The interrogator named Omar stroked his beard as Angell spoke to him, never once dropping his gaze from his eyes.
“Do you have this book?”
“No. Of course not. I have been searching for it the past week, from Turkey to Iraq, to Iran, and now to Kamdesh.”
The interrogator nodded.
“We also want this book.”
Angell returned his gaze as steadily as he could.
“What would you do with it?”
“This book is haram. It is forbidden for any Muslim to read it. But there are many Islamic scholars who have permission to read these books, if only to determine the contents in order to condemn them more ... credibly.”
“And to use the information contained, in order to become more powerful?”
It was a drastic statement, very bold under the circumstances, but Angell couldn't stop himself.
Omar Mansour smiled.
“As I said, it is haram. However, it is also powerful. The idea of it is powerful. True power comes only from Allah. I believe we must keep it out of the hands of our enemies. That is also your belief, is it not?”
“Of course.”
“But why should I trust you? Why should I trust the American government?”
“I believe the feeling is mutual.”
He gestured to a man standing behind his prisoner. Angell cringed, awaiting the blade, or worse.
“Some tea,” he said.
And everyone in the room relaxed. Except the professor of religious studies.
As a well-armed waiter brought them a brass tray containing a teapot and some cracked cups, he thought over his options. The situation was obviously very fluid. There was no reason why they should let him go. He had seen them, seen their faces. Angell didn't know exactly where he was: the hood over his head had taken care of that. He could not give up their location, or the identities of the mujahedeen who had snatched him. Did they need him alive? He hoped so.
“I hope you were not too inconvenienced by the drug we administered to you and to your colleagues. It was necessary that you be incapacitated for awhile.”
“What was it?”
“It grows locally here. The shamans use it in their profane rituals. But it is valuable as an interrogation device. Like a ... a truth serum.”
“I see. Did you get what you wanted?”
Instead, the terrorist leader changed the subject.
“Do you know how these Nuristani devils perform their rituals? No? I will tell you. They have shamans who contact the spirits of the dead and the spirits of their gods. Yes, it is all very shirk. The shaman will sit in a special room that has pillars carved in the shapes of their gods, who are not really gods of course but jinn. You know jinn?”
Angell nodded.
“And then they burn juniper branches.”
“Juniper?”
“Yes, in order to disorient the senses so they may see through this world and to the next. They make communication with their jinn that way, and they learn many fabulous things.”
So that was what had happened to Angell. They had treated him like some kind of Kafiri shaman. Why? What was the point of that?
“Their gods communicate with them in dreams, they say. Many Afghans believe this, but nowhere as much as in Nuristan. We should destroy all of them, of course. All the Nuristanis. They are not true Muslims. We should burn their villages to the ground and kill every one. We should sell their women and children into slavery in Pakistan. Have you seen their women? No? They have blonde hair and blue eyes. They are a very strange people, Doctor Angell. But we keep them alive and allow them to live in their arsehole of a country because they are useful to us. They sit between Pakistan and Afghanistan, and their loyalties shift with the wind. Today, Taliban. Tomorrow, Al-Qaeda. The next day, the Afghan National Army. But everyday we move across the border in Nuristan and back, with no problems. We could move an army across the river, and the kafirs would say nothing about it as long as we paid them more than they were getting from the Afghans. They know they are vulnerable, you see. They are surrounded by Muslims, and they are kafirs. They can lose everything in an instant.”
“Yet they were the first to fight the Russians. And they are still fighting you.”
Omar smiled. “You know your Afghan history, Doctor Angell. Yes, they are good fighters and fiercely loyal to their own people. They believe they are descended from soldiers of Alexander the Great. If they lived in any other part of Afghanistan they would have been wiped out completely by now. Their terrain protects them, but not for long.”
“Why don't you just leave them alone? They are no threat to you.”
“Have you seen their shrines? Their idols? We have tolerated their existence for far too long. As well as your precious Yezidis. The time has come to eliminate these kafirs from the face of the Earth.” He said this calmly, with a half smile on his face, as if discussing a recalcitrant child or a troublesome tax collector. This was in May, 2014.
In December of that same year Omar Mansour, leader of a Taliban subgroup known as Tariq Gidar, would attack a school in Peshawar, killing 148 people, among them 132 children. He himself would be killed in a drone strike in July, 2016.
“Doctor Angell, we would like very much to see this book. Unfortunately, we do not have many people on our ... staff ... with the kind of expertise needed to locate it and then to verify that it is truly Al Azif. Only someone with your background ... I mean, with access to your grand-uncle's work, his files, his journals ... would be able to tell if any book was truly the one we seek.”
Angell considered a moment before breaking the bad news.
“His file, the one on this book, is missing. It was stolen many years ago. I believe it no longer exists.”
“Then ... I don't understand. How do you even know to look for the book if you have not seen the file?”
“You should know the answer to that. It is no secret that this book is being discussed all over the world right now, and especially among dissident Islamic sects from the Middle East to China. There have been revolts, rebellions, massacres, even cultic activity involving human sacrifice, all over North Africa, the Levant, Iran, and elsewhere. Sunni, Shi'a, Sufis, Alawis, Druze ... the whole Muslim world is excited over the prospect of this ... scripture ... being revealed in the next days or weeks. And not only the Muslim world, but sects as far away as Mongolia, Haiti, Nigeria ... and even in the United States. You want this book because everyone else wants it—either to use it, to keep their enemies from using it, or to destroy it—which is how we heard of it in the first place. Which is why I was recruited to help find it.”
“Then you understand that all these factions you mention, and many more besides, are united in their desire to find this ‘scripture’ as you call it. None of us can afford to wait until the other has it. We cannot accept that anyone other than ourselves own this book. We certainly cannot accept American ownership. They already have nuclear weapons. They cannot be permitted to have Kitab Al Azif as well.”
“Then ... what do you propose?”
The interrogator took a sip of his tea.
“We could kill you and your friends, of course. That would ensure the Americans would not find the book. It would take them too long to find another expert to help them, and by now the book is probably out of reach of their best efforts.”
“If you kill me, then you won't find the book either.”
“Yes, I have thought of that. Which is why I propose to release you and send you on your way.”
At this, Angell almost dropped his tea cup. He looked at the terrorist and wondered if he had heard him correctly.
Mansour continued, “The book had been with the Kalasha people—the same as the Nuristanis—until they were converted in 1895. Even the Kalasha do not know the true origins of the book, however, only that it refers to the hideous practices of the Nabataeans of Kutha who used it to contact alien forces.
“Two days before your arrival, another group of men
passed through here on their way to Kashmir. Foreigners. They also asked to see the Katra. They were more successful. When we heard that they were here, we naturally left our base in Pakistan to intercept them. But we were too late. Too late to capture them, but just in time to capture you. And the Katra himself: an old shaman, a trafficker in spirits and dreams. He is revered among the people here, just as they revere all superstitious practices and those who perpetuate them.”
“Where ... where is the Katra now?”
“I will take you to him. Perhaps you will have more success with him. He was not so forthcoming with me.”
“What do you want from me?”
“To do just what you were told to do. Find the book. Find it quickly, for we are running out of time. There is a schedule involved, and each day that passes brings us closer to annihilation.”
“And when I find it?”
“You will hand it over to me. Or to my people.”
“Then you must release my people. I need them to accompany me. I am a scholar, an academic. I am not a commando or a guerrilla fighter.”
“You're really in no position to be making demands, Doctor Angell. No. Your friends will remain with me until I have possession of the book.”
“How do I know you will keep your word?”
“You don't. So let's stop bargaining like women and proceed to the next step.” He took a map from a shelf in his bookcase and spread it out on the floor between them.
“You will be accompanied by some of my men. They will be with you day and night. They will get you to Kashmir and if you leave at once you should be able to make good time. We know where the other men are headed and we can get you there ahead of them since we own the territory between here and Kashmir.” He pointed at their location—Angell noticing with some relief that they were still in Kamdesh—and then drawing a line from Nuristan across northern Pakistan into the disputed territory of Kashmir. “We will slow them down, but just enough to enable you to get into position. Then you will follow them to the book, and my men will seize it.”
“Do we know where in Kashmir they are going?”
“There are seven unholy sites across the world from Iraq to Mongolia. Seven towers, they are called, but they are not towers the way we understand the word. These seven towers are nodes in a network. Each of them is to be ‘switched on’ in turn. We do not know how this is done, and we do not know where these towers may be, except in very general terms. That is for you to discover. The book is an essential part of this blasphemous ritual; without it, the devil-worshippers cannot accomplish anything.
“And as I have said, there is a schedule. It depends on some kind of astronomical observation. When the stars are right, the contact between the dead gods and their followers will be at its peak. Keep that in mind. Now, let us see the Katra of Kamdesh.”
Omar rose and the others followed him, Angell in the center of the group even though there was no chance of him escaping on his own.
They went outside and passed a building and then another one. Finally they came to a large hall of some sort. It was dark inside, but the smell was almost overpowering.
There, tied to a wooden pillar in the middle of the hall was a man, naked, and covered in blood. It was the Katra of Kamdesh.
His head was placed neatly in his lap.
Chapter Twenty-One
The RV
Their mode of speech was transmitted thought. ... When, after infinities of chaos, the first men came, the Great Old Ones spoke to the sensitive among them by moulding their dreams; for only thus could Their language reach the fleshly minds of mammals.
—H.P. Lovecraft, “The Call of Cthulhu”
A sheep herder walked slowly along the road outside Mandagal, a town north of Kamdesh. He carried a long stick, and wore the typical flat-brimmed turban of the Pashtuns. Mandagal was a dangerous town, filled with Taliban operatives as well as a handful of ISI agents: members of Pakistan's own security services who were not supposed to be in Afghanistan but who frequently crossed the border just outside Mandagal to keep their hand in.
The sheep herder was a little crazy, so people left him alone. He was a herder without sheep, a man without a home. He had walked to Mandagal from somewhere else, no one really knew. And he was walking out of Mandagal the same way.
He stepped aside to let a military vehicle pass him on the narrow single lane dirt road. He didn't bother looking up. The vehicle was on its way from Kamdesh, and that is all he really needed to know.
He stepped off the road completely now, and found a quiet place in the trees to sit and think. Jason Miller wiped the sweat off his forehead with the end of his turban.
This was getting too dangerous, he thought. There were Americans in that town, in Taliban custody, and they were on the same mission he was. If he stopped to help them, the others might make it to the book before him. But if he left them there, he would have to carry that guilt with him for the rest of his life. They would be killed, there was no doubt in his mind about that. They would be killed, probably beheaded, and even tortured first. Just for sport. He knew there was a bounty on dead Americans, something like a thousand dollars each. All you had to produce was a digital photo of yourself standing over the body. Easy money in that part of the world. Throw in a video of the beheadings and whoever did this would be a hero to the permanent underclass.
Miller knew there was no getting around it. He would have to see to it that the Americans were rescued. There were four of them, according to his informant at Naray (a town the four had passed on their way to Kamdesh). They had stopped to relieve themselves by the side of the road and that is when his informant snapped their picture with a smartphone from his vantage point behind a cliff overlooking the river.
Miller took out his own phone and looked at them again. They were good, he had to give them that. They looked like Afghans. All except one of them, who looked dirty and disheveled and scared shitless. That would be the academic type they brought along.
He figured they would behead him first.
He didn't have the juice to call in an air strike. A drone would have a hard time getting in here, too, and anyway Kamdesh was a target full of civilians. They couldn't risk a Tomahawk coming in and blasting a crater in the center of the town. If he was going to get anyone out, he would have to do it himself without backup or reinforcements. The three men with the academic looked like hard types, professional soldiers probably, so they would know how to handle themselves once they were free. They could look after the teacher or whatever the hell he was. He just hoped he wouldn't waste too much time rescuing them. He was on a pretty tight schedule.
He checked the astronomy app on his smartphone.
Only a few more days to go before all Hell would break loose.
Literally.
In Baghdad, Aubrey was fuming. He had not heard from his people in two days. He knew their location due to the GPS positioning chips and that is what worried him. Angell and his Kurdish contact were in Kamdesh. He didn't have GPS on the other two; they worked for CIA and their group—CTPT, or Counter Terrorism Pursuit Team—was deep undercover in Afghanistan. The problem was: the GPS for Angell and the one for Adnan were now in different places.
Adnan's was still in Kamdesh, but Angell's had started to move. Something went wrong in Nuristan and he couldn't find out what. He tasked a drone to take a look, and got back the image of a truck going north out of Kamdesh, probably heading for Mandagal. It matched Angell's GPS. This was not good. Mandagal was enemy territory. If they were taking Angell there, he was a prisoner and they were going to take him to Pakistan.
He dreaded the phone call he had to make. Monroe would want to know immediately if Angell was off the grid. If he was, the whole mission had failed and all they could do now was hunker down and prepare for the worst world war in the planet's history.
New Orleans
Detective Cuneo sat in front of a sweet old lady in her living room in the comfortable Belle Chasse suburb of New Orlean
s, a long way from the Lower Ninth Ward in all senses of the term.
“Ma'am, I'm here inquiring about some property you owned in the city.”
“That would have been my husband.”
“Ma'am?”
“My husband owned property. He passed away some years ago. About the time of Katrina. Poor man. Worked all his life, fingers to the bone. Would you care for some coffee? Tea?”
“No, Ma'am. Thank you.”
The living room was suffocatingly floral and bright. It was a cheerful room, or might have been had it not been for the heavy, well-stocked bookcase standing in a corner. It reminded him of a brooding raven on a bust of Pallas. Or something.
“Oh, you've noticed my library,” the old lady gushed. She was dressed to the nines for early in the day. Tight, white hair that had been perm'ed to within an inch of its life. Floral print dress. Pumps. A little too much makeup. Jewelry that looked real, not costume. Pearl earrings and a giant diamond brooch that caught the light from the sun and held it captive, demanding ransom.
He looked closely at some of the spines and was startled by the subject matter. Authors he had never heard of—Regardie, Crowley, Montague Summers, Grillot de Givry, Waite, Randolph, Mathers, Levi—and titles that made the blood run cold.
The Book of Black Magic and of Pacts.
The Secret Lore of Magic.
Magick in Theory and Practice.
Goetia.
Books on Freemasonry and witchcraft; alchemy and ritual; secret societies and pagan cults. And there: on the lower shelf, books on voodoo and Santeria.
Cuneo stood up and looked down at the sweet old lady on the upholstered love seat. “These your books, ma'am?”
The Lovecraft Code Page 31
