Midnight At The Oasis

by Justin Gustainis

  Timing was important – he knew that many groups would try to take credit for this action as soon as they heard of it. But Nasiri’s message, sent in the name of “The Brothers of the Sheik,” would arrive within seconds after the afreet had set the immense building ablaze. There would be no doubt in the world’s mind as to who was responsible for this great act of jihad.

  He glanced toward Uthman, who sat across from him, and let his gaze linger on the canvas bag resting between the wizard’s feet. So much power in such a small object. So much fury, waiting to be unleashed on Uthman’s command.

  As the subway car began to slow, a metallic voice informed them that the next stop would be the World Trade Center complex. Nasiri felt his heart racing, and he reveled in the sensation.

  It was going to be a wonderful day.

  Fifty-Three

  “I NEED A rifle, a good one,” Morris said.

  Libby’s face showed her confusion.

  “A dream I was having when you woke me up,” Morris said. “Something – or someone – was trying to tell me that a real rifle, not something shooting just cherry pits, was what would stop these bastards. I should have realized it before – if you kill the wizard, you don’t have to worry about the fucking afreet. As long as you get him in time.”

  “Get him from where?”

  “You said there was more than one tower?”

  “Yes – seven of them.”

  “We need to get on the roof of one of those towers, with binoculars and a rifle, along with our fruit stone weapons. We have to command the high ground, Libby.”

  “But where are you going to get a rifle in time? There’s a sporting goods store one block over –”

  “Even if they had what I need, there’s no time to sight it in – and this is most likely going to call for precision marksmanship. I wish I was as good with a rifle as–”

  He stopped talking for a second, then said, “Shit, we know a guy who used to do this stuff for a living.”

  “You mean Peters?”

  “That’s the fella.”

  Morris jumped to his feet and headed rapidly for the door. Over his shoulder he said, “I need a phone. Meantime, you get online and figure out which of those buildings offers a good view of the central tower.”

  “They all do, Quincey. They built it that way.”

  “Then pick one, dammit!” Morris yanked open the door of the closet, found his jacket, and extracted his cell phone. “I need to know, so I can tell Peters where to meet us – assuming he’s even in town.”

  Libby headed back toward her office, then stopped and turned back to Morris. But what if he’s not?”

  “Then we’re fucked – but not as bad as the people in that building. Now go!”

  Fifty-Four

  THE DELTA FLIGHT from Toledo kissed the tarmac at JFK, bounced once, then settled down and began to slow as the pilot applied reverse thrust. When the plane reached taxiing speed, one of the flight attendants spoke over the PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats until the aircraft has come to a complete stop at the gate. The use of cell phones and other electronic devices is now permitted.”

  Mal Peters reached inside his jacket and removed his Android phone. Next to him, Ashley pulled out his briefcase from where it had been stowed under the seat in front of her. The object in the case, which had seemed so innocuous to the TSA screeners in Detroit, was too valuable to risk being lost by careless baggage handlers.

  Peters began checking his messages. “Quincey Morris called,” he told Ashley. “Just a couple of minutes ago, looks like.”

  “Don’t tell him about Solly’s Seal,” she said. “I want Libby to be surprised.”

  “She sure as hell ought to be,” said, then looked sideways at her. “No pun intended.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” she said. “Just see what Morris wants, will you?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Peters pressed an icon on the phone and brought it to his ear. Ashley watched his facial expression slide from happy to serious to grim, all within the space of half a minute.

  As he was closing down his voicemail, Ashley said, “What?” She was sounding pretty grim herself.

  “It’s today – at noon. The main World Trade Center tower.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Ashley said softly.

  Peters grimaced as he scrolled through his phone directory in search of Morris’s number. “I should have known.”

  “Why?”

  “Check the date.”

  Ashley glanced at her watch, saw the “11” in the date window. She was swearing under her breath as Peters found Morris’s number and called it.

  “Quincey? It’s Peters. Yeah – we’re in a plane, but should be in the terminal building within ten minutes.”

  Peters listened, then said, “Yeah, I’ve got what you need at the apartment.” He looked at his own watch then said, “It’s gonna be tight, but I might make it if we get lucky with the traffic. Where you gonna be?”

  Peters listened a few seconds longer, then said “I’ll do my best, buddy,” and ended the call.

  He turned to Ashley. “Four World Trade Center. On the roof. He needs a rifle.”

  “You’ve gotta be a much better shot than he is, especially with your own gun.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was planning to volunteer my services – assuming I get there in time to do anything useful.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him about the Seal?”

  “You said not to.”

  “Idiot – that was before I knew the shit was gonna hit the fan today.”

  “Want me to call him back?”

  “No – if I don’t get it to Libby in time, it doesn’t matter whether he knows or not.”

  A line of concentration appeared on Ashley’s forehead.

  “All right. Fuck the other baggage for now – we’ve got what we need right here.” She rested a hand on the briefcase. “So we take separate cabs – you go home, get what Morris needs, and haul ass for the building. I’ll head there directly with our little artifact and try to get it to Libby.”

  “Hopefully one of us will get there in time to do something useful.”

  “A consummation devoutly to be fucking wished.”

  They still had not reached the gate, but a glance out the window showed they were close now. Ashley let her eyes drift around the cabin. “I’m glad we always fly first class,” she said.

  “How come?”

  “Fewer people between us and the door to knock over.”

  Fifty-Five

  THE SKYSCRAPER KNOWN as Four World Trade Center stands seventy-two stories over the city of Manhattan. Its roof is not supposed to be accessible to the public – that’s why the stairs leading up there are behind a locked steel door that reads, “Authorized Personnel Only.” But the lock has not been invented that could withstand Libby Chastain’s magic.

  Normally anyone walking into the building carrying a rifle case, as Morris was, would be challenged by building security before he could even reach the elevators. But Libby had a solution to that problem, too. She cast a spell that temporarily conferred on Morris the Tarnhelm Effect, which meant he was not noticed as they hustled from their taxi into the building and across the lobby. Morris was not invisible, as such, but nobody’s eye would be drawn to him – which was the next best thing.

  So Morris and Libby reached the roof without interference, closed the steel door behind them, and took a look around. They were not made happy by what they saw.

  One problem was the distance between the tower buildings. Seven were planned for the complex, but so far only WTC buildings One (the “Freedom Tower”), Three, Four, and Seven were open for business, with the other three still in various stages of construction.

  Morris estimated that the Freedom Tower was about eight hundred feet from where he and Libby now stood. The building next door, WTC 3 (which, Libby said, was fifty-eight stories tall) was closer, but only by three hundred feet or so. Five hundred feet was ju
st too damn far for either the air rifle or Libby’s slingshot to have any hope of hitting something – and that was for the closest building.

  The other perturbing factor was the wind. At street level, they had encountered nothing more than a gentle breeze. But seventy-two stories up in the sky was a different matter. Morris was no expert at measuring these things, but he would have wagered a great deal of money that the wind atop WTC 3 was blowing at least twenty-five miles an hour.

  Using a powerful, sighted-in rifle with a good telescopic sight, Morris figured he’d have a good chance of hitting anything man-sized on the roof of the adjoining building, and might even have a chance of hitting someone on one of the other buildings, at least twelve hundred feet away. The wind would still be a problem, but you can compensate for it – maybe.

  However, Morris had no rifle – at the moment, anyway. Peters had promised to bring one as soon as he could, but the time/distance equation was not promising. Moving quickly through the city was hard to do without access to flashing red lights and a siren, and Peters had neither.

  Morris stood with his hands resting on the brick ledge surrounding the roof area, staring at the Freedom Tower. When Libby joined him, he said, “Unless Peters gets here in time with a long gun for us, we are pretty much screwed.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was just thinking that myself.”

  “The distances between buildings are just too damn far – even without the fucking wind.”

  “I know.” Libby ran a hand nervously through her hair and said, “I’ve got kind of an idea about that, actually. But I’m reluctant even to suggest it.”

  Morris looked at her. “How come?”

  “Because it might get us killed.”

  “Oh, hell, is that all?” Morris snorted. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I could put together a summoning spell – I’ve got the gear with me to do it, I already checked. If they turn that afreet loose, the spell might get his attention and prompt him to head over here. That way, we might have a chance with our pit-propellers.”

  “Pit-propellers,” Morris said with a weak grin. “That’s pretty good. But I thought your magic was useless against any species of djinn.”

  “It is, in the sense that I can’t compel it to do anything – not without a piece of Solomon’s Seal, anyway, and we know how that worked out. But I can put something out there which the afreet will almost certainly notice. Whether it chooses to do anything about it is anybody’s guess.”

  “So you magically ask the afreet to come over and say, ‘Hi.’ And if it does, we let fly with our weapons, such as they are.”

  “Something like that, yes,” she said.

  “And if the pits don’t work, the afreet might decide to burn us to cinders, just because we pissed it off.”

  “I did say we could die, Quincey.”

  “But you’re willing to try the spell anyway?”

  It took her a few seconds to answer. “Yes, I am. I’ve been thinking about all the people who work in the Freedom Tower, and what’s going to happen to them when the afreet’s turned loose on the building. If I didn’t do everything in my power to stop it, I’m pretty sure their dying screams would haunt me for the rest of my life.”

  “Yeah, I hear you.” Morris looked over at the Freedom Tower a little longer, then said, “Well, shit, Libby – if you’re willing to invite the damn thing over, the least I can do is shoot some cherry pits at him by way of welcome.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Well, I’d best get started on the spell.”

  Morris had a pair of binoculars slung around his neck, which Libby had dug out of a closet in her condo. “You gonna take a look around with those?” She asked.

  “Might as well.”

  “Sing out if you see anything interesting.”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” he said.

  Fifty-Six

  THE TAXI FARE from JFK to Peters’s apartment building was $38.50. He gave the driver a fifty and said, “Keep the change – and wait for me. I won’t be more than ten minutes.”

  Not long afterward, he was unlocking the apartment that he shared with Ashley. He walked swiftly to the spare bedroom, opened a closet, and surveyed the four rifle cases stacked on the floor. They were different colors for easy identification, and Peters grabbed the black one without hesitation. He opened it to reveal a Remington XM 2010, the standard sniper rifle of the U.S. Army, with an attached Leupold Mark 4 telescopic sight. He unlocked a nearby file cabinet and found a box of .300 Winchester Magnum ammunition, which he placed inside the rifle case before relocking it.

  Minutes later, he walked rapidly out of his building – to find no cab waiting in front. The bastard must have taken off, despite the promise of another good tip from Peters. Muttering speculations about the cab driver’s probable lineage, physical endowment, and relationships with female family members, Peters jogged to the curb and began looking for another cab to flag down.

  Not only were taxis sparse in this neighborhood during mid-day, but quite a few cab drivers are reluctant to stop for a large, clearly pissed-off man carrying a gun case. By the time Peters finally got somebody to pick him up, it was 11:48.

  The deadline was noon, and he already knew he wasn’t going to make it – but he tried, anyway. Waving two fifties near the cabbie’s face, he said, “These are for you if you can get me to the World Trade Center Plaza before noon.”

  The driver stared at the bills, then at Peters. “You pay for any tickets I get?”

  “Yeah,” Peters said. “I’ll take care of ’em.”

  “Then I suggest you find something to hang on to.”

  Fifty-Seven

  MORRIS KEPT BUSY with the binoculars, scanning the nearby roofs and the streets below for anything suspicious. It was 11:53 when he said to Libby, “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  “Where?” Libby was on her knees ten feet behind him, still busy conjuring the spell that might or might not attract an afreet to their rooftop. Morris wasn’t sure whether he hoped she would succeed or fail.

  “Right next door – Building Three.” Four World Trade Center, where Morris and Libby were, stood fourteen stories taller than the adjoining skyscraper, some five hundred feet away.

  “What have we got?” Libby asked.

  “Four guys. I’d say they look Arab to me. One of them’s got some kind of big carpet bag with him.”

  “Let me know if they do anything interesting,” she said. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

  “Right.” Morris brought the binoculars back up to his eyes. “Where the hell is fucking Peters?”

  Fifty-Eight

  NASIRI STARED WITH loathing at the immense building the Americans had put up – so big and new and shiny. It was as if the great act of vengeance had never happened, on this date those years ago. They thought they could forget what the Sheik had done.

  Nasiri was about to remind them.

  He posted Tamwar on the roof door, with instructions to kill anyone who tried to interfere. Tamwar carried the big automatic that Nasiri had got for him, and he knew how to use it. He was the only one of the group who was armed.

  Then Nasiri saw what Uthman was bringing out of his bag, and could not suppress a face-splitting grin. He had been wrong; Tamwar was not the only one of them who was armed, and the weapon that Uthman had brought was more deadly than any gun ever invented.

  Fifty-Nine

  “LIBBY?” MORRIS DID not lower the binoculars as he spoke.

  “Almost there.”

  “You won’t believe what this old dude just brought out of the bag.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s a lamp – one of those old fucking oil lamps that looks kinda like a flattened teapot. I swear, it’s straight out of the Arabian Nights.”

  “Nice to hear that somebody’s keeping up the traditions,” she said. “Okay, I’m set. Let me know when the afreet appears.”

  “What’s it gonna look like?”

  “Trus
t me, Quincey – you’ll know it when you see it.”

  Sixty

  NASIRI WATCHED WITH fascination as Uthman waved his hands slowly over the lamp and began to chant. He had never seen the afreet, only heard Uthman’s description of the creature. He was beside himself with eagerness.

  “What would you have me do to assist, my brother?” Rahim asked him. With no throats to cut or lions to butcher, he seemed at a loss.”

  “Pray to Allah for our success!”

  Nasiri’s eyes widened as red smoke began to issue from the spout of the lamp.

  “Come forth, great Rashid,” Uthman called, in ancient Arabic. Nasiri had studied enough of the dialect to follow what was being said. “The great day is at hand!” Uthman held in his right hand an irregularly-shaped piece of metal the approximate size of a silver dollar.

  The scarlet smoke continued to billow, and now it began to take coherent shape. It looked vaguely humanoid, with identifiable arms, legs, and head. As Nasiri watched, it slowly grew to a height of twenty feet, and now more detailed features could be seen.

  The afreet, red as the smoke coming from the lamp, had horns like a bull and hands that ended in long, vicious-looking claws. Unlike some of the old illustrations, which Nasiri now realized had been modified for the sake of decency, the creature was not clothed – and its gender was obviously, emphatically male.

  When the creature spoke, its voice was so loud that Nasiri had to fight the urge to cover his ears.

  “Rashid is here, o wizard!” the afreet thundered. “I have come forth, as bidden by the ancient words. What dost thou want of me?”

  Uthman pointed. “Behold the great tower of the infidels! There it stands, a testament to the vanity of man, and an affront to Allah, whom all men must obey. I bid you, mighty Rashid, destroy it with your fire! Show the infidels thy power, and let them know thy wrath!”