Devil's Eye

by Al Ruksenas

  An amber light from the courtyard suddenly pierced the sky, but the helicopter was beyond it, high above the monastery and heading westward toward Aswan. The occupants felt relieved in their metal cocoon, even though they were flying over desolate wilderness and unsure if gunfire from below had damaged any critical avionics. The group slowly took their places along the bulkheads.

  Colonel Caine lingered at the cockpit. “Are we okay?”

  “I think so, Colonel,” the Egyptian pilot replied staring at his gauges.

  “How about back there?”

  “Everyone seems all right,” Colonel Jones replied.

  Caine returned to the cargo area and slumped onto a bench. He slowly buckled his safety harness.

  “Some strange looking dogs…” Major Michael Lee began.

  Colonel Caine nodded wearily. He looked to Colonel Jones, then to Mustafa Ali Hammad. They glanced back knowingly.

  “Familiars,” Caine declared.

  No one offered a logical alternative.

  “They came from nowhere,” Major Lee continued. “We were well hidden. Then these hooded goons jumped us before we knew what happened. They forced us to fly to the abbey. You know the rest.”

  “We know the rest,” Colonel Caine repeated, thinking of much more than the incident.

  He looked across at Aida.

  “What would you have done?” she declared defensively.

  Colonel Caine smiled grimly. “Surprise can outwit even the devil.”

  He remembered Laura Mitchell explaining her imps at the Smithsonian reception. He was anxious to be by her side. Her uncle had been targeted. His theories were too close to something. Caine was afraid she had become a target too.

  “What the hell is that place, anyway?” Major Lee insisted.

  Mustafa Ali Hammad looked somberly across the bench. “It is an ancient monastery that gave in to evil. Stories of such a place have circulated for generations. Misfortunes of people and empires have been attributed to it. They had become legend. After a time, doubt set in. It had become a tale worthy of the Arabian Nights.”

  Hammad paused. “Especially, since no one could ever find such a place.”

  The flopping of the helicopter blades, together with the whine of the engines was having an hypnotic affect on the listeners.

  “Now that they are discovered by others than their followers, who knows what will happen?”

  “So, who are their followers?” the American intelligence officer asked. “This place is a barren, sand choked, wasteland.”

  “People who have fallen into the temptations of their emissaries,” Hammad replied as if it should be a known conclusion. “Stories tell of supplicants going out into the world to ingratiate themselves into circles of power. To lure kings and conquerors into their evil embrace.”

  “Easier said than done,” Colonel Jones reflected.

  “Indeed,” Hammad replied. “But they evoked demonic powers, just like we beseech an Almighty. One can be inspired to do fantastic things, if they feel a supernatural power behind them. That feeling is internal—it is internal—“ he emphasized. “It does not matter if the force exists or not. Actions in its name are always real.”

  “I do believe it exists,” Colonel Caine said slowly, fingering his Beretta and shoving a new clip of bullets into the grip.

  He looked across to Colonel Jones who was sitting next to Aida. They were unconsciously leaning into each other. Her brother, Amir, at her other side, was holding her hand. Major Michael Lee, next to Jones was deep in thought, pondering how a derelict Soviet helicopter lying half a century in the sand, could lead to this. The three Egyptian soldiers murmured missives to Allah. Mustafa Ali Hammad turned to Caine as the Colonel holstered his weapon. Their glance signaled recognition of a common deadly challenge that bridged their separate cultures.

  Caine looked to the pilot, unbuckled his harness and moved forward to the cockpit. He eased himself into the co‐pilot’s seat. “How are we?”

  “So far, so good,” he replied.

  As the steady thump of the rotors sliced the dawning sky, everyone fell silent, pondering their good fortune in escaping from the infernal mountain abbey.

  Caine remained in the co‐pilot’s seat. His mind was racing. He had to get back to Laura before she followed her suspicions about the Museum of Natural History. The pentagram centered on the museum, sentinels along its points, goons around the museum perimeter, the woman’s scream, the body with markings in the park, the freak accidents breaking the chain of nuclear command—suspicious animals—familiars.

  One more victim before Victor Sherwyck’s protégé—Philip Taylor—controls the nuclear codes: the President. One more ceremony. One more sacrifice. Just like in the cave. The same stories from disparate sources over the world and over time. Her uncle, the soviet secret policeman in the Gulag, Mustafa Ali Hammad. Laura’s lectures— with historical threads around mysterious eminences whispering in the ears of doomed queens and emperors and—and a mysterious eminence holding sway over a current President.

  It was too obvious, too storylike, too unbelievable.

  Until they found the demonic monastery.

  The pilot looked over to Caine who was leaning into the windshield and peering toward the far horizon.

  “Is something on your mind, Colonel?”

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

  The light of the sun was beginning to show over that same mountain when the helicopter landed at the military airbase at Aswan.

  An Egyptian major drove to the tarmac in a military van painted in camouflage. As the group alighted he greeted them with a salute.

  “Colonel Mahmoud regrets that he cannot meet you in person. He is with the joint command in the field.” The Major gestured towards the van. As the group followed him, he asked Colonel Caine perfunctorily: “The Colonel asked me to inquire: was your visit satisfactory?”

  “Yes, it was, thank you,” Caine replied coldly. “Relay a question for us, will you, Major?”

  “Yes, sir. Gladly.”

  “Ask the Colonel, what are your laws around here related to human sacrifice?”

  Chapter 45

  Most of Victor Sherwyck’s dinner guests were leaving his estate north of Mount Vernon.

  “We had a marvelous time,” said Diane Shaw, news anchor for a national television network. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Sherwyck replied as he escorted her onto the veranda. “There’s no need for you to worry—or hurry.”

  “Thanks, but it’s late,” she replied as he took her hand and kissed it.

  “Good night, Victor. Thank you,” said Malcolm Kirby of the State Department. “You’re a real charmer. I could listen to your stories all night.”

  “Come now. Your repertoire is second to none,” Sherwyck said shaking his hand.

  He waved to two other guests who were already on the driveway.

  Several guests were making ready to leave, but hesitated. Among them were the philanthropists Mr. and Mrs. Knowlton, Senator Everett Dunne, and Secretary of Defense designate Philip Taylor.

  One more confidant arrived through a rear entrance when other guests had left: Stanley Brooks, union steward of the Labor and Maintenance Union, Local 1315 of Washington, D.C. He had parked his dark green van in the usual spot out of sight along the stables.

  They drifted into an elegant drawing room where ornate sofas surrounded a large flagstone fireplace. They sat down in their usual places. They had done this before.

  Victor Sherwyck walked in looking triumphant in his dinner jacket. “Let us toast to our impending success. The funeral of the Vice President is in two days. Tomorrow we offer our supreme sacrifice— something of outstanding sentiment to this country. Then the last impediment to our victory—the President—will fall. We shall prevail. All that I have promised you is here!”

  His followers’ eyes gleamed with anticipation of personal fulfillment, power and glory.


  “Symbols of religious faith in this country are challenged. More and more they are challenged. The State is pulled away from its spiritual anchors. Scandal abounds in churches. The energy of our own rituals to the true Prince of the Underworld is filling the void. Witness our power by our tumbling enemies! We are ascendant!”

  He glared at each of them in turn.

  “Does anyone have any doubt?”

  His supplicants stared attentively, saying nothing.

  “Our colleagues in the hidden corridors of the Kremlin are poised to step forward. Their people still pine for strong leaders. They will have them!”

  Sherwyck eyed Senator Dunne. “As you know, there is disarray in political office. Major issues go wanting and brilliant minds wallow in minutiae. That is why when the moment comes, they will follow a firm, resolute leader—a leader forged by crisis. You, my dear Taylor!”

  Philip Taylor smirked in self‐satisfaction.

  “You, who will for a short, critical time—when the President falls—command the nuclear arsenal and—as a patriotic gesture to save your people—capitulate when threatened by our resurgent comrades and believers from my world!”

  He eyed each of them individually to see from the wide looks in their eyes, whether questions remained.

  “Fear of insecurity is far greater than love of democracy,” Victor Sherwyck declared with finality.

  Their looks were now rapt, firm in the belief that his every word was right.

  “We will gather, like we do, several hours after the close of the museum,” Sherwyck instructed.

  “The delivery entrance will be manned. There’ll be night crew vehicles in the lot,” Stanley Brooks, the union steward, reported. “The van will not look out of place.”

  “Be sure the perimeters are protected,” Sherwyck scolded.

  “Our men have always scared away passersby.”

  Sherwyck looked at him sternly.

  “Except for that last time. He was armed. It won’t happen again. I assure you. We lost a couple of true believers.”

  “Fools!” Sherwyck declared. “True believers win, not lose!”

  “It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

  “How will you bring the offering?”

  “She’s already there. She’s closely guarded in one of the exhibit rooms under construction.” Brooks answered with a confident tone of efficiency.

  Sherwyck raised his eyebrow. “What about Alvin Carruthers, the curator? He’s been asking questions lately during rounds of the building.”

  “His domain is the daytime, sire. We plead ‘union rules’ after five in the evening. He has no access to those keys, especially the construction areas or the level beneath the gem exhibits. Our people rule after hours.”

  Sherwyck’s eyes narrowed. He looked threateningly at Brooks. “Make sure the remains are hidden for good. We cannot have corpses turn up in parks with our symbols on them!”

  “Yes. Yes, of course! It won’t happen again.”

  The Sorcerer’s face turned into a sarcastic smile. “You scared the devil out of Senator Dunne here when the last one was found.” Sherwyck reveled in his psychological puppeteering. “But, no matter,” he continued more convivially. “In several days the whole axis of power in this world will change. These details will be irrelevant.”

  He lifted his glass in a toast.

  “I think I’ll ask to see the President tomorrow. One last time, so to speak.”

  The others snickered expectantly.

  “Someone from the memorial committee asked that Blaze be the riderless horse in the Vice President’s funeral cortege into Arlington.” His lips turned into a mordant grin.

  “What about the investigation into General Starr’s accident?” Mr. Knowlton cautioned. “The reports of a black horse involved?”

  “Is my prized Arabian the only black stallion in Virginia?” Sherwyck replied with feigned indignity.

  His cynical grin turned into a longing sigh. “My child of the desert. He reminds me so much of home.”

  Chapter 46

  Laura Mitchell was quietly sobbing at her uncle’s bedside. He had been pronounced dead more than a half hour earlier. She held his hand and looked at his peaceful face. All wrinkles of a lifetime of struggle were gone. He looked younger, just like in old, but treasured photos of a band of partisans in the forests of his beloved homeland.

  She stroked his head. The body was still warm. “I know you can hear me, Uncle. You’ll always be with me. I am what you taught me.”

  She took a deep breath of resolve. “I’ll prove you right. Chris will help me. And I swear we’ll destroy whoever killed you.”

  A woman in business dress came into the hospital room. “Are you all right? Do you want more time?”

  Laura looked with red, but drying eyes at the solicitous face. “Thanks, I’m all right.”

  The lady shook her hand. “I’m with family and social services. I’m truly sorry for your loss. You know, he made arrangements some time ago. There’s a connection through an Embassy.”

  “Yes, of course,” Laura said with an emerging smile. “He wants to be buried with his brothers—the Brothers of the Forest.”

  “Oh?” The woman sounded intrigued. “It seems like there’s some story there.”

  “A long one,” Laura replied.

  “You’ll take good care of him?”

  “Certainly,” the woman assured and hugged her. “You go home and get some rest.”

  “Rest will have to come later,” Laura said determinedly. “Right now I have some business at a museum.”

  “But, it’s near closing time.”

  “So much, the better.”

  ***

  Outside the hospital, she phoned Alvin Carruthers and told him what happened to her uncle. Carruthers sounded distraught in expressing his sympathies.

  “Meet me at the museum,” she said resolutely.

  “But, Laura,” came over the phone. “It’s closing time.”

  “There’s a back entrance, isn’t there?”

  “Well, yes, for maintenance and security. It’s not for visitors.”

  “I’m not going as a visitor.”

  ***

  Laura Mitchell hurried to her car and drove the short distance from George Washington University Hospital to the National Museum of Natural History. She turned from Constitution Avenue onto 12th Street, then turned left into the hedge enclosed service area of the museum. The stretch of 12th Street in late afternoon looked so different from that dark night, she thought with a determined look, that night when Christopher Caine had fought off their deadly accosters.

  She parked her car next to some other vehicles and started for the service door. Several people had just entered before her. She wondered if the door was unlocked or if she would have to wait for Al Carruthers outside.

  Just as she reached to try the door, two muscular men grabbed her from behind. One muffled her mouth and the other jabbed her arm with a muscle relaxant. She struggled violently, but briefly, before they dragged her out of sight.

  Chapter 47

  As soon as he landed at Andrews Air Force Base, Colonel Caine headed for Washington University Hospital to see Jonas Mitchell and hopefully find Laura with him.

  The hospital was on the way to the Pentagon where he had orders to brief General William Bradley. Colonel Garrison Jones had stayed behind in Egypt to inform officials about the infernal monastery and see how they would react to it.

  Caine had just passed the highway interchange from Andrews and was speeding northwest on the divided stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue when he saw a blue sedan in traffic behind him.

  The tail so benign on other occasions, now took on menacing significance after the revelations in the desert. The sedan was close and kept pace with him in traffic. He slowed for a changing traffic light where the road merged near the Anacostia River in the southeast part of the city. Glancing in the rear view mirror he saw the sedan coming at him. He could see that it was
not going to stop and braced himself for impact. Seconds later the dark sedan banged into the rear of his Viper.

  Caine pulled to the curb and stopped in a lurch. The other driver had pulled up behind him and was climbing out of his own car. Caine stormed out to confront the man when he noticed the diplomatic license plate.