Assassin's code jl-4

by Jonathan Maberry

  Ghost and I found ourselves in a storeroom with wire shelves stocked with dry and canned goods. I peered around the corner and saw a beaded curtain beyond which was the store. A clerk-the owner, Jamsheed Mustapha, I presumed-stood behind a counter pouring dry lentils onto a scale while an old woman watched. I crept to the edge of the doorway to eavesdrop, hoping they weren’t talking about the best way to sharpen stakes. They weren’t. They were sharing their outrage about the mosque bombing, which I imagine was still the number one topic of conversation in the country. The clerk did not look at me, although he’d probably gotten some signal that the security door had been opened.

  In the corner of the storeroom was a tiny bathroom permanently marked “Under Repair.” I opened the door and again had to push Ghost inside. He was still sluggish and muzzy from the Taser and was recovering very slowly. Tasers are configured to knock out an adult male, not a hundred-pound dog. I’m lucky that son of a bitch hadn’t killed my son of a bitch.

  I shut the door and sat down on the closed toilet seat. The stall was immaculate, and when I placed my palm flat on the wall I could feel its solidity and sense the faintest tremble of well-concealed electronics. If this was a safe house approved by Church then it was very likely built with “secure-pod” technology, something one of Church’s friends was bringing to market. An ultrasecure, ultrahardened capsule similar to the escape pod used on Air Force One. This one didn’t go anywhere, but it would offer physical protection and a secure spot for making reports.

  Ghost immediately flopped onto the floor and whimpered softly. I bent down and ran my hands over him, checking to make sure that the Taser shock and burn were the only injuries he had sustained.

  “You okay, fur-monster?” I asked.

  He gave me an “Are you frigging kidding me?” look, but even with that he managed a wag. Just one, but there it was.

  “Don’t know about you,” I said, “but I kinda want to switch gears from running and hiding to chasing and maiming.”

  He curled a quarter inch of muzzle to show me one fang. Better than nothing.

  I examined the briefcase and saw that the locks were even better than they’d first appeared, and small bulges on other side felt like the right size and shape for thermite charges. Force the locks and the case explodes into a white-hot fireball. Not the sort of thing I wanted to do with the case resting on my lap. I set it aside for the moment.

  There was a small sink and I turned the spigot and let the water run until it was cold. Then I used some paper towels to wash my face and sponge the garlic out of my nose, trying not to feel as freaked as the situation warranted. Those sons of bitches had tried to stun me with garlic and drive a wooden stake through my heart. That’s something none of the guys back at the DMS is going to story-top.

  For the third-or was it the fourth? — time today the immediate rush of adrenaline was flushing itself out of my blood. That fight or flight juice certainly amps you up but when it leaves it tends to take a lot of other things with it. Electrolytes were the least of it. I felt as if I had no energy left at all; I doubted I could go two out of three falls with Betty White.

  When I closed my eyes I saw Krystos’s face, the way he looked at the moment I pulled the trigger. I’d made a joke as I killed him. Like I was a hero in some summer action flick. A cheap one-liner while I blasted the life from him.

  I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

  Not Church this time.

  The call was answered on the third ring.

  “Cowboy?” asked Rudy.

  “Hey.”

  Are you alright?”

  “I’m at the safe house. The one Church sent me to. It’s cool. The place is secure.”

  “I am very glad to hear that. What about you, Joe? Are you okay?”

  “No,” I said, and the word came out fractured. “No, man, I’m not. I just killed a man while he was praying.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Mustapha’s Daily Goods

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 3:14 p.m.

  Rudy and I talked for nearly ten minutes.

  “Joe,” he said when I’d finished telling him about Krystos, “what else could you have done?”

  “Nothing,” I snapped. “That’s my damn point. What choice did I have except to kill them? I’m not saying that I was wrong, or that I did it wrong. But I made a joke while I was doing it. Jesus.”

  “I think we both know that your sense of humor is as much a weapon for you as your fists or your gun. It protects you. It keeps the pain at arm’s length.”

  “Except when it doesn’t.”

  “Except then, yes,” he conceded. “Tell me, though, does any defense work all the time?”

  “Running away?”

  “Joe…”

  “I know, I know. I just can’t seem to square this in my head.”

  “A long time ago,” he said, “or what seems like a long time ago, when we joined the DMS, we talked about this. About how violence always leaves a mark. Only the immoral or mentally unbalanced can kill without taking some harm themselves.”

  “We both know where I stand on that score.”

  “You are psychologically unique, Joe,” Rudy corrected, “as is everyone. You are the end result of the damage you received and the work you’ve done to understand it and adjust to its presence in your life.”

  “Doesn’t address the morals issue.”

  “No, but it’s connected. When you were thirteen you had the common moral worldview shared by people of your age, gender, ethnicity, nationality, and family environment. When you were fourteen your worldview was knocked askew and you suffered intense physical and emotional trauma. As a result your morality underwent an adjustment. As you entered into a study of martial arts and learned to control your rage while developing dangerous combat skills, you began to understand that there were times and circumstances under which you would be willing to do harm to others. You knew then that if you ever confronted the teens who raped Helen and nearly killed you, that you could do great harm to them without suffering emotional harm from the act. This is not an irrational view given your history. Then, when you entered the military, your worldview was adjusted for you during basic and advanced training. You adopted the soldier’s view of violence, and had you gone into battle I have no doubt that you could have fought and killed without feeling that you were committing immoral acts.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “Of course it isn’t. I’m generalizing here to make a point,” he said. “After the army you entered the police academy. You learned another version of the worldview and adopted a new attitude toward when violence might be appropriate. And there was an adjustment of that when you became a detective and began working on the counterterrorist unit. The step into the DMS was an extraordinary one, Joe. Massive. The very first day you were in multiple firefights. Each time you have had to adjust your emotions and your worldview to allow for the reality of more and different kinds of killing. I know that with each step we have had to take a little time to explore what this is doing to you. And you know the warning I’ve given you several times.”

  “I know.”

  It was the kind of warning he, as a psychiatrist and a moral person, was honor-bound to give: be prepared for the day when you cannot do this anymore.

  After Grace had been killed-after I’d tracked down her killer and torn him apart-I thought I’d reached my limit with this kind of work and this kind of life. Then the Seven Kings case blew up in my face and suddenly I was ankle deep in blood again. As much as I hated being a part of that fight, I discovered the ugly truth that it defined me. Not the killing. No, not that. It was the fight itself. It never seemed to be over and until it was, how could I, in good conscience, lay down my gun and let the innocent fend for themselves? How could I do that and not go crazy myself? Church had been a warrior in this far longer than anyone else I knew. During the Kings thing he tried to explain it to me. He said, “The darkness is all
around us. Very few people have the courage to light a candle against it. We hold a candle against the darkness. Like the unknown and unseen enemy we fight, people like you and me-we are the darkness. In some ways we are more like the things we’re fighting than the people we’re protecting. We are part of the darkness. Granted our motives are better-from our perspective-but we wait in the darkness for our unseen enemy to make a move against those innocents with the candles. And by that light, we take aim.”

  I repeated those words to Rudy.

  “I remember you telling me this. And I remember when you decided that this was, in fact, who you were.”

  “Sure, and that’s all very noble, very grand, but can I say that I’m that kind of warrior and measure it against cracking a joke while I shoot a bound prisoner who’s praying for mercy from God?”

  Rudy began to answer, but there was a discreet tap on the door.

  “I have to go, Rude.”

  “Joe-we need to finish this conversation.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

  I hung up, got to my feet, and pulled my gun from my waistband.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Mustapha’s Daily Goods

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 3:19 p.m.

  I opened the door a quarter inch. Enough to see a single eye peering in at me. If that eye was red or even reddish I was going to put a bullet through it.

  “Are you okay in there, my friend? Do you need assistance?”

  They were the kinds of question anyone would ask, but the exact phrasing was a prearranged code. I opened the door a few inches, pistol out of sight. Ghost stuck his nose into the crack and began cataloging everything he could about the man outside.

  “I’m just a little tired from the trip,” I said, using the proper response to the coded questions.

  “Perhaps I can help,” he said.

  I opened the door and the store clerk’s eyes darted first to Ghost, then to my lowered gun and finally to me. No shock or surprise registered on his face.

  “I am Jamsheed Mustapha,” he said.

  I didn’t give my name, and he didn’t ask.

  Jamsheed was about fifty but he wasn’t carrying it well. His posture was bad and his face was deeply lined. Stress lines, not laugh lines. “The store is locked,” he said, “and I’ve engaged the jammers. No one is listening and no one knows you’re here.”

  “Works for me,” I said as I eased the hammer down on the pistol and returned it to my waistband. Jamsheed backed away to allow me to step outside. Ghost remained right where he was, cued to do so by a small finger signal I gave him. He would watch and wait and stay alert until I signaled him to stand down.

  “ As-salamu ‘alaykum,” I said.

  “ Wa-laikum as-salam,” said Jamsheed and offered me his hand. We shook. He had frail bones but managed to give a firm shake. He did a second, longer appraisal, taking in the ill-fitting shirt, bloodstains, my battered face, the works.

  “You are hurt? I have a first aid kit in my apartment. We’ll get you cleaned up. I have clothes, too. There will be some in your size.” He paused. “Have you spoken to the Mujtahid?”

  I nodded. Mujtahid was the Arabic word for “scholar,” but it was also one of the many code names for Mr. Church. I relaxed even more at that name and gave the stand-down signal to Ghost, who immediately flopped down and appeared to lapse into a canine coma. Apparently he was faking his combat readiness.

  “Is there something wrong with your dog?” asked Jamsheed.

  I explained about the Taser and the net. Jamsheed asked me to wait, and he went into the store and came back with a plastic bowl, two bottles of water, and a bag of high-protein dog biscuits. He handed everything to me. It was clear that he knew enough about military-trained dogs to not try to give the food and water to Ghost directly. I thanked him. Jamsheed earned a whole lot of points from me for that kindness. I knelt and emptied one bottle into the bowl, tore open the bag of biscuits, and laid six of them in a row. Ghost pried open an eye, flexed his nostrils, and wagged his tail. He got shakily to his feet and set-to with a will, lapping up the water and then suddenly going hog wild on the biscuits, his usual daintiness forgotten for the moment.

  “Are the police looking for you?” asked Jamsheed.

  I shook my head. “They’re looking for someone, but no one has my description.”

  “That simplifies this. You look like you could use some food and drink as well, my friend.”

  “At this point, I’d even go for one of the dog biscuits.”

  Ghost shot me a “don’t even think about it” look and moved to stand between me and his food.

  “My team is coming for me,” I said. “Can I stay here for a few hours and wait?”

  “Of course, of course, as long as you need.” He didn’t ask for details, and I had no idea what information Church told him. Jamsheed seemed to be taking all of this in stride. He took me by the arm and led me through a small door into his apartment. It was cramped, but very clean and decorated with gorgeous framed photographs of children, animals, landscapes, and buildings.

  “Your work?” I asked.

  He nodded. “A hobby. I hope to retire from this work and concentrate on photography.” He leaned on the word “work.”

  “You have an incredible eye,” I said, and I wasn’t joking. Each of the pictures was a small masterpiece of composition. Not just a flower, but an angle that showed light caressing the striations on a delicate petal in a way that cast it as an alien landscape. Not merely a photo of a child with a kitten, but a glimpse into the wonder in that child’s eyes and the trust in the body language of the kitten. Each piece was a statement filled with visual poetry that betrayed a deep understanding of the connection between the physical world and the spiritual. “These are really quite beautiful.”

  He made a modest sound of dismissal.

  “No,” I said, crossing to stand in front of one picture in particular, “you have the gift.”

  Jamsheed came and stood next to me, trying to see the picture through my eyes-a foreigner, a soldier, a non-Muslim, a stranger. The image that caught me, that riveted me, was of a chain-link fence beyond which a group of kids played soccer in a deserted parking lot. Beyond the skill of the composition, the story it told struck me to the heart. A bunch of kids totally absorbed in their game. At that distance and with a gentle softening of the focus, he made the children nonspecific. It no longer mattered if they were preteens or teens, if they were boys or girls, or if they were Muslim or Christian. What mattered, what shone through, was that they were innocent and at peace with the fun they were having. That picture might have been taken anywhere. England or Uruguay, Alabama or here in Iran. There were so many lessons implied in the simple grace of those children, and it had been perfectly captured by this man’s camera.

  He waited out my long silence, then asked, “What does it say to you?”

  “Lots,” I said. “But I guess… two things most of all.”

  “Oh?”

  “Everybody has kids,” I said, “and everybody loves their kids.”

  Jamsheed touched the edge of the frame near the image of a little girl who was no more than a happy blur as she ran after a ball. “Yes.”

  “And… this is why we do what we do.”

  I turned to him and saw a mix of thoughtful expressions play across his face. “It’s funny,” he said, “but I would have thought you would say something like, ‘this is why we fight.’”

  “I know. That occurred to me,” I admitted, “but it isn’t the right way to say it. I’m not in this business to fight. Seeing these pictures… I don’t think you are, either. It’s not about the conflict. It’s about what it preserves and what it allows.”

  Jamsheed nodded and went over to a tiny kitchenette and began filling a teapot with water. “I once knew a Sufi who said that anyone who goes to war is crazy. But… I don’t think he was exactly correct. I believe it is more accurate to say that anyone who wants to go to war
is crazy.”

  “That says it,” I agreed.

  He put the kettle on the burner, then fetched a first aid kit and helped me clean and dress my wounds. He had to pick some window glass and wood splinters out of my scalp and back from when I had crashed out of my hotel room and onto the balcony while waltzing with the knight.

  “You have a lot of scars already,” he said as he worked, “so these should blend in.”

  “Hazards of the job.”

  “Mm.”

  I caught Jamsheed sniffing a few times as he worked, and it took me a moment to make the connection.

  “Garlic,” I said.

  “Yes.” He didn’t ask, though he clearly wanted to.

  “Long, weird story. Probably best if I don’t share.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

  “Do you do field work?” I asked.

  “Not anymore.” He considered for a moment and then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled the cloth apart to reveal two scars. Bullet holes. “Souvenirs of an adventurous youth.”

  I noticed that he had other scars. More than his share. Around his eyes, around his fingernails. He’d been beaten and very likely tortured at some point. He noticed me looking and offered the smallest of shrugs, but he didn’t comment.

  When he was done picking out the last of the splinters, he showed me the bathroom and even turned on the shower for me. Before I closed the bathroom door, I asked, “Why don’t you retire? The world needs more artists.”

  He shrugged. “The time isn’t right yet.”

  It was a simple statement, but a sad one, and it stayed with me while I showered, dried, and changed into clean clothes. Jamsheed was a lot smaller than me, but he was well stocked. When I came out of the bathroom I found several choices of clothes in extra-large. I dressed in khakis and a white dress shirt. Jamsheed also left me a makeup kit and a hot cup of tea. I sipped the tea as I touched up the dye job Khalid had given me before we rescued the hikers. My tan only needed a mild olive tint. Jamsheed didn’t have brown contact lenses, but there were plenty of blue-eyed people in the Middle East.