Shadow Tag

by Raymond Khoury

  “Templars, huh?” Malone asked.

  “I thought that might pique your interest.”

  “I’m a bit rusty on the subject,” Malone chortled. “It’s been a while.”

  “Ten years. For us both.”

  Malone stared out the window for a moment as the car barreled down the M4 towards the city. Cloud cover the color of slate squatted overhead, threatening to unleash a torrent at any moment, but for now, the rain was holding off. In the distance ahead, a swathe of pink was livening up the horizon.

  “Weird, wasn’t it?” Malone asked.

  “What?”

  “Both of us getting sucked into two totally unrelated Templar situations within a few weeks of each other?”

  “And both having to do with ancient writings related to the origin of the faith.”

  “Seriously, what are the odds?”

  Reilly let out a small chuckle. “You couldn’t make it up if you tried.”

  “You had another run-in with their legacy a few years ago, right?”

  Reilly grimaced, remembering the events in Rome and in Turkey that followed Tess’s kidnapping at the hands of a particularly savage Iranian agent a few years after his first misadventure. “Yeah, lucky me. And there I was thinking there’s no way I could possibly get dragged into another Templar plot.”

  “And yet, here we are.”

  “Yep,” Reilly nodded. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “Anytime, buddy. So where are we with this anyway? Anything new since we spoke?”

  “No. You saw the transcripts.” He handed Malone the printouts of the relevant chatter. “We have no idea what they’re planning. But these guys are up to something, today, somewhere here in London.”

  Malone went over the transcript, his eyes pausing at something Reilly had already mentioned to him in his call to action. “‘The books?’ You think they might be after another old stash of gospels?”

  “Maybe.”

  Malone rolled his eyes. “I thought Constantine had them all burned back in the 4th century.”

  “His minions clearly didn’t do a great job with that. I don’t think we’re ever going to hear the last of them.”

  “Great,” Malone groaned. “Okay, so where do we start?

  “A Lebanese restaurant on Edgware Road,” Reilly said. He pulled out his smartphone and showed Malone an image stored on it. “The three phones GCHQ got the hits off are burner phones, they aren’t registered to anyone. But by tracking their cell movements over the last week, since the SIM cards went live, the eggheads came up with something.”

  Malone studied the map on the screen. It was a city map of London and had three lines of different colors snaking around the city. He pointed at where the lines intersected. “This is the place?”

  “Exactly,” Reilly said. “All three have been there at some point in the last week. Not at the same time. But they’ve all been there.”

  “Which doesn’t mean they’ll be going there again. Unless …”

  Reilly smiled. “Exactly. You’ve been out there. You know how addictive a great shawarma wrap is.”

  “And not easy to find.”

  “I’m betting these guys get hungry again. And when they do, we’ll make sure it’s their last supper.”

  Malone gave him a dubious look, pained by the pun.

  “I know, sorry,” Reilly concurred. “Anyway, we should be there in about fifteen minutes. Are you carrying?”

  “Can’t. Not officially.”

  “Here you go.” Reilly handed him a Glock 17 handgun, along with an extra magazine that housed seventeen nine-millimeter rounds. “I signed it out in my name. Try not to make too many holes with it.”

  Malone checked it, then tucked it in under his belt. “No promises.”

  5

  “You’re probably wondering why we brought you here.”

  “The question did pop up,” Khoury said.

  Their captor ignored the remark. “It has to do with your work. You see, we need you to come up with a new idea. A new plot. Something … epic.”

  Khoury and Berry looked at each other with evident confusion.

  Khoury asked, “You’re, what—a rival publisher?”

  “It’s not for a book.”

  “A TV show then, or,” Khoury’s eyes lit up, “a movie?”

  “Either way, you really need to go through our agents,” Berry offered. “That’s the way it’s usually done.”

  “Yeah, I mean, look, we’re flattered, we appreciate your putting up this whole song and dance to impress us, but, seriously—”

  The man twirled his gun playfully before letting it settle with its barrel lined up on the author’s face.

  Khoury lost his grin. “Maybe I should let you tell us some more.”

  “It’s not for a movie or a television show. It’s for us to do. In real life.” He paused, clearly wanting to watch the confusion on his prisoners’ faces morph into fear.

  “‘To do?’” Berry asked. “You mean—”

  “I mean I want you to come up with a great plot, something really bad that we can do to cause a lot of death and suffering.” His tone took on a dark, messianic fervor. “Something spectacular, something that hasn’t been done before. Something that will bring America to its knees and shake the whole world. Something that will never be forgotten.”

  Berry and Khoury were speechless.

  The man seemed to be enjoying the effect of his words on them.

  Berry asked, “You want us to plan something for you?”

  “Exactly.”

  Berry considered his reply for a moment, then calmly added, “Why us?”

  “Because we keep getting caught. Every time we try something, every plan my brothers out there come up has failed. Since 9/11, every time one of our groups has tried to attack America, it’s ended in disaster.” His eyes narrowed. “We need you to come up with something foolproof. Something unexpected, but that will work. Because you’ll have thought of everything that can go wrong and planned around it. In this story, you’ll make the bad guys win.”

  “That’s a twist, for sure, but … why us?” Khoury asked.

  “You’re writers,” the man said. “You do this every day.”

  “Yeah, but I mean, why us, why me and Steve? The kind of thing you’re talking about, terrorist-counter-terrorist stuff—it’s not really what we do. You need someone like, I don’t know, Brad Thor. Or Kyle Mills. They’d be your best bet.”

  Berry added, “Or Terry Hayes. Have you read I Am Pilgrim? He’d be perfect.”

  “Or maybe someone like Howard Gordon. He did 24. And Homeland. What you’re talking about is right up his alley.”

  “No,” the man barked angrily. “No dirty bombs, no suitcase nukes, no viruses. I want something original. Something … unique.” His eyes tightened, along with his jaw muscles. “Something that will make me even bigger than Bin Laden.”

  Khoury thought for a second, then said, “Have you considered Dan Brown?”

  “Or Lee Child,” Berry suggested. “He’s really twisted, and he’s in town. The stories I could tell you.”

  The man’s face broke into a narrow, sadistic smile as he shook his head slowly. “Sorry, my friends. You’re it.”

  “Look, this is nuts,” Berry protested. “You can’t seriously expect us to come up with a way for you to kill people.”

  “Oh, I do expect you to, believe me,” the man countered. “Right now, it’s only the two of you. But it wouldn’t be hard for us to grab your families. If you need more … inspiration.”

  Berry looked over to Khoury, whose expression now mirrored his own growing sense of doom.

  Khoury asked, “This is insane. Whose brilliant idea was this anyway? Yours?”

  The man smiled. “Actually, your government thought of it first.”

  Both authors’ jaws dropped. “What?”

  “I was reading up about Bin Laden, trying to inspire myself into greatness like his, and I found out that just aft
er 9/11, your government brought together a bunch of top producers and writers from Hollywood and asked them to brainstorm how someone might try to attack America. And it got me thinking that I should do the same thing.”

  “Brainstorming ways to save people’s lives over a weekend in some nice Malibu beach house is a bit different from … this,” Khoury protested.

  The man gave them a sheepish shrug. “Sorry. Best I can do.” Then he clapped his hand, hard. “Okay. Enough wasting time. You have your assignment.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  The goon in the leather jacket reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a couple of small black notebooks and two pens. He tossed them onto the mattress closest to Berry.

  “Let me know when you have something,” the lead goon said.

  He turned to go when Berry blurted, “Wait, hang on a second.”

  The man turned.

  Berry asked, “You seriously expect us to come up with a brilliant plan for you, just like that?”

  “Your lives and those of the ones you love most depend on it.”

  “How do we even know you’ll let us go if we do this,” Khoury asked.

  “I have no use for you once it’s done,” the man said. “And letting you go will only help fuel my legend. Besides, it’s not all bad. Think about it. After this, you’ll become global celebrities. Anything you write will sell a zillion copies.”

  “We’ll be the most despised people on the planet,” Khoury objected.

  Their captor wasn’t moved. “I’ve always read that any publicity is good publicity, no?”

  Khoury exhaled and looked over to Berry. They seemed equally exasperated, outraged, despondent. But then Berry gave Khoury the tiniest of nods, firing up a kernel of resolve inside him.

  “Get to work,” the man said.

  He turned to go, and again, one of the authors interrupted his exit.

  “Wait,” Khoury said. “We need more. To work with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Any decent plot starts with the antagonist.”

  The man seemed confused.

  “The bad guy,” Khoury explained. “These stories are only as good as their bad guy.”

  The man said, “Fine. That’s me.”

  “So we need to know about you.”

  The man laughed, then wagged a finger at him. “Clever. Trying to get some information out of me?”

  “No, I’m serious,” Khoury said. “It’s all about character motivation. It has to be solid. So we need to know, why are you doing this?”

  “Where does this lust for blood come from?” Berry added. “Why are you angry at America? Was it something in your past? Maybe you blame us for something that happened to you or your family? Someone you cared for?”

  The man thought for a moment, then shrugged. “No.”

  The writers seemed thrown by his answer.

  “Okay,” Khoury said, “you said you wanted to be bigger than Bin Laden. Where does that come from? Were you bullied at school? Or maybe at home? Did anything happen that changed you, that turned you into, if you don’t mind my saying it, a raging psychopath?”

  The man considered the question, then shook his head. “No.”

  The writers exchanged a perplexed look.

  Berry asked, “So why are you doing this?”

  “It’s more fun than driving an Uber.” He grinned, then fired them a look that said they were done and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” Berry said.

  The man exhaled loudly, dropped his shoulders, then turned around grudgingly. “Now what?”

  “We need a name,” Berry said. “Something to call you.”

  Khoury added, “Ideally, something with a strong ring to it.”

  The man nodded, then proudly proclaimed, “My friends call me El Assad. The Lion.”

  Khoury glanced at Berry, then shook his head.

  “What?” the man asked.

  “Can’t use it,” Berry said. “Nelson DeMille already used it. Twice.”

  “Then there’s the Syrian president. He’s really taken the shine off that name.”

  “True.”

  The man frowned.

  “What about Dr. Evil?” Khoury asked sheepishly.

  “I’m not a doctor,” the man said.

  Khoury gave Berry a discreet grin. “Worth a shot.”

  “Call me Abul Mowt,” the man proposed, his face darkening with the words.

  Khoury’s face sank. Which Berry noticed.

  “What?” Berry asked.

  “It means ‘father of death,’” Khoury said.

  Berry looked over to their captor. “Not bad,” he said. “That, we can work with.”

  “So get to work,” the man said somberly.

  “And about the food …?” Khoury asked.

  The man’s tone rose with irritation. “I’ll get you some damn food. Anything else?”

  “It’d be good to have an internet connection,” Berry said. “You know, for research.”

  The man glared at him, half-amused. “Nice try. Get me something, soon. You’re not leaving here until you do.”

  Then he walked out, his fingers snapping his minions to follow suit, leaving the two authors locked in their cell.

  6

  Reilly had no idea how capable his targets would prove to be, but as he took another bite of his chicken shawarma wrap, he was certain of one thing: when it came to Lebanese food, these guys knew where to go.

  “Unbelievable,” he said, watching as Malone layered some tabbouleh along the spine of a lettuce leaf.

  “I really miss this in Copenhagen,” Malone managed between mouthfuls. “Can’t get decent Lebanese food there. Nothing like this, anyway.”

  Reilly dipped a triangle of thin Arabic bread into the plate of humus, then studied the restaurant again as he savored the bite.

  It was a long, narrow room. Along one side of it ran a bar made of a slightly garish, richly-veined marble. Behind the bar were the two shawarma stands, huge, fat cylinders of meat—one lamb, the other chicken—that was layered onto a skewer that rotated slowly in front of a gas fire. There was also a wide, narrow horizontal charcoal grill that was used for kebabs, and a wide preparation area where the three chefs added the various condiments and garnishes to the sandwiches or plates. Eight customers, all men, sat on tall stools facing the bar, eating. A couple of them seemed chummy with the chefs and were chatting away with them between bites. A dozen small tables lined the other wall, which was clad with large mirrors. Reilly and Malone occupied the table closest to the door, facing the shawarma stands, where a couple of other men waited for their takeaways. Judging by the uninterrupted flow of such pick-ups, and of diners coming in and out of the place since the two Americans had been seated there, the restaurant was evidently doing a brisk business on all fronts.

  No one in the place stood out though, but then again, Reilly and Malone didn’t have an ID on any of the bad guys. All they could do for now was sit there and wait in the hope that one of the phones would go live again and that GCHQ would pick up its trail, a trail that, with a bit of luck, would lead to a target walking into that very restaurant. Until then, they could only wait—and enjoy the food.

  Reilly took another sip of his Coke, then checked his phone again. He had a strong 4G signal, but nothing had come in yet from GCHQ.

  He was reaching over for another dip at the humus bowl when a new customer walked in. He was dressed in a dark, loose-fitting suit—nothing expensive—and no tie. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and had dark circles under his eyes. Something about this guy attracted Reilly’s attention. He glanced discreetly at Malone. He, too, had sensed something. Agents—good agents—noticed the most minuscule details. Sometimes, it was something you could actually pinpoint: the way a person’s attention flits around a room when they walk in; the tension in their shoulders, in their gait. Other times, it’s a subconscious awareness. Nothing tangible they can point out, just a combination of tiny obse
rvations coupled with an instinct that’s been honed through years on the job.

  This was one such moment.

  The two agents carried on eating as the man walked up to the cashier at the far end of the bar and placed his order. He was too far for them to hear, but judging by the time it took and the cash he forked out, he was ordering more than just for himself. The cashier handed him a small printout slip, then the man walked back towards the front door and gave the slip to one of the chefs.

  Reilly and Malone observed the man start chatting with the chef. The man was clearly a regular. He and the chef were enjoying a good chat while the chef shaved pieces of chicken and lamb off the fat, cylindrical skewers onto a small steel tray. While still chatting, the chef then tipped bits of meat onto a row of wraps that were laid out in line. From where they were sitting, Reilly and Malone couldn’t see exactly how many sandwiches the man had ordered, but the chef’s arm movements indicated there were ten of them. The chef then put the tray down and started adding the garnishes to the sandwiches: sliced tomatoes, onions, pickled cucumber and beetroot for both lamb and chicken sandwiches, then garlic for the chicken and tahini—a sesame seed-based sauce—for the lamb.

  As he was doing it, the chef asked the man something. Reilly’s basic knowledge of Arabic was enough to understand what he was saying: the chef was asking the man if he wanted garlic on all the chicken sandwiches. Reilly knew this was a typical question: not everyone wanted to reek of garlic, which, in these sandwiches, was potent.

  The man Reilly and Malone were watching said yes at first. Then he had second thoughts and said something that caused Reilly’s pulse to spike. Malone saw it reflected in the tiny reaction in Reilly’s eyes. Reilly gave him an almost imperceptible confirmation nod.

  The man said, “Hott ketchup ala arba’a minon. Hadol Amerkan, ma byifhamo shi.”

  As in, Put ketchup on four of them. They’re Americans, they don’t know these things.

  The man said it with evident mockery, causing the chef to laugh. The chef then asked if he should add some mustard too, which the target laughed at before building on it with another comment that Reilly didn’t quite catch but that caused more merriment.

  It didn’t matter. Reilly had heard enough.