“Um, it was a joke, Libby. I was just foolin’ around.”
“No, think about it. If we send Bambi – or whatever her name is – after the afreet, firing peach pits at him out of her twat – heck, there’s a good chance the darn thing will just die laughing.”
Nineteen
SWEETWATER VILLAGE RETIREMENT Community consisted of a number of near-identical small houses that the property management insisted on calling “bungalows.” Each sat on a small lot full of grass, kept green, even in the current drought, by a sprinkler system that never seemed to stop running. Most of the houses had discreet signs that said “quiet, please” or some variation. So seriously did the management take the residents’ wish for peace and quiet that no motorized vehicles were allowed anywhere on the facility, although Quincey Morris assumed that exceptions must be made for delivery trucks – not to mention ambulances. But everyone else traveled by electric golf cart, which visitors could rent from the management office for a nominal fee. As he and Libby Chastain made their near-silent way through the winding streets, Morris noticed some golf carts parked in driveways that appeared to have been heavily customized – sort of like low-power hot rods. He supposed the old folks had to express their individuality somehow, but he thought the red one with “Pussywagon” painted on the sides in yellow script was both tawdry and over-optimistic.
There was a golf cart parked in the driveway of #114, but it was as plain and unadorned as the day it had come out of the box. Morris parked their borrowed vehicle behind it and checked his watch: 2:59. Good. Morris had written to David Kabov that he and a female companion would call on Mister Kabov at 3:00 o’clock, and he had been told that Kabov insisted on punctuality.
The hour had struck – silently, of course – by the time he and Libby reached the pastel-blue front door, so Morris rang the bell. While waiting for a response from within, he looked around, noting that a security camera was mounted ten feet above the door, aimed at the exact place where he and Libby were standing. Morris looked at the little house next door, then at the one across the street. Neither had a similar camera in place. Apparently David Kabov wanted to know for certain who was standing on his front step.
After half a minute or so, there was a loud click, and the door swung open a few inches under its own weight. Morris waited for someone inside to open it the rest of the way, but when nobody did, he pushed the door slowly open himself and stepped inside, Libby close behind him. She’d told Morris that she had a couple of defensive spells prepared, in case their reception should be hostile.
A short hallway behind the door led into a larger room that was so gloomy Morris couldn’t tell whether anybody was in there or not.
“Mister Kabov? I’m Quincey Morris. I sent you a letter a few days back.”
A voice came from the dimness within. “Close the door.” It was strong and sure, not the quivery voice of an old man.
Libby complied, and the voice said, “Please come in. Be so good as to move slowly, and to keep your hands in plain sight.” The voice had an accent that Morris couldn’t place, although Kabov’s last name suggested Eastern Europe. The man named Kaspar had referred to him as the Lion of Judah, and that meant Israel. The two were not incompatible – many of Europe’s surviving Jews had settled in Israel after the war.
Morris’s eyes were adjusting now, and he could see that ahead of them was a living room, with the lights out and curtains drawn. He thought he could make out a man-sized figure seated in a chair.
As Morris reached the entrance to the living room, the man said, “To your right you will find a fairly comfortable sofa. I would be obliged if you were to sit down, side by side, Mister Morris to my left.”
They did as instructed. Morris’s eyes were almost fully used to the gloom now: the man was seated in what appeared to be a wheelchair, facing his guests from about twelve feet away over a low coffee table. There was some kind of blanket across his legs, and both his hands were tucked underneath it. There was a vague shape detectable under the blanket that Morris was fairly sure was not a kitten.
“I am David Kabov,” the man said. Some amusement entered his voice as he went on: “But then you knew that already.”
“I’m Quincey Morris, as I said at the door. And let me introduce my colleague, Libby Chastain.”
Libby nodded toward the man and said politely, “Mister Kabov.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Chastain. Welcome to my home.”
Kabov looked at Libby for a few moments, then turned back to Morris. “You look like your photos, Mister Morris,” he said. “There are quite a few of them in the Internet, as you may know. It would seem that you got into some trouble at the Republican Party’s convention last year, and were arrested for it.”
“All a misunderstanding,” Morris said. “It took a while to clear it up, but all the charges have been dropped.”
“A misunderstanding,” Kabov said. “Yes, I’m sure that’s all it was.” If any sarcasm was intended, he kept it out of his voice. “Several of the articles I read described you as some sort of ‘occult investigator’ – or, less respectfully, a ‘ghostbuster.’ Is that what you do, Mister Morris – investigate matters involving the occult?”
“All the possible answers I could give to that question boil down to the same thing,” Morris said. “Yes – that’s what I do.”
Kabov nodded, and looked at Libby. “And Miss Chastain. As I understand it, you have a long association with Mister Morris, although you did not join him last year in durance vile. Several stories I read online described you as a ‘witch’ – normally a most disrespectful way to refer to a lady, but I gather in your case the term was meant literally. Are you, Miss Chastain? A witch?”
“Yes, Mister Kabov, I am. More precisely, I am a practitioner of white witchcraft, which means –”
“I know what it means,” he said, “but thank you for your willingness to explain. So, then.” Kabov shifted a little in his wheelchair, but his hands remained underneath the blanket. “What do an occult investigator and a witch want with me?”
“A man in New York told me that you might know how to get in touch with the Knights Templar,” Morris said.
“A man? What man?”
“He was introduced to me as Kaspar, with a ‘K.’ I never learned his last name, or even if Kaspar was his real first name. But that’s what he answered to.”
“Large fellow, is he? Built like one of your football players? Scar just below his left ear?”
“No,” Morris said. “The fella I met was pretty small, barely five foot tall, although he did have a big head – too big for his body, really. And I don’t remember any scar.”
Kabov nodded slowly. “And where in New York did you meet this Kaspar?”
“In a bar called Strangefellows. We were introduced by a friend of mine, a private detective named Barry Love.”
Kabov regarded them in silence for ten or fifteen seconds. Then he said, “Mister Morris, a few feet from you there is a floor lamp. Would you be so good as to switch it on? I could pull the curtains, of course, but I prefer not to be visible to the outside world.”
Morris felt for the switch, found it, and clicked on the lamp. The hundred-watt CFL bulb threw a bright light that had them all squinting for a few seconds until their eyes adjusted, although Morris would have bet that Kabov’s eyes were already narrowed against the glare before the lamp was turned on.
Morris saw that their host appeared to be, as advertised, in his mid-seventies. His hair was iron-gray, although he still had most of it. David Kabov’s eyes were a cold, pale blue that looked at the world without the aid of glasses, although it was possible that he wore contacts. He wore jeans, New Balance running shoes, and a loose-fitting Hawaiian-print shirt.
The muscles visible in his forearms, combined with the breadth of his shoulders and those pitiless eyes, suggested to Morris that at one time it would have been a particularly bad idea to get on this man’s wrong side. Maybe it still was.
&
nbsp; Kabov’s big, knuckly hands were in sight now, and he pulled the blanket aside to reveal one of the smaller models of the Uzi submachine gun, once the favored weapon of the Israeli Defense Forces. Morris peered at the weapon, and it looked to him like the safety was off, and the selector switch was set to “Full Auto.”
“Please excuse the armament,” Kabov said. “There are still some people abroad in the world who regard my continued existence as a mistake requiring urgent correction – or would, if they knew I was still alive. It is possible that one or more of them will come through that door, someday.”
“Or try to,” Morris muttered, still looking at the gun.
Kabov grinned at him. “Or try to,” he repeated. “That is why I keep my little friend handy, but I think perhaps I should put him away now. May I offer you both some ice tea? I just brewed a pitcher this morning, and it came out rather well, if I say so myself.”
They both accepted his offer; Libby asked for a little lemon in hers.
“I will be just a few minutes,” Kabov said – then, in one fluid motion, he stood up from the wheelchair. He walked to what Morris assumed was the kitchen, carrying the Uzi, his steps neither unsteady nor hesitant.
Twenty
KABOV RETURNED CARRYING a tray laden with three tall plastic tumblers, which he placed on the coffee table. Morris noticed a slight bulge at the man’s right hip, underneath the garish shirt, which seemed a size or two larger than it should be. Kabov might have left his automatic weapon in the kitchen, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was unarmed.
Handing one of the tumblers to Libby, he said, “This one has a little lemon juice, as requested, Miss Chastain.” He gave another tumbler to Morris and took the third for himself. Then he stepped back to the wheelchair and sat down.
With a slight smile, Kabov said, “I apologize for my little deception. But everyone around here believes me to be confined to this chair, as the result of an old, unspecified injury. I find it useful to be thought of as a semi-invalid.”
Libby sipped some ice tea and said, “Wonderful.” She took another swallow then said, “We had heard that you were... cautious.”
Kabov grinned for a second, revealing a good set of teeth that did not appear to have come from a factory.
“I would wager that whoever spoke to you about me,” he said, “did not use a word like ‘cautious,’ but something closer to ‘paranoid,’ yes?”
Libby gave him a tiny smile. “Perhaps.”
“I do not find it offensive,” Kabov told her. “I would refer you to that great American philosopher, Mister Woody Allen, who said: ‘Being paranoid doesn’t necessarily mean they’re not out to get you.’”
“Who do you believe is out to get you?” Morris said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Broadly speaking, there are two groups from which potential assassins might be drawn,” Kabov said. “One is my old enemies in what these days is called radical Islam. I gather the term ‘Arab terrorists’ is considered politically incorrect these days.”
“You mean al-Qaeda?” Libby asked. “Those guys?”
“That name would figure on what is probably a long list, yes. Although my battles against those people go back before Osama bin Laden – or rather, the late Osama bin Laden, God rot him – ever dreamed of financing a terror network.”
He shifted in his chair. “My name is not David Kabov,” he said, “although that is close enough to the one I was born with. For a number of years, I held a series of responsible positions in the HaMossad leModi’in uleTafkidim Meyuhadim, although you probably know it simply as the Mossad.”
“Israeli intelligence,” Morris said.
“Quite,” Kabov said.
“So, you’re a native Israeli?” Libby said.
“There are very few of my generation who can call themselves ‘native Israelis,’ Miss Chastain. Most of us came to the newly-born state of Israel from other places. My parents were Russian Jews, who emigrated to Poland before I was born, on the mistaken assumption that it would be a safer place for people of our faith to live. Their lack of foresight ultimately cost them their lives, as well as those of my brother and two sisters – and very nearly my own.”
Now that he knew what to look for, Morris was not surprised to see the small, faded tattoo on the inside of Kabov’s left forearm. It was almost certainly a serial number – the kind put on men, women, and children as they were processed by the Nazi guards into places like Dachau and Auschwitz.
“But, yes,” Kabov went on, “I lived most of my life in Israel, and for many years I fought her enemies – from Black September to black magicians.”
Morris had a tendency to slouch when sitting, but Kabov’s last phrase made his spine straighten, seemingly of its own volition. “Black magicians, you say?”
Kabov nodded. “Yes, Mr. Morris. Some of Israel’s enemies will use any weapon in an attempt to destroy her. On several occasions, they have resorted to the black arts.” He glanced toward Libby. “As I’m sure Miss Chastain knows, the only effective defense against magic is magic itself.”
“Are you saying that you’re a magic practitioner?” Morris asked.
“No, Mister Morris. I lack the talent. But I often worked closely with practitioners – the Mossad has several on staff. And, as I’m sure you know, there are sometimes spells that a layman such as myself can manage, given the proper training and equipment.”
“Like a charged wand, you mean,” Libby said.
“Yes, exactly. I employed such devices more than once. My success on those occasions was probably due as much to good luck as it was to good magic. But I was able to accomplish my goals.”
“Is that how you came into contact with the Knights Templar?” Morris asked him.
“Ah, the warrior-priests.” Kabov flashed the grin again, and leaned forward a bit. “Do you know there was a day, during their first incarnation in the Middle Ages, that the Knights Templar slaughtered Jews as readily as they did Saracens? Both were ‘unbelievers,’ you see.” He sat back. “I am glad to note that the Catholic Church’s attitudes on such matters have changed over the centuries – at least somewhat.”
“We were amazed to learn that the Knights still existed, after all this time,” Libby said.
Morris nodded. “The other surprise is that we’d never heard a whisper about these fellas before. Between us, Libby and I pretty much know everybody who’s anybody in... paranormal circles. Or so we thought.”
“The Knights Templar are very secretive,” Kabov said. “They are used only for very special missions. The rest of their time they spend in meditation, prayer – and training.”
“They probably keep their heads down partially because they remember what happened the last time around,” Morris said.
“Few heads of state possess the power to do something similar these days,” Kabov said. “But that memory may nonetheless play a role in the Knights’... discretion.”
“Do they operate out of some kind of headquarters?” Libby asked him. “Is there a ‘Knights Templar Central?’”
“No, they are dispersed throughout the world,” Kabov said. “Perhaps in an effort to forestall a repetition of the calamity that befell them in the fourteenth century. Their North American training facility is located in rural Ohio, not far from the city of Toledo.”
Morris and Libby looked at each other for a second. “Seems like kind of a strange place for a secret military operation,” Morris said. “I assume it is secret?”
“Oh, yes, very much so,” Kabov said. “As for it being an unlikely location” – Kabov spread his hands slightly – “perhaps that is the very reason they have chosen it.”
“Could be.” Morris paused for a couple of seconds, then said, “I had to do some business in that area a few years ago – fella out there was having a werewolf problem. As I recollect, there’s a fair amount of open country around Toledo. Lots of places the Knights could have set up shop. Would you be willing to give us specific directions?
”
“I might,” Kabov said, “if I knew the reason you want to make contact with them.”
Morris and Libby took turns summarizing what they knew about the afreet and its potential uses. It didn’t take long, since they knew so little.
When they had finished, Kabov sat silently for a little while, his nose resting on the tip of his steepled fingers. At last he said, “You may be on to something with that fruit stone idea, Miss Chastain. Have you determined how you are going to fling your peach pit at the creature, assuming you have the opportunity?”
“A friend of ours named Peters is working on that for us,” Libby said. “He’s ex-CIA, and he knows quite a bit about weapons – although he’s never had to deal with one like this before.”
“I used to know a CIA man who called himself Peters, back in the old days,” Kabov said musingly. “It’s a common American name, of course. In any case, that man is almost certainly dead now.”
“Yes,” Libby said, her face and voice carefully neutral. “Almost certainly.”
Kabov gave her a sharp look, but it faded after a moment. “However,” he said, “the myth concerning the effect of a thrown fruit stone on the various species of djinn is just that – a myth – and as such is unreliable. You are wise, I think, to prepare what you Americans call a ‘back-up plan.’”
“And that’s why we want to talk to the Knights Templar,” Morris said. “In the hope that we can talk them into parting with their fragment of the Seal of Solomon.”
“The Seal, yes,” Kabov said. “Solomon was, of course, a great king of my people. That, along with my experience in matters of the occult, may make me more familiar with the stories concerning the Great Seal than some others might be.”
“Any insights you’d care to share with us?” Morris asked.
“Less an insight than a question,” Kabov said. “The fragment of the Great Seal that was stolen from that museum – what were its dimensions, do you know?”
Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis Page 28
