Assassin's code jl-4

by Jonathan Maberry

  When I got to the next block, I cut through an alley, running only as fast as Ghost could manage. At the end of the alley, I went through a couple of backyards and then a side yard which took me back to the street just as the little sedan drove past. I was in deep shadows and the driver was looking slowly side to side to check the faces of pedestrians on a moderately busy market street.

  The driver was a woman.

  I could not tell much because she wore a chador, but her eyes were intelligent, intense and, except for heavy makeup, they did not look even remotely Middle Eastern. Northern Italian at best.

  “Violin,” I said, and I knew that I was right. My own Sniping Beauty. And as I murmured her name she turned in my direction, but I was in shadows and the traffic gave her no room to stop.

  She could not have heard me. No way.

  I opened my cell phone and called Bug, giving him the make, model, and license plate number of Violin’s car.

  “Whoa!” Bug said as soon as he ran it. “This is really weird. I got a screen pop-up that says all inquiries for this plate number are to be directed internally. Here, I mean. The DMS. The pop-up is initialed D.”

  D. For Deacon.

  Church.

  “Put him on the line,” I demanded.

  “I can’t,” said Bug, “he’s on a conference call with somebody overseas. Don’t know who and he’s marked his line for ‘no intrusion.’”

  “Then make goddamn sure I’m his next call,” I growled, and hung up.

  Violin’s car was gone by the time I stepped out of the alley with Ghost lumbering along beside me. A few people threw me annoyed looks. Iran had weird rules about dogs on the street. I ignored them.

  As we picked our way through the crowds of shoppers, I kept one eye on the cars, watching to see if Violin circled back. Then I froze. Another car drifted along, and the driver, much like Violin, was looking side to side to scan the pedestrians. It wasn’t my guardian angel. It was a man, and when he turned my way I saw a gaunt face and red rat eyes staring through the glass.

  A Red Knight.

  Christ.

  I darted out of the flow of traffic and stood in the dense shadows under the broad awning of a big vegetable stand. The car rolled along, and the head moved back and forth, and I held my breath. Then it was gone in the long flow of traffic that vanished into the heat haze. He hadn’t spotted me.

  “Sheeez,” I breathed.

  I was becoming increasingly paranoid. It felt like there was nowhere to go, no place, not even a street corner, where I could catch my breath. It was getting hard to catch my breath and that had nothing to do with the relentless heat.

  The vegetable seller glanced at me and offered a handful of figs. I shook my head, and with a word to Ghost, turned and headed a different way. We needed to get off the street right now. The CIA safe house was close.

  We kept our heads down and melted into the crowd.

  Interlude Three

  Council Chamber of the Red Order

  Jaffa, The Holy Land

  October 1191 C.E.

  Sir Guy LaRoque and Father Nicodemus sat at the end of a long rectangular table made from a massive and ornate wooden door that had once hung in a Jewish temple. The temple was now in ashes, its treasures parceled out among the priests and senior knights of the Hospitallers.

  There were a dozen seats at the table. Nine knights sat there, and the rest were minor priests of Nicodemus’s choosing. Each of them had sworn the same oaths, each had sealed their oaths with the tip of a heated knife blade.

  Without looking up, Nicodemus said, “Do you know this story, Sir Guy? The binding of Isaac?”

  The Frenchman hedged. “Perhaps not as well as I should-”

  Nicodemus waved away the excuse with a gentle movement of his hand. “There are valuable lessons in the Bible’s older books.” He tapped the carving of Abraham with a long fingernail. “This one in particular. Abraham, a holy man, was commanded by God to bring his son to Mount Moriah, and there to build a sacrificial altar and sacrifice Isaac upon it. Abraham did as he was told. He built the altar and bound his son to it, drew his knife, and was ready-despite his breaking heart-to kill Isaac to prove his devotion to God. However, before the knife could plunge down, an angel appeared and stayed his hand, directing him to sacrifice a nearby ram instead.”

  As he spoke the men seated around the table grew quiet so they could hear the story. A few stood to better see the carving. Nicodemus nodded approval.

  “The whole drama,” he continued, “had been staged to force Abraham to prove beyond question his steadfast devotion to God.”

  Two of the priests murmured “Amen,” which was picked up and echoed by the knights. However Nicodemus’s next words silenced them. “Or so Abraham told everyone.”

  He looked at the men, each in turn, and the molten gold color of his eyes seemed to swirl with shadows. “Personally, I have sometimes doubted whether the story was fairly reported. After all, except for the boy, who was traumatized and confused, there were no credible witnesses.” No one said a word. No one dared. “The power of the story is immeasurable. Because of it Abraham became the father of the Israelites, the father of us all in many ways. He became a leader whose right to lead was bestowed upon him by God. Directly by God. And why? Because of the power of his devotion, a devotion so steadfast that he would have slaughtered his own son.”

  The others nodded but said nothing.

  “As I sat waiting for our brotherhood to gather,” continued the priest, “I pondered this story, as I have oftentimes pondered it. We know firsthand that the histories being written about our Crusades are often at odds with the facts, but seldom at odds with the truth.” He paused, eyes intense. “With the most useful version of the truth.”

  A wealthy knight halfway down the table said, “Surely, Father, there is only one truth. Everything else is…”

  His voice trailed off as Nicodemus leaned forward. “Doesn’t that depend on who is telling that truth, and who is listening?” Nicodemus allowed them to ponder that. “I have long ago accepted that history of any kind may be only a version told to suit the listener and serve the teller. Like the story of Abraham and Isaac. While we can understand and fully appreciate the effect of this story upon all of the generations that followed, we liberated thinkers are now called to look at the actual events. We can wonder what Abraham’s true feelings were for Isaac. He could as easily have despised the boy. Or found him bland and uninteresting. Or, if-as some church scholars insist-Isaac was a grown man in his thirties at the time of the sacrifice, then the whole event might have been concocted by father and son. Certainly the result was that their line became the bloodline of the Jews. To tell you the truth, I rather like the idea that it was an agreement between them. It shows high intelligence and careful planning and demonstrates, to us in particular, the power that can be harvested from such courses.”

  “But you say that it might all be a lie,” insisted the youngest man at the table, a priest who was the brother of a powerful knight.

  “Yes,” agreed Nicodemus, “a lie, but a lie with a purpose. A lie that guided the course of a nation, shaped the future of a people. A lie that, through the blood and history of the Jews, allowed for Christianity and Islam to be born into this world.”

  Sir Guy tapped the table with his forefinger. “Yes!” he said emphatically. “And there are two things that are most important about that lie. First, is that it was a lie. That is crucial to know. And the second thing is that no one else knows that it’s a lie. Even you, Father Nicodemus, cannot and do not know that it was a lie. If proof ever existed it was either hidden away or erased, which is a very good thing to do with such dangerous truths.”

  The men agreed and a few beat their fists.

  Nicodemus smiled his approval.

  “And what dangerous and important truths rest with us,” he said softly. “Tell me, my brothers… how will we write them into the pages of history?”

  Chapter Fifty
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  The Hangar

  Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn

  June 15, 2:55 a.m. EST

  “Nicodemus?” repeated Church. “That’s very interesting. Is that a first or last name?”

  “It’s all we have,” said Lilith. The speakers on Church’s phone were of the best quality, and it sounded like Lilith was in the room with them.

  “There have been priests named Nicodemus associated with the Red Order for eight hundred years?”

  “Yes.”

  “And as far as you can determine they all look similar?”

  “Disturbingly so.”

  Church glanced at Aunt Sallie, who nodded.

  “Lilith, I just e-mailed you an image file. Take a look at it and let me know if this man is similar in appearance to the priest currently working with LaRoque.”

  “Opening it now,” said Lilith. She made a sharp, disgusted sound. “Yes, that’s him. Damn it, if you already know about him why are you grilling me on-”

  “We did not know about the priest,” interrupted Church. “This photo is from a supermax prison in Pennsylvania, here in the States.”

  “This man was in prison?”

  “Yes. He was arrested at the scene of a multiple murder in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania and later convicted of the murders. The case was built on strong circumstantial evidence but there were no other suspects and he offered no defense.”

  “This looks exactly like the priest. Exactly. What is his name?”

  “Nicodemus.”

  “When was this? When was he arrested?”

  “1996.”

  “When was he released?”

  “Lilith,” said Church slowly, “he was not released. He was incarcerated at Graterford Prison until December of last year, at which point he apparently escaped.”

  “Then it can’t be the same man. We have pictures of him from just before the air strike on the presidential palace in Baghdad on March 19, 2003. That’s when the old Murshid and the Tariqa high council were killed, along with the current Scriptor’s grandfather. So, your man would have been in prison.”

  “Yes,” said Church softly. “Odd, isn’t it.” He did not phrase it as a question.

  “One of us is working with bad intel,” growled Lilith, “and I really doubt it’s us. Arklight isn’t-”

  “Please,” cut in Church. “No need to sell me on Arklight’s capabilities. But there’s something more about the prisoner Nicodemus. He was involved in the Seven Kings affair last year. The bombings and other attacks that were part of the Ten Plagues Initiative.”

  “Hugo Vox?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mother of God.”

  “Yes.”

  “Vox knew most of the men who were killed in the Baghdad bombing. He’s known the LaRoques all his life.”

  “I-didn’t know that,” admitted Church.

  Lilith snorted. “You need better sources.”

  “The DMS often relies on the goodwill of its allies and the exchange of crucial intelligence. Tell, me… how is Oracle working out for you?”

  The only reply from Lilith was a stony silence.

  Aunt Sallie mouthed the words, “Stop dicking around and play the card.”

  Church sighed and nodded. “Lilith, when I gave you the Oracle system it was with the understanding that it be used to help your cause, and to provide occasional support for my operations.”

  “That was long before you built the DMS. I have no standing agreement with the Americans.”

  “You have an agreement with me,” Church said quietly. “And with Aunt Sallie.”

  “Is she listening?” demanded Lilith.

  “Yes.”

  “Bitch.”

  Aunt Sallie grinned, but said nothing.

  “This conversation has made it abundantly clear,” said Church, “that you have information that is likely crucial to one of our ongoing operations. I have never used MindReader to intrude into Oracle, and I would prefer not to.”

  The threat hung in the air.

  “No. You tell me what’s going on. Why is your man Ledger taking meetings with Jalil Rasouli.”

  “I want your word that this will be a fair and free exchange, Lilith. No games, okay?”

  Instead of answering the question, Lilith said, “The shooter tracking Captain Ledger is my daughter.”

  Church sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “You put her in the field?”

  “Of course I put her in the field. That’s what she has trained for.”

  “Have you told her?” asked Church. “Does she know who her father is?”

  Lilith took a moment, and when she spoke her voice was bitter. “She knows. Telling her was the cruelest thing I have ever done.” She paused. “But I don’t need to tell you about breaking a daughter’s heart, do I?”

  Church sighed again. “That’s unkind, Lilith. I do what I do to protect Circe from who and what I am.”

  “So, she doesn’t know who her father is?”

  “She knows enough,” said Church. “I don’t see any benefit in doing her any additional harm.”

  Lilith snorted. “And now she works for you. Do your people know that she’s your daughter?”

  “Only those who need to know,” he said. “And that topic is closed.”

  “Very well,” said Lilith. “Now tell me about Ledger and Rasouli. What was on that flash drive?”

  Church told her.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Kingdom of Shadows

  Under the Sand

  June 15, 11:29 a.m.

  “Your son is dead, Father,” said Albion, the eleventh of Grigor’s sons. “My brother is dead.”

  Those were the words that still burned in Grigor’s mind.

  Your son is dead.

  Delos. The sixth of his sons to be born without genetic flaw. The sixth to receive Dr. Hasbrouck’s genetic therapy.

  Delos. Grigor’s pride. One of his most trusted warriors. One of the elite even among the Red Knights.

  His son.

  His son was dead.

  Grigor’s rage was a terrible thing, but it was not evident. The storms that broke and howled were not physical things, they could not be felt or seen. There was no outward sign of it. Not unless someone could look into the bottomless crimson depths of his eyes.

  Even though he wanted so badly to shriek out his fury, to burst listening ears with his cries, he sat in stillness.

  LaRoque had made him send one of his sons to his death.

  A knight.

  One of the pure ones.

  He sat on his throne there in the bottomless darkness and as the waves of pain washed over him, he endured them. Welcomed them. Let them feed the awful fires that burned in his heart. And there, deep down in his personal darkness, those flames grew hotter and more terrible still.

  Interlude Four

  On the Pilgrims’ Road

  The Holy Land

  November 1191 C.E.

  The three monks pushed the pilgrims toward the rock wall as the riders swept down the hill toward them. The ancient fort was little more than fragments of walls and an overgrown courtyard filled with palm trees whose trunks had burst upward through cracked flagstones. It was poor cover, but it was better than standing out here on the sand, waiting for the Saracens to sweep down and slaughter them.

  Most of the pilgrims ran, their prayers strangled from their throats by fear. A few of the more devout wavered, caught between their belief that God would protect them and the fear that He might not chose to do so today. One old man stood his ground and held a cross up and out toward the approaching riders as if that was a shield that could turn any sword. His white beard fluttered in the hot wind.

  “Go, go! ” yelled Brother Julius, pushing his shoulder. The old man twisted away from the monk.

  “No! I shall not move one inch from the path to Holy Jerusalem, and neither devils nor demons nor the swords of the infidels will-”

  His words wer
e struck to silence as a crossbow bolt buried itself to the fletching in his throat. The old pilgrim staggered backward a step, touching his fingers to the line of hot blood that ran down his chest. The sheer impossibility of his own death, of his mortality in the presence of God’s grace here on the pilgrims’ road, tethered him for a moment to life. His mouth formed the word “No.” But the only sound that issued from his throat was the wet gurgle.

  The old man sagged to his knees and his head slumped forward but he did not fall over, and Brother Julius marveled at the horror and beauty of it all: the devout traveler ending his pilgrimage in a posture of supplication.

  More quarrels hissed through the air and Brother Julius wheeled as the caravan horses began to scream when the steel-headed missiles tore into their flesh. One reared high and lashed out, striking a nun on the cheek and snapping her neck with a dry-stick crack.

  Brother Julius ran then. The other pilgrims were clambering over the ruins of the old fort as arrows struck sparks from the broken stone. The riders-a dozen Saracens in billowing desert cloaks-rode toward them like the horsemen of Saint John. They yipped and yelled and laughed as they fired their last volley of quarrels and then they hooked their crossbows over their saddle horns and drew their swords with a rippling wave of silver.

  Brother Julius tried to leap over a fallen pear tree, and the skeletal fingers of a branch snagged the hem of his robe. The cloth caught fast and Julius fell flat on his face with a whooomph! Sand puffed up, filling his nose and mouth. He rolled onto his side, gagging and coughing.

  Behind him he heard shrill screams and the sound of pain-filled voices pleading to God even as sword blades cut into them. Brother Julius closed his eyes and tried to mutter a prayer between fits of coughing. Soon the screams stopped but the dull-wet sound of steel on flesh continued for almost a full minute.

  Then there was silence.

  Brother Julius tried to crawl away, but he heard the crunch of a foot on the sand beside his head and he looked up into the face of one of the killers. The man had dark eyes and black hair that fluttered in the breeze. He had a thin mustache and a spiked beard on the point of his chin. He was not smiling; instead a look of sadness was painted over his features. And his face… there was something terribly wrong about his face.