The Devil's Magician

by Rick Jones

  Leviticus stirred and found himself bound to a metal ring attached to a low ceiling, the balls of his feet barely touching the floor. When his eyes finally adjusted, he saw the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair deep inside the shadows next to the door. Beside him stood another man, one who wore the garments of an Islamic State militant, the all-black uniform including the headscarf which was neatly folded around his face with the exception of his eyes, the man carrying an AK-47. Though Leviticus could make out the features of the militant, he couldn’t discern the man sitting in the shadows, however, who remained as black as pitch. Leviticus could feel the bumps and bruises from the beatings, could feel the throb of his flesh where knots had risen along his cheeks and jaw line.

  “You’re awake,” the shadow said. “Very good.” The shape didn’t move at all.

  And then: “It appears, Vatican Knight, that the beatings you took, along with the one called Isaiah, is doing little to coerce much needed information.”

  Leviticus grunted against the pain, while maintaining a piercing stare at the Shadowman.

  “Let me ask you something from soldier to soldier,” said the man in the shadows.

  Leviticus scoffed at this. “You think you’re a soldier? Seriously?”

  The shadow didn’t rebut the statement or move, he simply maintained his stiff position for a long moment before speaking. “I need to know: Is he coming?”

  Leviticus squinted his eyes. “What?”

  “Is he coming?”

  “Is who coming?”

  “Is he coming?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Then for the first time, the man in the shadows nodded his head, a predetermined gesture meant for the militant to launch forward and ram the butt of his rifle into Leviticus’s abdomen, a hard blow that knocked the air from his lungs with a loud whoosh from his lips.

  When Leviticus collected himself, the man from the shadows spoke to him once more. “Is he coming?”

  “Who?”

  The Shadowman sighed. “The priest who is not a priest,” he finally said.

  Leviticus seemed perplexed by this. “Why do you keep asking about him?”

  “Is ...he ...coming?”

  “No.”

  The Shadowman leaned back into his seat. “Are you sure?”

  “The man you speak of is no longer a member of the team. Been gone for a while now.”

  Then calmly: “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  “This man’s name, is it Kimball Hayden?”

  Leviticus didn’t answer, which prompted another blow. Still, Leviticus remained quiet.

  “Is his name Kimball Hayden?” the Shadowman repeated with unnerving calm.

  Still no answer.

  Then another blow from the rifle’s stock.

  “I can do this all day, Leviticus.”

  “So you know my name.”

  “I know quite a bit. But not as much as I should. So tell me about this priest who is not a priest, is his name Kimball Hayden?”

  “Why do you care?”

  The Shadowman spoke with a measure of indifference. “I’m looking for him. But the man is proving to be quite elusive. So tell me, is his name Kimball Hayden?”

  “Trust me. You don’t want anything to do with him.”

  “Then I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Leviticus tested his bindings to the ring, and noted that the skin around the bands of the cuffs had become red and raw.

  “It won’t be too much longer now, my friend,” said the shape. “Whether he stands with the church or outside of its shadow, he will come for you. I feel this in my heart.” And then it became clear to Leviticus that the mission of the Islamic State was twofold: one, the continued financing of their cause through high-end abductions whose ties had deep financial pockets; and two, for whatever reason a vendetta that this man needed to cash in against Kimball.

  “After he killed Mabus and Sayed,” the Shadowman began, “people who we considered to be unreachable, do you know what we called this ‘priest who is not a priest’ from that point on?” Though this was passed off as a question, Leviticus took it to be rhetorical, so he didn’t respond. But the man in the shadows did by reciting a stanza. “It’s said when the world isn’t right, then a man steps out of the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica to make it whole again. He is the priest who is not a priest. He’s an angel to some and a demon to others. But here we call him something different. Here we call him the Devil’s Magician.” The shape stood up from the chair, his outline nothing less than pure unadulterated darkness, then added: “And when he comes, I’ll be waiting for him.” The man of shadow then walked out of the cell with the metal door slamming behind him, leaving Leviticus with more questions than answers.

  * * *

  After the move to an undisclosed location, Isaiah had been beaten until his right eye had swollen shut, though he had been cuffed and attached to a metal ring moored to the low-lying ceiling, and was incapable of defending himself from blows that had been tendered out of sheer malice. Breathing was difficult to come by, perhaps a rib or two cracked, broken or bruised. And the sight from his one good eye was blurry, his surroundings a landscape of moving shadows when he finally came to.

  “Very good,” said the man sitting in the gloomiest part of the chamber. “You didn’t keep me waiting for too long.”

  Isaiah took a deep breath through clenched teeth, the action painful as if a python was tightening its grip around his injured ribs.

  The man continued to sit idle in the shadows. Even from his good eye, Isaiah could see that the silhouetted shape had a leg crossed over the other with his hands resting on his knee.

  “Tell me,” the shape said. “Is he coming?”

  Isaiah didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Then once more in a steady measure: “Is he coming?”

  Isaiah licked his dry lips, his body craving for liquids. “Is who coming?”

  The Shadowman remained still and unmoving. “I have spoken to the one called Leviticus. And he told me everything.”

  Isaiah knew this was a lie. Every Vatican Knight had been trained not to divulge mission plans, or to proffer information that may compromise the position of the church in any way. So he gave the inquisitor a lazy half smile with the corner of his lip turning up into a grin that was as thin as a fishhook.

  But the man in the shadows didn’t appear bothered by this, at least not by the even measure of his tone. “Is he coming?” he repeated.

  Isaiah refused to respond, his silence perhaps answer enough.

  “Very well,” the man sitting in the quasi-darkness said. Then he stood, the man a silhouette against the backdrop. “Then I shall employ the eyes and ears we have elsewhere ...including the Vatican.” A moment later he was gone, leaving Isaiah alone in shadows that shrouded him in a cold embrace.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ––––––––

  Damascus, Syria

  It was late afternoon when Sargon Azerbaijani received an invite from a man by the name of Firat Rashi, a man whose specialty was to launder finances and sanitize money trails. He was a short and paunchy looking man with tastes in fine cui- sine, fine dress and fine cars. In Damascus, he was known as the Banker.

  When Sargon Azerbaijani was invited onto Rashi’s estate, a 12,500 square-foot home planted on ten acres of manicured property that was well guarded by a company of armed guards, he was summarily checked at the gate by the sentries for weapons or wires. When he had been cleared, one of the sentries escorted him to a patio in the rear of the estate where Rashi watched his children at play inside an Olympic-size swimming pool.

  When Sargon took the seat opposite Rashi, the Banker seemed to look past him and to his children, the man smiling as they played, and someone who had yet to acknowledge the Syrian who wore the clothes of a beggar man. Then finally from Rashi, who continued to maintain his watch over his children, said to Sargon, “
You would think with all the money you make in back-alley transactions and commissions, that you would put on finer clothing than the rags you wear on your back.”

  “Much apologies, Firat.”

  “My reputation, Sargon, is that I meet with men of quality, not the street- looking dwellers who look like they just crawled out of the dust dunes of the desert frontier.”

  “Again, Firat, much apologies. I will certainly dress to standards upon our next meeting.”

  Rashi turned on him. “If there is a next time. Now what is it that you want, Sargon? The proposal you bring me better be worth it, as you stated to my contact. Which I believe you said was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five million American dollars that needs a clean transference of conversion.”

  Sargon bowed his head. “It is.”

  Rashi eased back into his seat, looking intrigued. “I’m listening.”

  “My client,” Sargon began, “is about to come into said amount within a few days. However, he would like to negotiate your standard commission fee of twenty percent down to five.”

  Rashi smiled at this, nodded, then went back to watching his children inside the pool. “Tell your client that he can piss off,” he told Sargon, “even for that amount. I’m not interested.”

  Sargon swallowed, then began to gesticulate with nervous hands as he spoke.

  “You don’t understand, Firat—”

  “My closest friends call me Firat,” he interrupted. “You haven’t earned that right. To you my name is Rashi.”

  Once again Sargon bowed his head submissively. “Of course, Rashi. My mistake.” And then: “If I may continue, my client belongs to a group of people who have great tastes in committing violent acts in order to achieve their means. The man in charge of the negotiations regarding your services is asking for five per-cent, not one Syrian pound more.”

  “Then I guess we don’t do business, Sargon. Like I said before, go back to your client and tell him to piss off. If he wants my services, then I can make it happen.

  But it’s twenty-percent and not one Syrian pound less.”

  The rising tension in Sargon was becoming apparent. “Please, Rashi, all I ask is that you negotiate somewhat from your standing commission. The people I deal with have little patience when it comes to lack of agreement.”

  “And who would these people be, Sargon?”

  Sargon nervously scratched an itch under his nose with his knuckle, and then: “His name is—”

  “—Hassan Maloof,” finished Rashi. Then he refocused his attention back to Sargon. “Do you really think that I would let you walk close to my property without knowing why, Sargon? I have ears planted to every wall far and wide in Damascus, for which I pay handsomely. If something happens that I should know about, I do. You’re not the only one with a craving hand for money when it comes to information gathering.”

  “Then you know Maloof?”

  “I know he’s a member of the Islamic State and a member of Interpol’s most wanted list, along with the CIA. I know he’s a top-ranking member of the faction whose cell has been on the run since Raqqa fell to Allied Forces. So I can only assume that they’re planning to go underground in Damascus, recruit, build their forces, and start the cycle all over again. The question is: how are they coming into such a substantial sum of money?”

  Sargon hesitated.

  Then from Rashi: “Is this going to remain a mystery, Sargon? Or do you intend to shed some light on the matter for me?”

  “Will it help with the negotiations?” Sargon asked.

  “It would help if I knew the specifics before going into the game.”

  Sargon nodded. Then: “You do know the power of the Islamic State, correct?”

  “Sargon, they have been severely beaten and weakened over the past few years by forces much greater. They’re bandits on the run. That’s all they are. People hanging onto a dream that will never come to fruition. My watchdog team of guards are militarily sophisticated, so Hassan Maloof’s threats mean little to me. But if he has the funds and needs the money trails to disappear into cyberspace in order to promote his agendas—whatever those agendas may be and I don’t care— then I can make this happen. But only for twenty percent.”

  “He will not be happy.”

  “I don’t care, Sargon. I’m a business man who loves money much more than the causes of another man. If he wants to conduct business, then I’m the one who can hide his assets without fear of consequence from those homing in on his trajectory, like Interpol and the CIA. I do not judge another man for his beliefs, Sargon. But I do judge a man by the art of the deal. If he wants me to conduct a business transaction that guarantees a safety net, then he has a deal for twenty percent of the financial take. He needs to know this. Such a large sum will not be easy to make disappear from the radar. But I can do it.”

  “I’ll let Hassan Maloof know.”

  Rashi smiled. “If I don’t hear from you by tonight at exactly eight o’clock, Sargon, then I’ll assume that Hassan was displeased with my answer.” Then his wry grin vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Twenty percent and not a fraction less. It stands.”

  Sargon stood with the clothes he wore filled with moth holes. “Twenty per-cent,” he acknowledged.

  “If he makes threats on my life or the lives of my family, Sargon, I will hunt each man down in Maloof’s cell and put them down like dogs with the mange. The Islamic State does not invoke terror like they once did. Their power is all but lost.”

  Sargon nodded. “Understood.”

  “Hassan Maloof has until eight tonight to agree to my terms,” said Rashi. “And not one minute more.”

  Another nod from the unkempt Syrian.

  “And Sargon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t ever sit at my table again unless you’re properly dressed. If you do, I’ll kill you myself.”

  Sargon’s expression of dread never changed. He wasn’t sure who he was more afraid of, Hassan Maloof or Firat Rashi.

  Then with a note of detachment, Rashi said, “Have a good day.” Then he went back to watching his children at play.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ––––––––

  Milan, Italy

  “You must eat. If not for yourself, then you must allow the children.” The man clad entirely in black attire with a scarf circling his face, handed Carmela Conti a bowl filled with some kind of pasty gruel.

  Carmela accepted the bowl as her two daughters clung close to her, though she never took her eyes from the man who often spoke to them with a harsh tone.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked him. “Where’s my husband?”

  The man pointed to the bowl. “Eat!” He then left the tiny cell and closed the door behind him, only to be followed by the sound of a latch being slid into place from the other side.

  The stew inside the bowl had an indescribable smell that was neither bad nor good. When Carmela held the bowl out for her children, they used the tips of their fingers to scoop up the pasty portions that dripped down their fingers like the tallow of wax, and ate.

  This man in dark clothing had come to them during the night and had given them an anesthetic that rendered them unconscious. When she awoke she found herself inside this room that was no larger than a broom closet, with blankets on the floor and a bucket for waste materials. When she examined the children who were fine, she then asked the man through the door about her husband, who ignored her inquiries as he paced back and forth along the corridor with the cadence of his footfalls echoing off the surroundings walls.

  “Please tell me where he is,” she cried. “Please.”

  The captor continued to walk the length of the hallway, only to stop to speak to another in a language she did not understand. A moment later the footfalls resumed—always slow and metered and in perfect rhythm like the slow beat of a drum outside their door.

  ...Thump...

  ...Thump...

  ...Thump...

  “
Please,” Carmela cried out. “Why are you doing this?”

  ...Thump...

  ...Thump...

  ...Thump...

  And then everything went silent. The man was standing idle on the other side with his shadow clearly seen beneath the crack of the door.

  “Why are you doing this?” she repeated.

  “For the good of the cause,” the man said simply. “Now you stay quiet, yes?”

  “And my husband?”

  The man hesitated a moment before giving an answer that sounded even with indifference. “Dead.” Then he commenced his pacing along the corridor.

  ...Thump...

  ...Thump...

  ...Thump...

  In her cell, as she gathered the children close, Carmela wept.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ––––––––

  Flight time from Rome to Damascus is roughly three-and-a-half hours. Sitting with a row to himself on a charter, Kimball Hayden was poring over documents and film footage from his laptop. He had downloaded the footage taken from the CCTV cameras inside the Syriac Catholic Church. The images were grainy and hardly any- thing of decent quality, but were passable. The audio portion was just as poor, the words either clipped or missing entirely from the feed. As Kimball watched the videos, he noted the movements of the assassins, such as their speed and agility of scaling walls and moving with practiced stealth, the hallmarks of military sophistication and high-end training.

  He watched the video on the screen with a keen eye of observance, looking for unique motions to identify someone either by the strange movement to their gait, or perhaps a stylized movement that was unique, something Kimball could later point a finger at and say: “That’s him!”

  But they moved through the shadows as one—all equal, all the same, with skilled and practiced motions.

  Then Kimball moved to the actual killings of the priests. The shapes appeared to know the outlay of the floor plan and moved with purpose. Quietly, they entered the chambers and killed the priests with their knives, the stabbings vicious and brutal. Then they came upon the cardinal’s chamber, the room at the end of the hallway. From the camera’s angle, a man of dark clothing entered. A moment later there was a reaction from Cardinal Alnasseri. The audio was garbled, the words choppy, but Kimball was able to determine that Cardinal Alnasseri had been targeted, and that the assailant knew exactly who he was looking for.