Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis

by Justin Gustainis

  Morris and Libby both shook their heads. “We never thought to inquire,” Libby said. “Does it matter?”

  “Quite possibly,” Kabov said. He gave a bark of laughter. “This may be one of those few instances, Miss Chastain, when size really does matter.”

  Libby’s expression suggested she thought she might be the butt of a joke. “Excuse me?”

  “Forgive my vulgarity,” Kabov said. “But it is true, nonetheless – assuming anything so shrouded in legend and superstition can be considered ‘true.’”

  “I don’t know if Libby is still following you, Mister Kabov,” Morris said. “But I know you just lost me.”

  “My point, Mister Morris, is that bigger is better – at least when it comes to bits of the Great Seal.”

  “Better – how?” Libby asked.

  “According to several ancient sources – ancient, but still written centuries after Solomon – there seems to be a direct relationship between the size of the fragment and the amount of power it invokes.”

  “The bigger the piece... the more powerful it is?” Libby said. “Seriously?”

  “So the legends say,” Kabov told her. “That is why I asked you if you knew the size of the fragment that was stolen – which is, presumably, in the hands of your would-be terrorists.”

  “I expect that’s something we can find out,” Morris said. “But how about the piece the Knights own – do you know how big that is?”

  “I had no idea that they even possessed one,” Kabov said. “My ignorance is unsurprising, mind you. I’m sure the Knights regard such information as being on a strict ‘Need to Know’ basis – and I have not had the need to know such things for quite some time.”

  “Then I reckon we’ll have to go and ask,” Morris said. “Will you tell us how to find them?

  Kabov nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe I will – and more than that. I am going to provide you with a letter of introduction to their Father-General.”

  “And that should get us in?” Libby asked.

  “Yes, Miss Chastain, I believe so – and, more important, it will also allow you to get out.”

  Twenty-One

  HEAD SOUTHEAST OUT of Toledo, Ohio along Route 25, perhaps on your way to the college town of Bowling Green, and you pass through an agricultural area, stretching for miles on either side of the two-lane road. Exactly twenty-one-point-three miles from where Route 25 begins, there is an access road, marked by a small wooden sign. In the middle of the sign is a symbol in red, consisting of four triangles arranged to form what some might assume to be a cross. Above the symbol is painted, in black letters, “Private Road.” Below the red triangles, the same black paint has been used to write “No Trespassing.”

  The road was narrow, and Quincey Morris was cautious as he turned the maroon Ford Focus they’d rented from the Avis counter at Toledo Express Airport. No sense messing up the paint job by getting too well acquainted with one of the poplars lining the road as far down as he could see. Driving no more than twenty-five miles an hour, Morris followed the road for the better part of a mile until it led him to a sharp bend. He made the turn and almost immediately stopped.

  Before them was a chain link fence, at least ten feet tall and topped with barbed wire. In the middle of the fence, straddling the road, was a closed gate – tall, made of metal bars and topped with a security camera. Above the gate was a sign that read:

  TEMPLE SECURITY

  TRAINING CENTER

  NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT PASS

  In front of the gate stood two men. They wore black military fatigues, with baseball caps and shaved heads. Web belts laden with pouches and equipment encircled their waists. Each man sported a pair of those wraparound sunglasses that are all the rage among Southern prison guards, if the movies are to be believed. Morris figured the color of those outfits must make the guards damned uncomfortable in the height of summer. Then his attention was drawn abruptly from their clothing to their armament.

  They each carried a short-barreled automatic weapon with a long, curved magazine. Morris was no gun expert, but the guns looked to him like the Heckler & Koch MP5s favored by the Dallas SWAT team. The weapons were attached to slings over each man’s left shoulder, allowing him to let go of the gun – if, say, he wanted to beat somebody to death instead of just shooting him.

  The guards walked up to either side of the car. They seemed to have all the time in the world.

  Morris’s window had already been partly open; now he rolled it all the way down, but slowly – it never pays to startle people carrying submachine guns.

  The man on Morris’s side said, “You folks are trespassing on private property. You need to back that thing up, turn it around, and get back down the road you drove in on. Right now.”

  His voice was louder than it needed to be, considering how close he was standing to the car. The man probably figured it was more intimidating that way – as if somebody carrying an MP5 needed to be any more intimidating.

  “That doesn’t seem real friendly,” Morris said. “I’d heard the Knights Templar were more hospitable.” That was bullshit Morris had made up on the spot, but he wanted to get the conversation headed in the right direction.

  “The what? Knights who?” The guard’s face and voice combined incredulity and aggression with the kind of skill that Morris thought belonged on a Broadway stage – unless, of course, it was genuine.

  The man took a step closer. In the same loud tone he said, “Mister, I think you are fucking with me. And if that’s what you have in mind, you oughta know that the last smart-ass who fucked with me is buried under that tree right fucking there.” He jabbed an index finger toward a giant oak a hundred or so feet off to his right.

  Nice way for a priest to talk, Morris thought. Then he realized that acting un-priestly was probably part of the gate guards’ job description.

  Libby kept her attention focused on the man standing outside her window, especially on his hands. She had a couple of spells prepared in case things got ugly – but she and Morris had agreed the night before that if she had to use one, it would mean their mission to the Knights Templar had failed.

  Morris said, “If it’s all right, I’d like to reach under my coat and very slowly take out an envelope, which I will then very slowly hand to you.”

  “What’s in the envelope?” the guard asked with a half-sneer. “Your will?”

  “It contains a letter of introduction to your boss, Father-General Reinhart,” Morris told him. “It’s written by somebody whose name the Father-General will recognize.”

  The guard stared at Morris, his eyes unreadable behind the opaque lenses of the sunglasses. The silence went on just long enough for Morris to start wondering if he and Libby had made a very bad mistake in coming here, and then the guard extended his open left hand, keeping his right close to the trigger of the MP5.

  “Do it slow.” The guard’s tone was almost conversational now. “Just like you said.”

  Moving as if he was underwater, Morris removed from his jacket pocket what the man calling himself David Kabov had given them – a long white envelope with “Father-General Thomas Reinhart, K.T.” on the front in Kabov’s crabbed handwriting.

  The guard took the envelope and stepped back. He looked at the name written on it, held it up to the sunlight for a moment, then squeezed the envelope between his big fingers.

  Checking to see if it’s thick enough to be a letter bomb, Morris thought. The envelope contained just a single sheet of paper; after a moment, the guard looked back at Morris and said, “Turn your engine off, please.”

  It was the first instance of courtesy the man had shown. It probably meant that Morris and Libby weren’t about to be riddled with 9mm bullets.

  The guard said to his partner, “Watch ’em, Charlie,” and turned away. He walked about fifty feet and pulled from his belt a military-style radio. Whatever he said into it was too faint for Morris to hear, and he spent most of the conversation listening anyway. Finally he
said, more clearly, “Yes, sir,” and replaced the radio on his belt.

  The guard turned toward the gate, which allowed him to look inside the compound – although the only things visible from here were trees, rocks, and a narrow macadam road. He stood, hands on hips, as if waiting for something.

  He did not have to wait long. Within two minutes, a black Chevy Suburban, the kind favored by the U.S. Secret Service, could be seen approaching the gate from inside the compound.

  The vehicle came to a halt a few yards from the gate. Another man, dressed like the gate guards, got out from the passenger side and walked to the gate. The guard holding Kabov’s letter handed it through the bars to the new man, who gave a nod of acknowledgment and got back into the Suburban. The vehicle immediately began to turn around and was soon heading back the way it had come.

  They would have to wait now. Morris said to the guard who’d taken the envelope from him, “Figure this is going to take long?”

  “Don’t talk,” the man said stolidly.

  A little later, Morris started to say something to Libby, and the guard gave him as “I said ‘Don’t talk.’” This time, his voice had some snap in it.

  Morris had glanced at his watch when the Suburban left with Kabov’s letter; forty-six minutes had elapsed before the guard’s radio gave a hiss of static, followed by a man’s voice. “Wender to O’Malley. Come in.”

  The guard, whose name was apparently O’Malley, immediately began walking away from the car as he pulled the radio from his belt. Morris heard nothing of the ensuing conversation, but it wasn’t long before O’Malley was back.

  “I’m gonna need you folks to exit your vehicle, please,” he said to Morris. “Leave the keys – we’ll park it somewhere safe until you’re ready to leave.”

  Morris opened his door and got out, relieved to hear the use of “please” again, along with the implied assumption that he and Libby would be departing, eventually – and under their own power.

  To Libby, O’Malley said, “Ma’am, I need you to come around to this side of the vehicle. And Charlie is gonna have to take a look inside your bag.”

  Libby handed her big leather purse to the guard named Charlie and went around the car until she stood a few feet from Morris.

  “Just stand easy there for a second, folks,” the first guard said. He did not quite point his MP5 at them, but the business end of the barrel wasn’t aimed all that far away, either.

  Charlie poked through Libby’s bag, and he took his time about it. The only object he removed briefly was a six-inch metal tube that could be telescoped out, like a radio antenna, to a length of just over a foot. It was Libby’s collapsible magic wand, already charged, and had served her well several times in the past.

  Charlie examined it long enough to ensure that the tube wasn’t a weapon, returned it to the purse, and nodded at his partner, who said, “We’ll have to frisk you folks now, and it’s gonna be a little more thorough than the pat-down you get at the airport.”

  He looked at Libby. “I apologize for the indignity, Ma’am, but we haven’t got a woman available to carry out the search on you – and nobody goes through that gate who hasn’t been checked over first. ’Course, you could always elect to wait out here while your friend goes inside and conducts his business. Up to you.”

  Libby shrugged. Her face and voice carefully neutral, she said, “It’s all right. Do what you have to do.”

  “All right, then. I’m gonna need you folks to separate a little more, and put your hands on the roof of the vehicle, at least two feet apart. Good. Now I want you to spread your feet apart. More. Okay, now walk ’em back towards me. More. A little more. All right, then. Maintain that position until I tell you it’s okay to move. Go ahead, Charlie.”

  Morris withstood the search stoically. He had been frisked many times in jail, and was used to it. He felt bad for Libby, though, even as he was grateful that she had elected to accompany him inside the compound. At least the guards weren’t being assholes about it. Morris reminded himself that these guys were probably priests. Then he thought about some of the recent scandals involving Catholic clergymen, and was somewhat less reassured. But it had to be done, anyway.

  Five minutes later, the search was over, the gate was open, Morris was following Libby into the back seat of the now-returned Suburban.

  They were, it seemed, off to see the wizard.

  Twenty-Two

  IN HIS CRAMPED office at Wayne State University, Nasiri had spent the better part of an hour grading papers written by young idiots whose command of the English language was considerably inferior to his own – and he had not begun learning the language until he was twenty-eight years old. He had just finished writing in the margins of one such pitiful effort, “No, Iranians are not Arabs – they are Persians, which is an entirely different ethnic group. And ‘all right’ is two words, not ‘alright,’” when the phone on his desk began ringing.

  “This is Doctor Nasiri.”

  “Peace be upon you, Doctor,” an accented voice said. “This is Michael.”

  Michael was the code name for the wizard, Uthman. Nasiri had ordered him to use it in all electronic communication, just as he had forbidden the use of Arabic. He knew that the computers at NSA were programmed to home in on any U.S. telephone conversation in Arabic, or even one in English that used words like “Allah” and “jihad.”

  “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.