by Weston Ochse
The remark about his accent earned McQueen a glare from the dervish.
“Why are you trying to find me?” Boy Scout asked, opting for asking the direct question before he began trying other means. But the dervish clammed up and merely stared at the floor.
Boy Scout pulled out his phone, touched the microphone on the Google bar and said, “Tell me about whirling dervishes.”
His phone began to speak. “According to Wikipedia, The Mawlaw’īyya / Mevlevi Order is a Sufi order in Konya (modern day Turkey) (capital of the Anatolian Seljuk Sultanate) founded by the followers of Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi-Rumi, a thirteen century Persian poet, Islamic theologian and Sufi mystic.”
“Pause,” Boy Scout said to his phone. Then to the dervish, “You know I met Rumi. We spoke, him and me, in The White. I bet you’ve never spoken to him. I bet you’ve waited your whole life to hear his words and he chose me to talk to. I wonder why that is.
“Continue,” Boy Scout told the phone.
“The Mevlevi order was founded in 1273 by Rumi’s followers after his death, particularly by his successor Hüsamettin Çelebi who decided to build a mausoleum for their master, and then their master’s son, Baha al-Din Muhammad-i Walad. He was an accomplished Sufi mystic with great organizing talents. His personal efforts were continued by his successor Ulu Arif Çelebi. The Mevlevi believe in performing their dhikr in the form of a ‘dance’ and musical ceremony known as the Sama, which involves the whirling, from which the order acquired its nickname.”
When the phone finished summarizing the Wikipedia article about whirling dervishes, Boy Scout pocketed it. “So, let me get this right. Your order created and then perfected a dance that allows you to get closer to Allah. It’s a sacred form of prayer that you display during a dancing ceremony. And now some of you have taken the sacred form of prayer and weaponized it.”
The dervish shook his head slightly.
“Why would you do such a thing? It’s one thing to discover that if someone watches you dance and you add a few steps, it affects the human brain in such a way that it renders people unconscious. But then to intentionally decide this would be an opportunity to do evil? What would Allah think of this?”
The dervish shook his head harder, then spoke slowly and evenly. “It is Allah, our lord, who blessed us with this. He did it so that we could bring Rumi back. It is his will.”
“It was his will to kill all of those you had trying to get into The White by using the daeva?”
“It was his will to find Rumi. How he is found is based on our own limitations.”
“Don’t you think if Allah wanted Rumi he could get to him himself?”
The dervish paused and stared. Finally, he nodded. “Yes. We have discussed this.”
“And?”
“Allah does not give directly. He wants his people to earn what they desire. To work hard for it.”
“Your idea of earning what you desire is to kill all those thousands of people?”
“You will never understand.”
Boy Scout nodded. “You’re right. The problem with your methods is that you’ve stirred up the supernatural pot.”
The dervish raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know this pot.”
“You sure as hell don’t,” Boy Scout said, his voice raising as he poked the dervish in the side of the face. “What you and yours did was to put me in a place over and over until entities came into me. This White was there long before you started mining it. You have no idea the beings that live in that place and now, because of you, I have one inside me just ready to take over. What do you think will happen if it takes me over?”
“It will burn you up inside,” the dervish said flatly.
Boy Scout rocked back on his heels. “You know what this is, then.”
“We do.”
“What is it?”
“A dweller of Iram, lost to time.”
“Where is Iram?” Boy Scout asked, wondering if it was a place he could go.
“Iram is a myth. The Quran speaks of it as a lost place that constantly moves.”
“Who lives in Iram?” McQueen asked.
“Djinn. The Lost Tribe of Aad.”
Boy Scout opened his mouth to ask a question, but the words wouldn’t come out.
“Djinn as in magic, lives in a bottle and grants wishes?” McQueen asked.
“That is your Disney djinn. These are not those. These are giants who were able to do things no one thought possible.”
“Giant djinn? Boss, are you hearing this?”
“I’m hearing it,” Boy Scout managed. “And you want this Djinn of Aad.”
Now it was the dervish who leaned forward, straining at his bonds. “Yes. We do. We can get him out of you. We can make it so that he does not harm you. Let us help you and all will be forgiven.”
“You almost had me until that last bit. What’s to forgive?” Boy Scout asked.
“For killing my people back in Afghanistan.”
“For killing your people? What about mine?”
“You killed far more of us than we of you,” the dervish countered.
“Only because we are much better at killing people. You need to remember that.”
Boy Scout climbed into the front seat.
“Where to?”
“White Point Park. Take us around Rancho Palos Verdes.”
“213 south of Lomita is closer,” McQueen said.
“I know. I have my reasons.”
“What are you going to do with me?” the dervish asked, swallowing at the end to keep his voice even.
Boy Scout frowned as he belted himself in. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll just have to see.”
McQueen pulled into traffic and headed down Hawthorne Avenue, up into the hills until they ran into Rancho Palos Verdes Drive.
Rancho Palos Verdes, or RPV as the locals called it, was the southern bookend to Malibu in the north. Like Malibu, RPV was a high-priced zip code. But unlike the cliff and beach side Malibu, RPV was hundreds of feet above the Pacific Ocean. Still heavily forested, the mountainous peninsula boasted large homes with astonishing views. One of the reasons Boy Scout decided to travel through the area was because there were enough choke points that he’d have to be blind to miss surveillance.
While McQueen drove, Boy Scout texted Preacher’s Daughter.
BS: How’s your day.
PD: Made a new best friend.
BS: Did you now. Good for you. She going to help out?
PD: I think she will.
BS: Need to make sure she’s not playing you.
PD: Oh please. ;p How was yours?
BS: Ask Poe if there are any police reports about Del Amo Mall.
PD: What specifically?
BS: You’ll know.
PD: Hold on.
Boy Scout placed the phone in his lap, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He was bone tired. His body wasn’t used to so much action. Still, doing something was so much better than sitting in the darkness in the Hermit’s Cabin. Thinking of his time at the monastery, he wondered how de Cherge and the men he’d wounded were faring. He wondered if knowing that the entity who’d done the damage was no more would raise their spirits.
The phone vibrated.
PD: Holy shit, what did you do? DHS has the place surrounded and they think there’s a terrorist bio hazard going on.
BS: A dervish danced in the food court.
PD: I bet that went well.
BS: Yeah. About two hundred people hit the ground.
PD: Then what?
BS: Tell you more later. Just want to make sure there’s no APB for us.
PD: Poe says the internal CCTVs were inop for half an hour after the event and during the event.
BS: Wasn’t us, was it?
PD: Poe says no. But there is a video of a dervish table dancing that went viral on Facebook. I’ll send you the link.
Boy Scout waited less than a minute for the link to show. When it did, he clicked it and watched. Sure enough, someone had
caught the beginning of the dance, before succumbing to it, the view from the image shifting downwards as the phone’s owner passed out.
For a second he worried that he might succumb as well because he was no longer wearing the glasses. But after a few seconds he realized that there was no crossover. Good thing, too. Otherwise, the whole YouTube-watching universe would be passed out at their keyboards.
The rest of the video was noise and the view of someone’s chest. But Boy Scout had seen something that made him nervous. He went back to the start of the video and stopped it every second until he came to what he’d thought he’d glimpsed. And there, as the owner was almost on the ground, grinning like two idiots wearing Elton John glasses, was him and McQueen, plain as day. If someone was smart, they’d do biometric matching and find out who they were and then ask themselves why everyone else passed out but they didn’t.
Fuck.
Chapter Twenty-One
Camp Pendleton Command Center
THEY LET THE dervish go near a bluff overlooking the Pacific. Boy Scout didn’t want to bring him back to the camp. Not only might they have to explain kidnapping to the nice marines at the guard shack, but they didn’t want to let the dervishes know their operating location. It was with a snarl and a curse that they pushed him out to roll on the grass, his white clothes wrapping about him. Then it was down South Pacific Avenue and over the Vincent Thomas Bridge, made famous because director Tony Scott chose it as the place to leap to his death.
Soon they were once more on the 405, then the 5, cruising in the HOV lane, heading back to Camp Pendleton. They arrived at their offices just after the prescribed time, only because McQueen insisted on stopping by Popeye’s Chicken first.
“You might run a tight ship, boss, but when a guy’s gotta eat, a guy’s gotta eat,” McQueen had said as he pulled into the BX parking lot.
With the aroma of freshly fried Louisiana-style chicken surrounding them, they entered the offices. Poe and Preacher’s Daughter were sitting there, as was a third person. No one in the room looked particularly pleased, which was not the reception Popeye’s fried chicken usually received.
McQueen had a leg in his mouth and a bucket and bags of sides in his hands. He lowered them onto the table, then leaned against a wall and concentrated on eating the chicken.
Boy Scout laid the tray of drinks down and gave Preacher’s Daughter a look.
She rolled her eyes slightly but said nothing more.
“What’s going on, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“This is Special Agent Joe Ripple of the FBI. Looks like we bumped into an ongoing investigation.”
The new man was an African-American with a plain face, a scar on his lower lip, and blue eyes. His hair was cut tight against his head and he wore a dark gray suit with a black tie and white shirt. Black Florsheims hugged his feet. Boy Scout could see the slight bulge of his shoulder rig under his jacket.
“When you say bumping into, what is it you mean?”
The suit stood and flashed his badge. Normal people would offer to shake hands but FBI special agents weren’t normal people. “Special Agent Ripple,” he said, his words clipped and officious. “And you are?”
“You can call me Boy Scout.”
“Another one. This one over here,” he said, thumbing towards Preacher’s Daughter, “says her name is Preacher’s Daughter.”
“That’s right,” Boy Scout said.
“Let me see some ID,” the agent said.
“Don’t have any.”
This made the agent pause.
“And you there,” he said to McQueen. “What’s your name?”
“Man Eating Chicken.”
The suit turned to Poe. “Lieutenant, I thought you said you’d all be cooperative.”
Poe glanced at Boy Scout and McQueen, his face impassive. “These three are UC,” he said, using the law enforcement jargon for under cover. “You can understand why they don’t want to break role. Now that everyone is here, let’s iron this out.”
The FBI agent sighed dramatically. He walked to the other side of the room so that everyone would be in front of him.
“The reason we’re here is because of Ms. Francis Fernandez.”
“Nice lady,” Preacher’s Daughter said. “What about her?”
“She’s been in our sights for over a year,” Ripple said. “I understand you had a meeting with her.”
Boy Scout nodded slightly towards Preacher’s Daughter, who was watching him.
She shifted in her seat and said, “You know we did. I saw your surveillance van and clocked the other guy on the corner. You probably already have her phones wired.”
Ripple frowned. “We do. As soon as you contacted her we wanted to find out why.”
“Why didn’t you just ask?” Boy Scout asked.
“I didn’t want to divulge that she was under investigation.”
“And now here we are,” Boy Scout said. “What do you have on her?”
“I don’t want to divulge the nature of our investigation, I just need to tell you to back off.”
Boy Scout raised an eyebrow. “Back off? You say it like you can do something about it.”
Ripple paused and leaned back slightly, hands on hips, appraising Boy Scout.
Boy Scout took advantage of the pause and said, “This is a military operation governed by Title 50. Not your jurisdiction.”
Ripple laughed. “Everything is my jurisdiction. I’m with the FBI.”
“Not on a military base,” Preacher’s Daughter said. “On this one it’s NCIS.”
Poe shook his head. “Nice try. This is a presidentially mandated mission in support of the Global War on Terrorism. Special Unit 77 is a special military unit that operates at the behest of the president. Only he can tell us to back off. If you want to give him a call, I can Google the White House operator for you.”
McQueen waved the remains of his chicken leg in the air. “Make sure you Google the .gov address because the .com address is a porn site.” He laughed to himself. “Found that out the hard way.”
Everyone stared at the FBI special agent until he finally spoke.
“Maybe I got off on the wrong foot.”
“Ya think?” Preacher’s Daughter said.
Ripple gave her an angry glance. “We have the opportunity to work with Ms. Fernandez on an ongoing investigation into smuggling operations being conducted by diplomatic personnel associated with the Turkish consulate.”
Ripple stared at Boy Scout as if his words had the magical quality of changing the man’s mind. Then he added, “These smuggling operations could include weaponry, bomb-making materials, or worse.”
Ripple waited once more.
When no one seemed to be speaking, it was McQueen who opted into the conversation.
“You see what happened, boss,” said McQueen, tossing the dead drumstick in the trashcan, “the special agent here has been thinking about using her as his own action agent for some time now. The problem is that he waited too long and we came along and probably offered her the deal that he was going to offer. Now he wants us to unoffer the deal so he can offer it and she’ll then be beholden to him. Did I get that about right, Special Agent Ripple?”
Ripple gave him dead eyes. “Our investigation is ongoing.”
“If there was an investigation, then there was a charge or an indictment pending, right?” Preacher’s Daughter asked.
Ripple merely stared at her.
“Otherwise, what you were conducting was a fishing expedition, hoping you might find something to use as leverage. My guess is paying all of her bills wasn’t in your budget.”
Boy Scout walked over to the chicken bucket and dug out a wing. “But it is in ours.” He took a bite of chicken. “I’ll tell you what. We might be able to work together. Our two missions might just dovetail.”
Ripple sat down in his chair.
“Want some chicken?” Boy Scout asked, offering the box.
Ripple glanced at the box, be
gan to shake his head, then grinned. “Sure. Why not?”
They all ate in silence for the next ten minutes. Poe, Preacher’s Daughter, Boy Scout, McQueen and Special Agent Ripple paid attention to their chicken, their eating broken intermittently with the slurp of soda through a straw. When there was nothing left but bones, McQueen boxed everything up and threw it away. Meanwhile, Preacher’s Daughter passed out hand wipes.
When everything was cleared except for the drinks, Boy Scout leaned over the table.
“When did you go to Quantico?” he asked.
“Summer of ’99,” Ripple said.
“Were you in the service first?”
“USMC for four years. Then college.”
“Desert Storm?”
“Mortar man. Company K, 1st Battalion, 25th Marines.”
McQueen whistled. “Bet you made the Iraqis’ life a living hell.”
“And you?” Ripple asked.
“I was a Ranger. McQueen over there was Special Forces.”
“And the lady?”
“The lady can speak for herself,” Preacher’s Daughter said. “I was intel. Mainly because the other options weren’t open to me.”
“Rangers take girls now,” Ripple said.
“You mean women.” She smiled tightly. “I did my time.”
Everyone was silent for a moment. Memories of serving ran through Boy Scout’s mind. Jungle trails in Thailand. Burning oil fields in Desert Storm. Clearing buildings in Mogadishu. Hiking a goat path in the Hindu Kush. Moments like these when military folks got together to compare their backgrounds always brought back memories. He glanced at the others, Ripple included, who were staring off into space, probably mired in some military memory, good or bad.
“And now it’s Special Unit 77,” Ripple finally said, getting up. “We definitely got off on the wrong foot. Listen.” He took out a business card and offering it to Boy Scout. “Please, call me.”
Everyone else stood as well.
Boy Scout offered a smile and a half salute. “Will do, jarhead.”
Ripple paused, then nodded his head and walked out the door.
After about ten seconds, Poe let out a breath as if he’d been holding it the entire time.
“You all should take your show on the road,” he said.
