“Hello, Michael – how are you?” It was unusual for Uthman to contact him by phone – it meant something had gone wrong, somewhere.
“I ran into your friend Robert yesterday.” “Robert” meant “I want to meet with you,” while “yesterday” referred to “tomorrow.”
“Did you? And how is Robert?” Nasiri’s repetition of the name meant he agreed to meet Uthman tomorrow.
“He is very well, I think.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Where did you encounter him?”
“At the cinema.” “Cinema” meant the proposed meeting place would be the Arab American National Museum, on Michigan Avenue.
“The cinema, yes.” Nasiri confirmed the meeting place. “What film did you see?”
“The new one about the secret agent, James Bond. It was very enjoyable.”
“I have heard that was a good one. Did you attend the three o’clock show?”
“No, the one at eleven a.m.”
The name of the film was irrelevant, since there was no way to predict what would be playing in the local theatres on a given day. But the time was important – especially once Nasiri added two hours, as per the procedure that he and his group were using.
“Yes, I see.” The time for the rendezvous was agreed upon.
The two of them chatted about the nonexistent Robert for a few more minutes, but the important information had already been transmitted. They ended the call with mutual pleasantries.
After he had hung up, Nasiri stared at the phone without really seeing it. He was trying to enumerate all the things that might have happened, and what his response would be to each one. Then he gave a mental shrug. Speculation was a waste of mental energy. He would find out what had gone wrong soon enough.
Twenty-Three
ONE OF THE guards slammed the door of the Suburban shut, and a moment later Morris heard the double click as both rear doors were locked, presumably by the driver. He wore black fatigues, too – just like the man sitting in the shotgun seat, cradling another of the ubiquitous MP5s.
The windows in back had been treated with the film you find in some limousines – the stuff that makes it impossible to see into a car, while still allowing the occupants to see out. Except in this case the film was on the inside, preventing anyone sitting in back from seeing out through the rear and side windows. Of course, you couldn’t put that stuff on the windshield; Morris was feeling mildly clever for noticing that, until the driver said, “I’m going to raise the divider now, folks, but I’ll put the ceiling light on for you. Sit back and relax – it’ll be a short trip.”
A low-wattage bulb over their heads came on just as a plate of thick glass rose in front of them. It was covered with the same translucent film as the windows – when the divider slid into place, no light entered the back seat from outside the vehicle. The Suburban started moving, and Morris found that he was grateful for the overhead light, dim as it was. Complete darkness under these circumstances would have been pretty hard on the nerves.
He turned to Libby. “These guys think of everything,” he said and tugged at his earlobe, sending her the message that the rear compartment might well be bugged. Libby nodded her understanding and said, “Seems like they do.”
“Sorry you had to undergo that search back there,” he said.
She gave him a half-smile. “It’s all right, Quincey. I didn’t just wander out of a convent, after all. Besides, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been – the guard did what was necessary to make sure I wasn’t concealing a weapon, but that’s all. He didn’t treat himself to a good time at my expense.”
“Glad to hear it.”
A few minutes later, Morris felt the vehicle slow, then come to a stop. There was another click as the driver unlocked the rear doors, and almost immediately both doors were pulled open by men in black fatigues. Morris and Libby got out without waiting to be told.
They were standing at the rear of a long, low building covered in white stucco. It sported several doors along its length, each with a number painted above it. Through the nearest door – number four – came another man wearing what seemed to be the standard uniform around these parts. He marched over to the Suburban and said, briskly, “Mister Morris, Miss Chastain? I am Father-Major Pearson. Will you follow me, please?”
Without waiting for a response, Pearson did an about-face and headed back the way he had come. Morris and Libby followed, and a few feet behind them came the two guards who had opened the doors of the Suburban.
The corridor they entered was painted institutional green, its monotony relieved only by a couple of bulletin boards, a fire extinguisher – and a large crucifix. At the fourth door on the right, Pearson stopped, bringing the rest of the little procession to an abrupt halt. He knocked twice, and a man’s voice on the other side of the door called, “Come in.” Pearson opened the door wide, and gestured for Morris and Libby to precede him. He followed them into a windowless room whose walls were covered with maps, exploded diagrams of several weapons, and another large crucifix. Pearson said to the man behind the desk, “These are the two people you wanted to see, sir.”
The man looked at Morris and Libby, put down the pen he’d been writing with, and said, “Thank you, Father-Major. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” Pearson did another about face, marched out through the door, and closed it behind him.
The man who, according to David Kabov, was the commander of the Knights Templar in North America stood up from behind his plain metal desk, his shaved skull glistening in the fluorescent light. Father-General Thomas Reinhart looked to be in his early fifties. He wore the standard black fatigue pants, but above these was a gray t-shirt with RANGER printed on the front. The shirt was a little tight, displaying arm and chest muscles that appeared to have been set in concrete. Reinhart didn’t have the physique of a bodybuilder – for one thing, he only stood about 5’9”. His musculature was functional, rather than impressive. He looked like someone who could do five hundred pushups and then get up and punch your lights out, all without breaking a sweat.
“Mister Morris, Miss Chastain,” he said. “I am Thomas Reinhart, but then I gather you knew that.” He did not offer to shake hands, but did gesture courteously toward a pair of armchairs. “Please sit down.”
Morris had expected that Reinhart would speak to them from behind his desk, using the furniture to reinforce his authority. Instead, the warrior-priest perched on the edge of his desk, facing them. “The man you know as David Kabov has earned the Order’s trust,” Reinhart said, “and he writes asking that we accord the same to you two. But I never trust strangers based on a single recommendation, so I had to keep you waiting while I made a couple of phone calls and did some research of my own.”
“I assume the fact that we’re sitting here means that you were able to confirm Kabov’s recommendation,” Morris said.
“You assume correctly. Some people whose opinions I value speak highly of you” – he turned his head and nodded at Libby – “and Miss Chastain here, who, I understand, is a practitioner of witchcraft.”
“Only of the white variety,” Libby said. “I have no truck with Satan, or his works. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“So I understand. I have heard some accounts of that business you two were involved in a couple of years ago, in Iowa.”
“Idaho,” Morris said. “People always get those two confused.”
“Apologies.” Reinhart looked at Libby again. “There was a time when Mother Church made no distinction between forms of witchcraft – any witch was seen as a servant of the devil, and hence deserving of death.”
“I know,” Libby said tightly.
Reinhart produced a smile that seemed genuine, and possessed no small amount of charm. “Fortunately, we are more enlightened about such matters these days – at least this Order is. So I agreed to have this conversation even though you, Miss Chastain, are a witch, and Mister Morris here appears to be a convicted felon.”
Mor
ris shook his head. “Arrested, but not convicted. In fact, all the charges were later dropped.”
“I’m aware of that,” Reinhart said. “Sometime, I would be interested to hear from you what that business at the Republican convention was all about. We heard some rumors that were really quite intriguing.” He gave them an expressive shrug. “But I’m sure you’ve not come here to swap war stories. So tell me, what do you want with the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon?”
“Strangely enough,” Morris said, “or maybe not so strangely, our business has to do with King Solomon himself.”
Reinhart raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Please continue.”
“We’ve been told that your Order possesses a portion of Solomon’s Great Seal,” Libby said.
Reinhart said nothing, but in the bright light Morris thought he saw the man’s pupils dilate.
“If that’s the case,” Libby went on, “we... well, we’d like to borrow it.”
Reinhart stared at her for perhaps five seconds. Then he scratched his jaw and said, “There are several ways I could respond to this. One option is simply to tell you that we do not possess, nor does anyone in the Order possess, anything to do with the Seal of Solomon.”
“No disrespect, sir, but you’ve pretty much closed the door on that one,” Morris said. “If you’re considering multiple responses to our request, then it means you have the Seal. If you didn’t, then only one response would be necessary – or possible.”
Reinhart produced that hundred-watt smile again, and actually made it look genuine. He’s got no business having a smile like that, Morris thought. Not a guy who probably knows twelve different ways to kill me with his bare hands.
“You make a good point, Mister Morris,” Reinhart said. “Although there’s the possibility that I am falsely implying that we do have the Seal, as a ruse to gain more information from you.”
“I thought priests weren’t supposed to lie,” Libby said.
“Incorrect, Miss Chastain. We’re not supposed to lie without a good reason.”
“True or not, you seem to have abandoned direct denial as a response,” Morris said. “What else have you got?”
“Well, there’s always indignation,” Reinhart said. “That’s the one where I say ‘How dare you come in here and ask for one of the most sacred relics there is, over which generations of men have spilled their blood?’” Reinhart made a dismissive gesture. “And so forth.”
“Sounds like you’ve decided not to go with that one, either,” Morris said.
Reinhart nodded slowly. “Quite right – although it’s the one I would normally use.” He took in a long breath and let it out slowly. “You two appear to be serious people, and what I’ve heard and read about you in the last hour confirms that assessment.”
He went around behind his desk, sat down, and pulled a pad of paper toward him. “I make no promises,” he said. “But if you will tell me, in detail, why you want our fragment of the Great Seal, I will give your request serious consideration. Fair enough?”
Morris and Libby nodded. Then, as they had with David Kabov, they took turns relaying what they knew, suspected, and feared about a certain djinn and those who controlled it.
When they had finished, Reinhart sat staring at the page of closely-written notes he’d made. Looking up, he said, “So if our fragment of the Seal is bigger than the one being used by these alleged terrorists, that makes it more powerful – and will allow you to take control of the djinn away from them.”
“That’s what Kabov told us, yes,” Morris said.
“You are said to be a witch of considerable ability, Miss Chastain. Why can’t you use your magic against the creature?”
“For a couple of reasons,” Libby told him. “One is, I can’t use my magic to directly bring harm to anybody, and that includes djinn – at least, I think it does. It’s not the sort of question that comes up very often.”
“No, I imagine not,” Reinhart said. “And the other reason?”
“Djinn are a unique species,” Libby said. “Neither human, nor angel, nor demon. I have it on good authority that such a creature is probably immune to any magic that I might be able to employ, even if I wasn’t using it for destructive purposes.”
Reinhart’s eyes narrowed. “What authority are you referring to?”
“I... I’d rather not say. It came from a confidential source, but one whose expertise I’ve relied on in the past.” Besides, if I tell you I’ve been fucking a demon, you’d probably throw my ass out – if not burn it at the stake.
“As you wish,” Reinhart said. “So, if you go into battle with this djinn, the only weapon in your arsenal right now is a mechanically-fired peach pit?”
“Avocado,” Libby said. “They’re bigger. Greater mass equals greater impact – I hope.”
“How do you plan to find the people who control this creature, assuming they actually exist?”
“We’re still working on that,” Morris said. “No point in going after them until we have a reasonable chance of surviving the encounter.”
Reinhart added something to the notes he’d been making. Then he put down his pen and said, “I need to give this some serious thought, and prayer. I also want to consult with a couple of my senior commanders, whose opinions I value.”
“How long do you figure this will all take?” Morris asked.
“Probably several hours. During that time, I invite you to be my guests.”
Morris looked at Libby, then turned back to Reinhart. “Well, having come this far...”
“Yes, quite.” Reinhart stood, walked to the door, and opened it. “Father-Major Pearson!”
Within seconds, Pearson was standing in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“Escort our guests to the Officers’ Day Room. Make sure they have whatever they need.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And let our brother officers know that the Day Room is off-limits to them for the next six hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pearson turned to Morris and Libby. “If you will follow me, please?”
And so they did. They even acted as if they had a choice.
Twenty-Four
AT ONE O’CLOCK, Nasiri was standing before an exhibit of medieval Arabic art when Uthman appeared at his elbow.
“Peace be upon you, my brother,” the wizard said quietly.
“And upon you, too.” Nasiri also kept his voice down, even speaking Arabic. In this building, in this city, Arabic was more likely to be used than English. There were perhaps a dozen other people in the large, open room, but none of them stood nearby. If someone did approach the art exhibit, Nasiri and Uthman would casually move on to another area, far enough away from other people to keep them safe from prying ears, regardless of the language they used.
“What did you wish to discuss with me so urgently, my brother?” Nasiri asked.
Uthman took a moment before answering. “It concerns... Rashid,” he said.
“I surmised as much,” Nasiri said, and waited.
“I allowed him egress from the lamp, last night – after first surrounding it with an unbreachable barrier of magic, of course.”
“Again? Why must you continue to do such things?”
“For the same reason that a lion tamer works with his big cats on a regular basis, brother – to remind them who is dominant. Otherwise, he may face an unpleasant surprise on the day he performs before the crowd.”
“I am not certain that I find such an analogy convincing,” Nasiri said.
“I believe it is very appropriate,” Uthman told him. “The fragment of Great Suleiman’s Seal that we have is not very large. As I have explained to you, the size is directly related to its power.”
“I hope you are not about to suggest that we secure a larger relic for you – even assuming that one could be located somewhere.”
“No, brother – I am aware that that would be all but impossible. My own resources – which are consider
able, I may say – have been unable to uncover any other verified fragment anywhere.”
“Very well, then. So you let our friend out of his container, to re-establish your dominance over him. What is the problem that caused you to get in touch with me?”
Uthman hesitated again, and Nasiri felt a worm of unease begin crawling through his guts.
“The comparison of my work to that of a lion tamer was perhaps more apt than you realize, brother,” Uthman said. “In both cases, a degree of caution, or restraint, is called for. The man in the cage has his whip and chair, perhaps even a revolver. However, the power these accord him is limited. One can push a lion or leopard only so far without risk of bloody rebellion. The same is true of our friend in the lamp, despite my possessing a piece of Great Suleiman’s Seal.”
Nasiri kept the irritation off his face, but allowed it to show in his voice. “Brother, if there is something you wish to tell me, I think it would be a very good thing for you to say it outright.”
Uthman nodded nervously. “You recall, I am sure, that... expedition that three of us – led by myself, of course – undertook some six weeks ago, in order to provide what Rashid said was essential nourishment.”
“I am hardly likely to forget it, and the risks involved in securing the... organ that Rashid required.”
“Then we must prepare ourselves to endure more risks, brother,” Uthman said. “Because he wants another one.”
Twenty-Five
MORRIS WAS READING an article in the current issue of Military Strategy about how Napoleon could have won at Waterloo when Father-Major Pearson returned for them.
The Officers’ Day Room at Knights Templar headquarters was the size of a living room in a large house, and was furnished with a number of couches and easy chairs – all a bit worn, but undeniably comfortable. The room also contained some low tables, a widescreen TV, a cooler containing soda and bottled water, and a coffee maker whose product was far better than Morris would have expected. Libby favored tea, and that was available, too. They had been brought surprisingly good food from the Officers’ Mess, and allowed use of a nearby restroom – with an escort to and from, of course.
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