The Shadow Priest: Omnibus Edition: Two Complete Novels

by D. C. Alexander

  "No."

  "Well, what then? Tell me, Roland." Then he mimicked Sheffield: "What is the greatest threat to the human race?"

  "Fearmongers. Charismatic fearmongers"

  "Sounds like the name of a punk rock band."

  "Religious, political, social leaders, people of influence. People who convince us that if we don't get on board with their program, that we're doomed. Your crazier ministers, congressmen, TV and radio personalities. Civic leaders, academics, overlords of the financial sector. Actors, flag wavers, heroes and superstars of any ilk. People we look up to and turn to for answers. For leadership."

  "That's rather a large subset of humanity, isn't it?"

  "People who have the skills, charisma, and will to inspire the masses to mass murder."

  "Well…." Arkin certainly saw the logic of Sheffield's point of view.

  "Do you remember the conversation we had in the DOJ cafeteria just after your medal award ceremony?"

  "It rings a distant bell."

  "Even though you'd just been honored with the highest accolades, you were down. Profoundly frustrated, exhibiting the first symptoms of despair with respect to your job. Do you remember what you said to me?"

  "Is this going to be embarrassing?"

  "You told me that it would never stop, the proverbial dark tide. The onslaught of evil. You said that we didn't stand a chance in holding it back because, constrained as we were by our rules of engagement, by our ethics, by our morality, we would never beat the endless procession of people like Raylan McGill. People who had no rules. People who weren't constrained by any normal notion of right and wrong, and who were willing to do anything. People who could inspire their mesmerized followers to do anything. And that even if we did luck out and beat a Raylan McGill here or there, it would never be enough to hold back the greater flood."

  "Did I use those exact words? I sound like a poet philosopher."

  "The point is that, despite the mental turmoil brought on by your despair, you recognized McGill was special. You recognized in him the key to the entire group's existence. He was the leader. He was the inspiration and the glue. Without him, the group was an unorganized, infighting group of frightened, drug-dealing meatheads, tormented by feelings of helplessness. People who couldn't find their own butts with both hands, let alone stage organized terrorist attacks or hate crimes."

  "And yet despite the temptation, I didn't shoot him—even though Killick, presumably on your instruction, all but begged me to as a part of what I'm guessing was some sort of test you'd devised to see if I’d cross the line."

  "Many, many years ago, long before I ever met you, probably back when you were still feeding from a bottle, I came to a pair of realizations that changed the way I view the world. Like you, I reached a point of desperation. I came to understand, for the same reasons you did, that we didn't have a chance against evil, restrained as we were by our ideas of right and wrong, by our code of ethics, by the law. But I also began to see that the large- scale evil, the truly terrifying stuff, always seemed to flow, ultimately, from a fearmonger. I'm not talking about common crime. I mean the big stuff. The belief-driven or movement-driven stuff. Wide-scale harassment, intimidation, and murder campaigns. Political purges, campaigns of terrorism, ethnic cleansings, genocides. If you follow the black, oily effluent of such horrors back to their wellsprings, what do you find, invariably?"

  "Your charismatic fearmongers?"

  "Exactly. Fearmongers of all flavors, shapes, and sizes. Fanatics and fundamentalist madmen who promise some form of victory over evil. An abstract evil that they convince us is embodied in some real-world thing or group. Objects or people we can take on, defeat, or destroy. It is these men, Nathaniel, who are the most dangerous, because they have the magnetism, the charisma, to organize and inspire us to action in groups. Groups in which members energize and inspire each other to actions they would never have taken as individuals. Groups that pool and coordinate their efforts and resources to exponentially greater destructive power than that of scattered individuals."

  "That's the story of the human race throughout recorded history. What's new?"

  "9/11."

  "What about it?"

  "It was a great reminder, wasn't it? A reminder of what savagery men are capable of. A slap in the face and wake-up call for a world with a short attention span and fading long-term memory. After all, the Holocaust was a long time ago, right? The generation that perpetrated, witnessed, and survived it is dying off by the score every day, isn't it?"

  "There's nothing new about human savagery."

  "What's new is that with technological developments, advances in transportation, greater freedom of movement across rapidly disappearing borders, and so forth, a relative few can bring disproportionate terror, destruction, and death down upon huge numbers of people. A single deranged scientist or lab tech can obtain and disperse deadly radiological materials, or chemical or biological warfare agents, to catastrophic effect. A pitiful handful of fanatics can fly Boeing airliners into skyscrapers full of innocent people. A tiny cabal of maniac physicists or government officials can up and develop, sell, or even deliver and detonate crude nuclear weapons. What's new is that, these days, a few dedicated and unchecked madmen could literally destroy the world."

  "Right before you shot me in Oregon, you said it was the urgency, or the exigency that justifies your methods."

  "Exactly!"

  "And your group here—SPECTRE, or whatever—is going to save us from all these maniac nut jobs?"

  "It was about 30 years ago that I and a handful of like-minded individuals I met through, of all things, a philosophy book club in Annapolis decided to form the group. I was still a DIA field agent at the time. Anyway, we discussed precisely what I'm discussing with you, here and now, and brainstormed how we could create a force to counter the evil of the fearmongers. There were nine of us then. We were young, and each came from different walks. I was the only person in law enforcement or intelligence. But among us, we had people who were climbing the ranks of academia, of the press, of the legal community. We even had a foreign embassy official. The more we talked, the more we all realized how important our idea was. We committed ourselves to our cause, each of us planning to steer our individual careers such that our positions would bring maximum benefit to the group. As I rose in rank, for example, I was able to pass on more and more information on the terrorist and hate groups my agencies were monitoring. Others of us pressed our message through academic or legal journals, through conventions of increasing prestige and influence. Over time, we started to campaign for the election of public officials who we thought shared our beliefs, or who were running in opposition to fearmongering candidates. We helped seed discussion groups and clubs worldwide. We raised funds for academic chairs. All to spread the message."

  "What message, exactly?"

  "Our message about why people are so easily drawn to fearmongers, and about what drives the fearmongers to destructive and evil extremes in the first place."

  "You've been involved with the group for as long as I've known you."

  "Yes. And over time, the group has grown to considerable size, with chapters and operatives active in more than 20 countries worldwide."

  "Why are you based here?"

  "Because it's away from prying eyes. Because there are no real intelligence assets looking at southern Chile. Because, believe it or not, we grew our initial seed money from salmon farming operations."

  "First in Port Hardy, British Columbia."

  "Correct. And now we have salmon farms from here to Nova Scotia to Norway. It still brings in more than half of our operational funds. When you grill a farmed salmon, Nathaniel, there's about a one-in-three chance you're helping fund our group."

  "I only eat wild-caught." Arkin sat back. "What happened?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "It sounds like it was a peaceful movement."

  "Oh. Yes, well, our decision to use force was a long time comin
g. We'd discussed it, really struggled with it, for years. But over time, we grew more and more frustrated with the pace of things. Some of us even came to see our nonviolent efforts as futile. Still, there was a lot of dissent within the group. But then, like I said, 9/11 happened. The great wake-up call. A proverbial cold bucket of water over the head. For the first time, I would say, we became truly aware of how little time we had left. We didn't have the luxury of being able to wait for our passive movement to change things over two or three generations. Humanity would be long gone by then. So, the decision was made."

  "To start taking out the fearmongers."

  "Yes."

  Arkin tugged at his own earlobe, as he sometimes did when contemplating a risky chess move. "Do you read Nietzsche?" he asked.

  "I've been known to."

  "He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. Remember that one?"

  "Nathaniel, our targets are like cancers on humanity. And as with any cancer cells, if you don't kill or remove them, the disease will spread and become far more dangerous. Exponentially more blood would be spilled if we didn't take proactive measures. It's unfortunate, because most of these folks are just products of the same fears so many of us are subject to. But you have to stop the flood somewhere, or else everybody will drown."

  "But the decision to start using deadly force wasn't unanimous among the group's leadership, was it? The former embassy official, the Belizean man. He wasn't on board, was he?"

  Sheffield shook his head, his suddenly sad eyes looking down at his hands sitting folded on his lap. "No."

  Arkin let it go. "Okay. So you assassinate fearmongers."

  "Only the truly dangerous ones. And only when they're on the brink of turning their followers to violence, if they haven't done so already. Like Egan in Cortez. His vitriol was heating up. Instead of shooting pool and swilling beer down at the local tavern like normal dummies, Egan's people were practicing with automatic assault rifles against targets done up to look like Bedouin Arabs. And unbeknownst to you, they were also training in bomb-making. Add to that the fact that he was very probably going to win an election to the U.S. House of Representatives, at which time taking him out would have given his cause a lot more martyr's press exposure, which is something we always hope to minimize. It's a lot less fuss to take out a mere backwoods schmuck than it is a crusading congressman."

  "I'm sure." A moment passed as Sheffield studied the chess board. "So, after your orchestrated disappearance," Arkin went on, "Killick became DCI's Director of Operations. And then, presumably, he became your executant in Washington."

  "Yes, Killick, the insolent ass. It should have been you. That was my plan from the very day I first interviewed and began to recruit you."

  "Why me? What made you think I would cross over?"

  "Because it was obvious that you were a thinker, well on your way to seeing the light. Because of your background."

  "What about my background?"

  "In a nutshell, it was like mine. You'd had to face mortality as a young child when your mother died. And it was clear to me that you had a giant hole in your heart—left there by the death of your mother and emotional unavailability of your creep of a father—through which a river of existential anxiety had flowed into your life. You were ignored, criticized, emotionally neglected, then shipped off to boarding school. Later, you saw enough killing and suffering through your military service to accelerate the evolution of your thinking about death. Through it all, you grew self-aware. And you saw the cause and effect."

  "You assigned the Priest case to me thinking I'd be sympathetic. Thinking it was the safe play because I'd jump on board."

  "We had to give it to someone. Could have handed it off to a nincompoop, I suppose. Someone who wouldn't have gotten anywhere with it. But at the time, giving it to you just felt right. We were optimistic."

  "And I did well with it. But I didn't buy into the philosophy. Then I became a problem."

  "Well...."

  FIFTY

  Day after day, Arkin played the role he'd taken on as best he could. The angry but open-minded skeptic. Not so angry or skeptical that they would think him beyond the reach of their indoctrination—beyond hope of conversion to the cause—but not so agreeable as to arouse their suspicions that he was faking it.

  Playing the role was a struggle. His blood began to boil whenever he allowed himself to reflect on the fact that the group had forced him to abandon Hannah. And when he thought about Pratt, his imagination ran wild with images of sheer horror on the faces of Pratt's little children as they stood over the bloody, near-headless corpse of their dad, cut down before them as they ate breakfast. He did his best to suppress such thoughts. Still, the memories smoldered in the back of his mind.

  In fact, they were haunting him as he began a game of chess with Sheffield one sunny Saturday, with Arkin playing the white side, using the common king's pawn opening. Without a moment's hesitation, Sheffield countered by moving a pawn to c4, initiating the classic and aggressive Sicilian Defense. Within 10 minutes, Sheffield closed his trap with a rook.

  "Checkmate."

  Arkin sighed. "That was quick."

  "You're distracted."

  "I must be. I didn't even recognize your Sicilian until it was a round too late to mount an effective response. And I can't help but wonder how many chess-oriented brain cells I lost when your goons electrocuted me, and I cracked my head on a branch as I fell out of that tree."

  "Excuses. But you'll have to forgive them. They were brought up in an environment in which there was less concern with what we might think of as proper restraint."

  "Where was that?"

  Sheffield smiled and shook his head. "Elsewhere."

  "Speaking of elsewhere, how did your second disappearance fly when the authorities had no body to find in your burned down house in Oregon?"

  "Remember, there was a large amount of kerosene involved. We set things up so that the house would burn down entirely before any fire brigade could get there. They wouldn't expect to find an intact body. But just to help them close out the case, I had a lower jaw bone left on the pillow in the bedroom."

  "A jaw bone?"

  "Altered to have dental work mirroring my own. We have a dentist in the group. If a mere visual examination were made, it would pass muster. Even though they won't find complete remains, the way we left things, the investigators will be thrilled to find anything at all that will let them close out the case."

  "And you just happened to have this jaw bone lying around? In a jar in your closet, perhaps?"

  "In a cigar box in my closet. I had it made up just in case I ever had to set fire to the house and run for it."

  "Foresight."

  "You know me."

  "The consummate professional," Arkin said. "I have to tell you, though, it was amateurish to allow your operatives to all rent cars in the names of Wyoming LLCs for two different missions. That pattern jumped off the page."

  Sheffield laughed. "Did it?"

  "And why on Earth did you let your assassin keep using Zastava rifles? Such an unusual gun. Stood out a mile."

  "I know. Risky. But when you have someone as good as Andrej, you have to make certain allowances. It's what he trained on. What he's used to. Anyway, our procedures are solid enough that I don't think anyone could track a given killing all the way back to here."

  "I did."

  "You had more to go on. Your own history, for example. Your connection to me. Our error, as a group, was in not considering that you could be called in to investigate the Cortez killing, even though the operation took place rather far from Durango."

  FIFTY-ONE

  Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into three months. The almost-daily chess games with Sheffield expanded into longer visits that often included dinner, and Arkin never ceased to be amazed at the quality and variety of Chilean and Argentine wines Sheffield brought with him. Crisp chardonnays, rich carmeneres, bold malbecs,
along with innumerable, even more impressive blends.

  The food was delicious as well. Given their location, the offerings tended to focus on seafood—fresh salmon, sea bass, surf clams, and crab—but at least one chicken or lamb dish was slipped in each week. The preparations were surprisingly refined. Herb and wine reductions, garlic and cream-based sauces, spice rubs, pecan and hazelnut crusts. Sometimes the meat or fish was even brined and smoked. Sadly, whenever Arkin's heart leapt over the excellence of a meal, he was brought back down with a crash at the thought of how much Hannah would have loved it.

  Every now and then, Sheffield would, without explanation, disappear for several days. Usually his comings and goings could be tied to the activity of the helicopter. Arkin never bothered to ask where he went, or why, certain his inquiries would be stonewalled.

  One morning he woke up to see the Brinkman oil painting of the U.S.S. Constitution hanging on the wall opposite his cell. For a moment, seeing it took him back to the Outer Banks. To happier times, when Hannah was still healthy. Still alive.

  Curiously, Sheffield hadn't pushed his philosophy. In fact, he hadn't even brought it up since Arkin's first week on the island. Arkin guessed they were just letting him rest up. Letting time do its work to slowly dull his pain and anger. When he seemed ready and receptive, they'd start to work on converting him.

  The bullet wound from Arkin's encounter with Petrović in Vancouver and the cracked ribs from his encounter with Sheffield in Oregon all finally healed. With plenty of rest, solid meals, and daily walks, his strength gradually returned. By April—early autumn in the southern hemisphere—he was beginning to feel like himself again, physically and mentally, though he still grieved for Hannah. In May, the temperatures began to drop and the weather began to turn for the worse such that many of his walks were postponed and he spent long hours locked in his cell. On one such day, when a gale was driving the rain sideways against the window, Sheffield showed up wearing a bright yellow plastic poncho and holding a watertight briefcase. "Didn't want you to get bored," he said as he popped the briefcase open and extracted a thick six-panel file folder. "Here, take a look at this," he said, handing it to Arkin through the bars.