The face he felt was hot, sweaty, with a bushy mustache—one of the Armenians. The killer had been masked. Simon patted the man on the shoulder and moved on. He doubted that he could find the man in black this way. If the stalker were as skilled at moving about in the dark as he seemed to be, he could easily evade Simon.
The Tartars seemed to have understood the peril they were in; they had been silent now for a long time.
The thought struck him like ice between his shoulder blades: What if the killer had already gotten to them, and they were silent because they were dead? He wanted to call out to them, or to Friar Mathieu, to be sure they were all right. He suppressed the urge and reached out for another face.
This time he felt a beard. It was long and full. Friar Mathieu.
"C'est moi," Simon said again, and a hand reached up and squeezed his reassuringly.
The next face was hard, bony. There was a mustache that his fingers followed long below the mouth. The beard was thin, sprouting from the chin only. One of the Tartars. Simon felt the face move under his touch. Thank God, the man was alive.
He reached beyond the Tartar and felt a shoulder. This must be the other Tartar. But no—the shoulder was high, as high as the Tartar's head.
Just as he was about to jump back he felt something brush over his hair.
A cord was around his neck.
It jerked tight with such force that Simon's breath was instantly cut off. Pain circled his neck like a band of fire.