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Beirut with the money Ranga was paying him, to bid on the scroll. The effort might avail him, might even prove what Ranga and Bashir both believed about Adam and the Garden, though for vastly different reasons. But now Ranga thought—he hoped—it was no longer necessary. The tablet was all that mattered.
    “Let me see it.”
    Bashir slid the satchel toward him. Ranga opened it. He could see the brownish stone inside and could just make out the carving.
    Ranga took a breath and held it. He was so close he could feel it. The end of a quest that had driven him to madness was growing near.
    Glancing up, he noticed Bashir’s eye shift. Bashir was looking past him, focusing on a spot near the center of the tower. A look of fear grew on his face.
    “You’ve been reckless,” Bashir whispered.
    Ranga began to turn.
    “Don’t,” Bashir said.
    Ranga straightened up, placed the computer case down, and reached into his pocket. Craning his neck around just far enough to see, he spotted four gendarmes spreading out through the crowd. Reflective vests marked them.Their hands rested on holstered weapons as if they expected a fight.
    “The Sûreté,” Bashir whispered.
    Ranga recognized one of them and felt a wave of fear shoot through him like flash of pain. “Not the police,” he said. “It is them. They have come for me.”
    “Surely they wouldn’t—”
    “They would do anything,” Ranga said.
    He pushed the computer bag filled with cash toward Bashir and grabbed for the package. If he could just find a way back into the crowd and down he could—
    He took a step but a heavy hand fell on his shoulder like a claw. It spun him around. Ranga placed the satchel down, raised one hand in surrender, and almost simultaneously reached into his pocket and pressed the trigger of his little weapon.
    The gunshot echoed through the observation deck. The crowd jumped. The “policeman” fell backward bleeding and clutching his abdomen.
    The tourists screamed at the sight and bolted for the elevators and stairwell.
    Ranga’s hand and side burned from the blast and he stood in foolish shock at what he had done. As the crowd raced around him, he sought a way out. He grabbed the package and tried to move, but more shots rang out. Bullets flew in his direction, forcing him to dive and take cover.
    Pulling the zip gun from his pocket, he fired once and ducked behind the ironwork. For a moment he was hidden, but the crowd was thinning quickly and he would soon be hopelessly exposed.
    “You can’t fight them,” Bashir said. “Give them what they want. It means nothing without the scroll.”
    “You’re wrong,” Ranga said. “It means everything.”
    Seeming to disagree, Bashir grabbed the satchel and tried to run, but Ranga tripped him up, the satchel hitthe ground, and the tablet spilled out onto the deck, chipping one corner.
    A voice with a Mediterranean lilt rang out across the platform.
    “Ranga Milan, you have strayed from the faith. The Master has sent us to bring you home.”
    He recognized the voice. Marko. The Killer. The Man of Blood.
    Grabbing the clay tablet, Ranga scrambled for better cover. He wasn’t quick enough. A bullet hit him in the leg, taking his feet out from under him. He fell hard, rolled, and began to crawl, only to have another bullet hit him in the shoulder.
    Wincing in agony, Ranga pulled himself into a more covered position. He grasped the tablet and gazed through the iron lattice of the tower.
    The “policemen” were moving to new positions, surrounding him from three sides, cutting him off from any hope of reaching the elevator or the stairwell. He could not escape, and with only a few bullets in his small gun, he could not hope to fight his way out.
    He looked around in despair.
    “Just give it to them,” Bashir said. “They will let you go.”
    “They will never let either of us go,” Ranga replied.
    From the streets below he could hear alarms blaring. The men surrounding him would not wait