As soon as the taxi was out of sight, Peter and Davila hurried around the corner to the Fitzimmins' house. The rain had passed, leaving the slate rooftops glistening and steaming in the sunlight. Sparrows buzzed and flitted through the shrubs.

Peter leaped up the front steps and knocked on the door, wondering if William and Helena had seen the news, if they were even home. Peter tried to call ahead using the cabbie's phone, but no one answered. He knocked again, louder this time, but Davila grabbed his arm.

"Look," she said, pointing up. On the second floor, water darkened the plaster, trickling down over the bricks. She stepped forward and took the door handle with the cuff of her jacket sleeve. Finding it unlocked, she pushed inside, Peter close behind her.

The entry smelled of wet wool. Helena Fitzimmin's big straw hat lay on the floor. Clear, cold water dripped from the ceiling, drenching the entryway rug. Somewhere on the second floor, a spigot was running wide open.

Davila reached down, lifted the hem of her cargo pants, and drew a small black pistol from its ankle holster. She pulled the slide to chamber a round, guiding it slowly back into place as not to make a sound. Then she crept down the hallway, her stiff leg forcing her into an odd crouch. Peter followed. They passed William Fitzimmin's office, rounded the corner, and climbed the sopping stairs. At the top, a sheen of water coated the hallway's wooden floor.

They hurried down the hall toward the sound of splashing water, the last door on the right. She paused with her back to the door, gun raised. With the cuff of her sleeve she turned the handle and pushed the door open an inch or two, the sound of splashing suddenly loud. Water gushed out around her shoes. Pivoting to face the door, she kicked it inward and crouched, swinging her gun from side to side. Then she stood upright and signaled for Peter to follow her inside.

The scent of lavender lingered in the cool air. A half inch of cold, clear water covered the tiles. Helena Fitzimmin lay naked in overflowing claw-foot tub, spigot still gushing. Her arms were up on the sides, head thrown back in a frozen yawn, eyes closed. She might have been sleeping if not for the ghostly pallor of her skin and the crop of bloodless holes in her chest.

Choking back the rising bile in his throat, Peter stumbled out of the bathroom and hurried to the upstairs bedroom, Davila on his heels. William Fitzimmin lay supine on the neatly made bed, arms splayed, face smothered by a bloody pillow. He wore his pajamas and slippers. His left arm jutted out over the edge of the bed, palm upturned. In it, Gryphus had left one of his tiny charms.

"Step back!" said Davila, eyeing something beneath the bed. At first, it appeared to be a pile of canisters, like shaving cream, but the drab olive-green paint and stenciled black letters marked them as something military. Thin red wires connected each canister to a gray box no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. A green LED light flashed once per second.

"Run!" said Davila.

They flew down the stairs, Davila turning right toward the back door, Peter left, down the hallway toward William Fitzimmin's office. On the desk, the captain had left the leather folio of genealogy work, proof of his descent from Simon the Apostle. On top of the folio lay the photo of William and two relatives standing in front of an old stone house. No sooner had Peter's fingers touched the photo than Davila grabbed him by the arm.

She dragged him from the office, down the hall, and through the kitchen to the back door. From the bedroom above came a series of muted pops, like firecrackers. And all at once the entire house groaned, windows rattling, like it was drawing in a great breath of air. Davila turned the handle, and the door blew inward, slamming against the kitchen wall.

They tumbled out into the sunny garden and fought their way through the brambles to a wide-open space beyond. Before them stretched an expansive field of rain-damp grass rimmed by autumn trees, their leaves all gold and rust. Here and there people strolled about, a couple, a young family, an old man and his little dog.

Davila spied a wooden bench partially concealed within a horseshoe of shrubs not far off. They crossed the field as calmly as they could, while behind them, the Fitzimmin house burned, black smoke rising high for all to see.

As soon as they reached the bench, Davila exhaled. "It was Gryphus."

Peter leaned over, hands on knees. "What were those things under the bed, those canisters?"

"Thermite bombs. But they're not explosives. They're military-grade incendiary devices designed to incinerate or melt anything in their vicinity. This is how Gryphus disposes of his male victims."

Peter came upright, hands trembling. "Incendiary devices? That's what started the fire that killed my dad."

She nodded grimly. "Except I think he was dead before the fire started."

Peter sat on the stone bench and clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking. The stench of fire had reached his nostrils now—so much like that awful night in Seattle.

Davila sat next to him, her breathing slow and steady now. "But something's changed."

"What do you mean?"

"Gryphus. His pattern has changed." She stared at Peter. "He's killing everyone you've been in contact with since arriving in London."

"Why?"

A pause. "The same reason he destroyed the Vindolanda Tablet, I think. He's trying to eliminate any evidence of the Mustard Seeds."

"Then they're not just a metaphor."

"No. I don't think so."

"Then what are they?"

She shook her head, brow furrowed.

Peter sighed. "What do we do now? Go to the American Embassy? The Israeli embassy?"

"I don't think either of them can protect us from Gryphus." She shook her head. "No, our best option may be to find the Mustard Seeds before Gryphus finds us—expose whatever it is he so desperately wants to keep secret."

"How the hell are we going to find the Mustard Seeds if we don't even know what they are?"

Her eyes flashed. "We can start by being honest with each other."

"Oh, like telling me why an archaeologist carries a gun? And I don't want to hear anything about Indiana Jones."

Not even a smile. "I'll remind you that I work for the Robberies Prevention Unit, a law enforcement arm of the Israel Antiquities Authority." She patted the phone in her breast pocket. "I also have connections here in London, and access to certain resources, including firearms."

"You've been trained." At least it seemed that way to Peter. But what did he know? His only experience with guns involved a squirrel and a child's air rifle. And he never even pulled the trigger.

"I served in the Israel Defense Force, like all Israelis." She rested her hand on the edge of the stone bench, close enough that he could feel its warmth against his thigh. "Now it's your turn. What did the Fitzimmins tell you?"

Peter hesitated. He had promised William Fitzimmin to use all his God-given wisdom before sharing the secret of the Sons of Simon with another person. He had sworn an oath. The words were as sharp in his mind as the whisky they had shared. Yet it was not a vow of silence.

"All right. I know why my dad was interested in your artifact. I didn't before, but I do now." Hastily, he summarized what he knew about the Sons of Simon, their claim of direct descent from Simon the Apostle, the ancient symbols of the boat and flower.

Davila's heavy eyebrows scrunched together. "That's an extraordinary claim. And extraordinary claims demand extraordinary evidence."

They could hear sirens now in the distance, fire engines and ambulances.

"All of it was in Fitzimmin's office," said Peter. "Except for this." He handed her the photograph he had rescued from the fire. "That's William Fitzimmin in the middle."

She studied the photo intently. "This house is unusual. The stones seem overlarge. Are these the symbols you mentioned?"

Peter leaned close. He had missed it before, but the keystone above the door was carved in bas-relief with the Barshman family seal, a long boat with a giant flower instead of a sail. Davila flipped the photo over. On the back, someone had penciled the following words:

Brothers Barshman

Smerwick, Ireland

1999

"Barshman," she said to herself. "What an unusual family name. I've never heard it before."

Peter smiled. "Fitzimmin told me it's not Irish at all, or even French or English. It's Aramaic."

"Aramaic?" She looked up sharply, mouth agape. "Of course. Barshman. Bar Shimón. Son of Simon."

"Yep."

She handed the photo back to him. "We to need to meet these relatives of yours and find out what they know about the Mustard Seeds."

The sirens were close now. "But how are we going to get to Ireland without Gryphus catching us first?"

"I'll figure something out."

He nodded at her breast pocket. "Connections and resources?"

"Something like that."

________________

Photo: Hampstead Heath in Autumn.

Taken from https://www.aol.co.uk/travel/2015/10/06/londons-best-parks-for-autumn/