by Sean Ellis
Sirens were audible in the distance, but the familiar thump of rotor blades gradually drowned out the shrill noise of approaching emergency vehicles. The third helicopter was on its way and Kismet knew his enemies would arrive before the police. He had to get Capri away from the train line, away from anywhere her kidnappers might think to look. Every step was an ordeal.
Suddenly there was a figure standing directly in his path. Kismet fell to his knees and croaked: “Help me!” But even as the words escaped his lips, he knew that this shadowy presence was not there to offer aid.
He wore the cassock of a monk, with a cowl that completely hid his face. In different circumstances, Kismet would have thought the costume ostentatious, even laughable, but there was something strangely authentic--and deeply malefic--about the vestments. As the figure began to approach, Kismet noticed a length of black rope tied around his waist like a sash, and depending from one of the ends was a crucifix of carved wood, but for some reason, the short end of the vertical post was pointing toward the ground; the cross was inverted.
Kismet’s blood ran cold. He tried to get up, to lift Capri and resume their flight to freedom, but she had grown impossibly heavy. The dark monk glided closer, as if his unseen feet were floating above the ground. Kismet laid his charge aside as gently as possible, and then struggled to his feet.
He’s just a man; just an ordinary flesh and blood human, who happens to believe that he’s got help from below. Well, I know better.
He struck a fighter’s stance and waited for the malevolent figure to get within range. Although the man was almost in reach, his face remained a blank shadow beneath his hood, the same lightless hue as the cord around his waist. Kismet took a swing.
A robed arm shot out to block the punch, and as the gnarled fingers brushed his hand aside, Kismet felt something like an electrical shock course through his entire body. When he raised his head a moment later, he found that he had been knocked backward a dozen steps. In the periphery of his vision, he saw a pair of figures--two of the men that had first kidnapped Capri--approaching her motionless form, but then his attention was consumed by the baleful entity steadily advancing toward him. Before he could rise or retreat, his foe was upon him.
Frail ancient fingers, impossibly strong, closed around his throat and began to squeeze. Kismet fought the killing grip and directed impotent blows against the monk’s head and body, all to no avail. He caught a glimpse of Capri, dragged by her captors back to the surviving helicopter, but then his world was consumed by darkness... except for a single piercing beam of light, shining like the sun, and drawing him closer.
Then the dark monk was gone.
Nick Kismet lay spread-eagled across the parallel tracks of the Long Island Railroad, illuminated by the headlights of an onrushing train.
3
They smoke cigars in heaven?
It was an odd thought, since Kismet didn’t particularly believe in the afterlife. Nevertheless, the air was heavy with the sweet but acrid scent of burning tobacco. He started to open his eyes, but then a railroad spike of pain shot through his skull and he retreated into unconsciousness again.
“Cuban?” he muttered abruptly. He had no idea how much time had passed, but this time he wisely kept his eyes shut. It didn’t help much.
A dry chuckle rattled inside his head. “Why, Lieutenant Kismet, that would be illegal.”
Despite the incessant hammers ringing against the anvil of his skull, Kismet opened his eyes to investigate. He was in a small, relatively dark place, sprawled out on a couch upholstered in soft leather; it was, he realized, the interior of a limousine. Three men were sitting on a matching divan directly across from where he lay, surrounded by a halo of smoke, which issued from the phallic cigar jutting from the mouth of the man in the center. Of the trio, he was the most distinguished; his suit was a dark three-piece Saville Row, and a diamond studded Rolex encircled his wrist, but even if his adornments were discounted, the man still looked impressive, with chiseled features and a magnificent mane of silver hair. “Well, I guess you aren’t God,” Kismet said, at length. “He would know that I resigned my commission years ago. Which means I’m still alive, right?”
The man with the cigar laughed again then spoke in a deep basso profundo. “My apologies, Mr. Kismet. I wish I could say that my information about you was just outdated, but the truth is that I was hoping to appeal to your sense of esprit de corp.”
Something about the man was familiar, but Kismet’s mental energies were taxed to their limits just to stay conscious. He couldn’t help but notice the underlying accent, and the faint trace of a New Jersey accent , which was all the more incongruous when spoken in a voice so low as to be almost a growl. “I don’t follow you.”
“I was a soldier, too. A different war, but I fought for my country all the same.”
Kismet was beginning to feel like Alice, waking up in someone else’s dream. He forced himself to sit up. “What country was that?”
The man ignored his question, but seemed impressed at his resilience. “We thought you were dead--”
”So did I.”
“—but Sally just managed to pull you off the tracks before that train sliced you up for fish bait.”
It was the first thing he’d heard that made any kind of sense. “Tell Sally I said thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” grunted the man on the right, an imposing figure cut from the same cloth as the two men that had been shadowing Capri on the observation deck.
Comprehension washed over Kismet like the waves of a rising tide. “Okay, that was almost an introduction. What should I call you? Godfather?”
The two men on his flank bristled warily, but their leader raised a hand. “That’s not necessary. I am Giovanni Turino; most of my friends just call me Joe.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not real keen on getting into your social network Giovanni.” If Turino was rankled by his answer he gave no indication, but Sal and the other bodyguard seemed to turn purple in the low light. He ignored their ire and continued. “And while I appreciate you guys pulling my bacon out of the fire back there, something tells me your appearance on the scene wasn’t a coincidence.”
“You’re very astute, Mr. Kismet. Capri is my granddaughter.”
“Ah, well that almost explains everything.” He already suspected as much, based on the girl’s earlier reference. No doubt the mob boss had the resources to check up on all of his granddaughter’s social engagements. But as soon as he allowed that thought to sink in, a new can of worms was opened. He thought about the dark monk with the Satanic cross: Was that real? And what does any of this have to do with Prometheus? “So is this some kind of turf war?”
A corner of Turino’s mouth twitched, but rather than answer, he turned to Sal. “Get our guest something to drink. Something for the pain, eh?”
Sal twisted in his seat and opened the cabinet doors to reveal a well-stocked bar. “What’s your pleasure?”
Kismet almost demurred then reconsidered when he spied a sixteen-year-old single malt. Eager to show his independence, he took hold of the bottle and decanted a double portion for himself. There was a bucket of ice in the bar, but he took it neat and drained the glass in a long gulp.
Sal passed his employer a tumbler with equal parts of the amber liquor and water. Turino took a sip and smiled approvingly. “A good choice, but if you’re going to swill it down like that, you might want to stick with vodka. Less chance of a hangover.”
Kismet spent a moment enjoying the warm glow that spread from his chest to his extremities, before replying. “Thanks for the tip. Now, unless you’re going to tell me what’s going on, I’d appreciate if you could just drop me…” He glanced out the window, but saw nothing familiar in the endless urban landscape. “Just let me out at the next light.”
Turino regarded him through eyes that had narrowed into defensive slits. “You asked if this was a turf war; that’s exactly what it is, Mr. Kismet. And they’ve dragged my granddaught
er into it.”
“You have my sympathy but, forgive me for saying this, I thought that sort of stuff went with the territory.”
“I don’t expect you to approve of, or even understand, my life,” Turino rumbled. “But Capri is an innocent.”
“Let me guess. She thinks you’re a successful...what, plumber? Building contractor? And you no doubt play the part of doting grandfather.”
“Capri has no illusions about me, Mr. Kismet. But she has earned the right to judge; her parents...my beloved daughter, God rest her soul, and her husband were killed when she was just a girl. She wanted nothing to do with the family business, and I made sure she didn’t have to.”
Kismet poured himself another scotch whisky. Despite his ambivalent facade, he was curious about Capri’s background, and eager for clues that might expose the identity of the men that had kidnapped her. “You got her a cushy job writing for that rag, the Clarion?”
“She got the job on her own merits. In fact, she is a much better journalist than they deserve. I’m afraid the editors at the Times were as quick to judge as you are.”
“Okay, so she’s innocent. I did everything I could to save her--”
”For which I am grateful.” The capo leaned forward. “You may not like what I am, but be sure of this: my gratitude means something.”
Kismet nodded. “Fine, but why am I still here?”
Turino started to answer, then sat back and took a long pull on the cigar. He closed his eyes as he exhaled. “He almost killed you, didn’t he.”
“What?”
“Negron, the dark priest. He was there, right?”
“There wasn’t exactly a formal introduction.” Kismet winced at the memory and his hands unconsciously went to his throat. “Negron, huh? He seemed a little theatrical for an up and coming mob boss.”
“He’s much more than that. Negron is no ordinary priest.”
“I kind of picked up on that. Let me guess: he worships the Devil?”
The bodyguards shifted nervously and Sal crossed himself. Turino squinted again. “Are you familiar with the Vatican archives?”
“I understand they have an unparalleled collection of erotica,” Kismet said with a straight face.
Turino barked a short, humorless laugh. “For centuries, the Vatican has hoarded the world’s largest collection of art, historical documents, religious artifacts and so on. For the most part, the catalog has remained a closely guarded secret, even to those within the Church. But back in the late 1800's the Pope decided to open the archive to examination by scholars and members of the clergy. One of those scholars was a Benedictine monk visiting from Bogotá who was researching the Holy Relics of the Crucifixion. His name was Brother Emilio Negron.”
Kismet bit back a skeptical reply. He remained curious as to the connection the Mafia Don would make between the Vatican archives and the kidnapping of his granddaughter, but more than that, the mention of the capital city of the Republic of Colombia had struck a chord; the kidnappers uniform racial characteristics could be indicative of a common Latin American background. Turino seemed to be waiting for a response, so Kismet nodded. “Go on.”
“You are familiar with the relics of Christ? You deal with that sort of thing, right?”
“Splinters from the True Cross; the nails that pierced Jesus’ hands and feet; burial shrouds.” He shook his head. “Among other things, my office deals with historic art treasures from ancient civilizations. Religious artifacts typically have a dubious pedigree, and if you’ll pardon my candor, they’re a dime a dozen.”
There was a noncommittal grunt. “Brother Emilio found several of the items you’ve mentioned. But there was something else buried deep within the repository; something that was never meant to be revealed. Negron called it ‘the Judas Rope.’”
“According to the Bible, Judas Iscariot committed suicide after betraying Jesus. The Gospel of Matthew says he hanged himself.” Kismet flashed back to the dark cord that had been tied like a sash around the monk’s cassock. “Somebody kept the rope?”
“There is no official record to support that; only Negron’s supposition.”
Kismet folded his arms. “On the other hand, the book of Acts records that Judas jumped off a cliff and splattered himself all over the rocks. No rope. It’s one of many contradictions in scripture.”
“I’m not here to debate apologetics,” snapped Turino. It was the first time he had shown the slightest bit of irritation. “Whether or not you believe in these relics, or even in the teachings of the Church, this man Negron does believe.”
Kismet was unbowed. “Fine. He was a true believer. Now tell me how he ends up working for the guy downstairs.”
“Judas was seduced by avarice, one of the seven deadly sins. He was stealing from the poor box, and when he decided to betray the Christ, it was for money. But after the crucifixion, he felt remorse. He was so distraught he decided to take his own life. He tried to hang himself, but the rope broke and his body fell onto the rocks.” Turino took a deep breath. “Now, that is what the apologists say. Negron came to a different conclusion.
“When Judas betrayed the Christ with a kiss, he was damned, beyond hope of forgiveness. Even so, when he realized what he had done, he wanted to take it back. He threw the blood money into the temple, but it wasn’t enough. So he took a rope, tied it to a tree and tried to kill himself, as if his suicide—a mortal sin by itself—might balance scales and erase his eternal damnation. But the Devil knows when you try to renege on your deal. The rope broke and Judas died an accidental death. He was denied absolution from his crime and his black soul stained the rope noose around his neck. Brother Emilio believed that rope had become an unholy relic, wholly evil. Anyone touching it would be seduced into the service of Satan. No one is sure why, but after he figured all this out, Negron took the rope and vanished. He was subsequently excommunicated and sentenced to death in absentia by the Inquisition.”
“And he’s still alive over a century later?”
“I guess Lucifer actually kept his end of the bargain. As long as the servant remains faithful to his master, he is blessed with unending life.”
“Longevity doesn’t seem to agree with Brother Emilio.” Kismet stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Did you know that the Church invented Satanism? No one was worshiping the Devil until the Holy Inquisition decided it needed a pretext for persecuting its political enemies. The Black Mass, the rites and symbols, backwards Latin...all trumped up by so-called witnesses in order to condemn people who didn’t conform to the narrow interpretation of the faith or bow to the absolute power of the Church. If Negron believed that rope made people want to worship the devil, then it was his own belief that made it happen.”
Turino gazed at him, his face unreadable.
“Let’s say I accept everything you’ve said,” continued Kismet. “How does this involve you? And Capri?”
“Greed, Mr. Kismet. The sin of Judas. It is what drives Negron, even today.” Turino stubbed out his cigar. “For over a hundred years, Negron has roamed the world looking for acolytes to join him on the dark path. In the last few years, he has returned to the nation of his birth, and embraced a new generation of followers.”
“The drug cartels.”
Turino nodded. “One by one, he has corrupted the cartel drug lords to the path of evil.”
“Not exactly a long trip,” observed Kismet.
“It is one thing to compel a man to break the laws of nations. But to make them forsake God? That is not so easily done.”
“So how did he do it?”
“With the rope. He doesn’t threaten them directly. Such a forced conversion would have no value. Instead, he threatens to kill their loved ones with the Judas Rope. If someone dies with the rope around their neck, they are eternally damned. The cartel barons were given a choice: swear allegiance to Negron, or their loved ones will burn forever. If they ever break their oath, the curse is binding. Once he ruled the cartels, Negron had an army at hi
s disposal, and like any victorious king, set his sights on a bigger prize: the American syndicates.”
Kismet found this even less credible than the notion of a devil-worshiping immortal priest. “So criminals and murderers are worried about their eternal souls?”
“We care about our families, Mr. Kismet.” Turino’s voice had become as taut as a garrote. “I won’t waste my breath trying to explain our code to you, our sense of honor, but ours is a tradition that goes back hundreds of years. The Colombians may be animals, savage and vicious, but they still protect the ones they love. And we share something else: faith.
“You call us criminals, murderers...you have no idea. We have always walked a fine line between belief and damnation. Threaten my eternal soul...” He made a dismissive gesture. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe. Now, you make that threat against my beloved granddaughter and you’ll get my attention. Give me the choice between my own soul and hers, that’s easy.”
Kismet kept his expression hard. “Do you believe Negron has this power?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. He has her, and if I don’t do what he says, he’ll kill her.”
Then the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “You want me to rescue her.”
A guilty look softened the Mafioso’s countenance. “Negron is holding Capri at a house in Montauk. If I’m not standing in front of him by midnight, to swear on the Judas Rope to serve him and his master, he’ll kill her. That’s three hours from now, Mr. Kismet. My men told me what happened at the Empire State Building. And I saw you fight Negron with my own eyes. If anyone can help her, it’s you.”
Kismet looked away, gazing through the tinted windows at the streetlights and storefronts as they passed by. He realized with a start that the chauffeur had navigated through city streets to the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood where Kismet lived. The Don was giving him a choice. He turned his gaze back to Turino. “I’ll need to get a few things first.”
