Eli studied the bladeless hilt, touching the hand-wrought features of the gold on the handle crisscrossing in an alternating fashion with the turquoise blue X design. With his thumb, he felt the pommel at the end, smooth and rounded, the dark blue lapis lazuli, imported from the mountains of the Pashtu, in present-day Afghanistan. Oran had handed him the hilt just minutes before they stepped off the curb at JFK airport.
If the Mexican customs agent only knew what Eli held, the bribe probably would have cost Eli more than one crisp Benjamin Franklin. But Eli had told the official the hilt was a fake—a plaything he had received as a kid.
He wondered how old this item was, and which angel had held it first. Oran hadn’t known. Oran hadn’t told Eli how he obtained it either. The only informat
