and through a double door that brought them into his office.

'Please, have a seat,' Stokes said, indicating the wingback chairs on the guest side of his desk. 'Something to drink? Soda, coffee, tea, water? Got the hard stuff, too, if you so desire.'

'No, thanks,' Flaherty said.

'Ms Thompson?'

'I'm fine,' she said, trying to reconcile how this charismatic televangelist had sent an a.s.sa.s.sin to kill her.

Stokes sat behind his desk and folded his hands over his chest.

'You actually would make a handsome couple,' Stokes admitted. 'But why are you really here?'

Flaherty got to the point. 'Our intelligence shows that during the past twenty-four hours you've been communicating with US Marine Colonel Bryce Crawford. He's been making encrypted calls to a landline in this building. That phone there, perhaps?' He pointed to the phone on Stokes's desk.

'Perhaps,' Stokes replied.

'So you're aware that Colonel Crawford's platoon is a.s.sisting an extraction effort currently under way in the Iraqi mountains?'

'I am.'

Stokes's candour surprised Brooke.

'I a.s.sume you're also aware that Frank Roselli was killed in a freak car crash today. Not far from here, in fact.'

Stokes paused before replying. 'Very unfortunate.'

'Funny thing is, the coroner suspects foul play since Roselli died of asphyxiation behind the wheel before careering into a telephone pole.'

'Not a heart attack?' Stokes said.

'No. But I'm sure that's what you're gunning for,' Flaherty said. 'You don't seem too broken up for a man who just lost a close friend.'

'I've seen plenty of death in my day, Agent Flaherty. After a while, one gets numb to it.'

'Seems you've killed plenty in your day too.'

Keeping his composure, Stokes responded with, 'I killed lots of bad guys so kids like you could eat McDonald's, drive SUVs and have 3.2 children. Liberty comes at a price. The only thing I'm guilty of is being a diehard patriot.'

'But why did you try to kill me me?' Brooke asked.

Not ready to completely tip his hand, Stokes grinned.

'Hold on, Brooke,' Flaherty said. 'You see, Stokes, at roughly the same time Frank Roselli was killed, an a.s.sa.s.sin tried to kill Ms Thompson in Boston. But he died trying.' He noticed that this t.i.tbit made Stokes's jaw muscles ripple. 'Our office had a tough time working through the guy's multiple ident.i.ties. Naturally, his fingerprints and dental records were non-existent too. He did, however, have a marine tattoo on his arm. A tattoo common to most guys in 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Division Expeditionary Force, in fact. So we tried running his prints through the CIA database instead. Lo and behold, we found that Corporal Lawrence Ma.s.sey trained at Camp Pendleton. And wouldn't you know it ... he served under Bryce Crawford.'

'Go on,' Stokes encouraged, intrigued by Flaherty's apposite deconstruction. He steepled his hands under his chin.

Flaherty was amazed how Stokes could be so cavalier given the seriousness of the accusations. 'In 2003 Ms Thompson was hired by one Colonel Frank Roselli to a.s.sist in a covert excavation in the Iraqi mountains, a project for which the Department of Defense has no formal knowledge. The same cave, as it turns out, that Crawford is so intent on protecting. Everyone commissioned to work on that dig, present company excluded' - he tipped his head towards Brooke - 'has turned up dead in the past twenty-four hours. And of course there are those bone samples Roselli had brought back from the dig and studied at Fort Detrick. All those teeth. Bottom line is that a common thread pulls all this together. And it's not a cave.' Flaherty got up from his chair and paced over to the trophy wall, pointed to the framed picture of Stokes, Roselli and Crawford. 'You're a smart man, Stokes. So I'm sure you see where I'm going with this.'

Then a coughing fit struck Stokes. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the pocket handkerchief and held it over his mouth. When he was done, he stared at the bloodied linen and struggled to catch his breath. Shaken, he shook his head and laughed.

'Are you all right?' Flaherty couldn't help but ask, trying to avoid looking at the bloodstained handkerchief.