Assassin's Code

by Jonathan Maberry

  “What kind of materials?” asked Top.

  “A list of all DMS staff as of the end of last year. And … the names and addresses of everyone’s families.”

  If I’d dropped a flash-bang into the center of the room I couldn’t have hit them harder. Top’s eyes went wide and his lips parted in a silent O. He had an ex-wife back home, and a daughter who had lost both her legs in Baghdad when a mine blew up under her Bradley. It was the reason he joined the DMS, and now he was thousands of miles away from being able to stand between them and an unknown group of killers.

  I held up my hands. “Church knows about this and he’s taken steps. Everyone on that list is going to be taken into protective custody.”

  “Which won’t mean shit if Vox is behind this,” growled Top. “He had people wired into the cops, the FBI, everywhere. Probably still does.”

  “I know, but Church is on it.”

  Top looked at me with a stare so hard and cold that it felt like physical blows.

  “We didn’t start this war, Top,” I said. “We have to count ourselves lucky that we found that list. It gives us a chance.”

  We sat in silence thinking about the possible consequences. If I hadn’t found that list, if the Sabbatarians had been able to move on it, the resulting carnage and grief would have destroyed the DMS at its core. Even if we survived, the damage done to us would be like third-degree burns on our psyche. We’d never recover.

  “Vox,” said Top. Just the name, but it had so much meaning; he said so much with it.

  “Vox,” I agreed.

  Lydia cleared her throat and glanced at me. “What exactly are we supposed to do when we find the weapons?”

  It took effort to turn away from Top. “What would your guess be?”

  She shrugged. “Locate and secure each nuke, de-arm the weapons, and have a meaningful conversation with anyone left who still has a pulse. Then go home and drink a gallon of tequila.”

  Everyone laughed. It was all forced, though. Even Top measured out half an inch of smile. “Now you know the game plan,” I said.

  Bunny asked, “Is there any kind of evacuation plan in case we drop the ball?”

  “Evacuate who, Farmboy?” snapped Top. “The entire Middle East? How exactly do we do that?”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Okay, we’re waiting for the go-order to hit the Aghajari oil refinery. It’ll be a quiet infil. Locate and de-arm.” I opened my tactical computer and called up the mission files uploaded by Bug. “First thing we have to do is study the layout of the refinery according to the blueprints Rasouli provided, matching them against satellite photos and intel from our own sources. I want six ways in and ten ways out.”

  “Hooah” said Top. No one else joined him.

  “Then I want you to pair up and buddy-test each other on the wiring schematics of the Teller–Ulam bomb and its variations. Swap teams every half hour. Everybody knows what everybody else knows. We don’t want surprises and missed cues when de-arming the nukes. Hooah?”

  “Hooah.” All of them said it this time.

  “After that, everyone gets rack time.”

  “Sleepy soldiers are clumsy soldiers,” said Khalid, then punctuated it by quietly going, “Ka-booooooom.”

  “Hoo-fucking-ah,” said Bunny.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Abandoned Warehouse

  Outskirts of Tehran

  June 16, 12:22 a.m.

  While the others worked on their de-arming drills, I read through the vampire information Circe had obtained from Dr. Corbiel-Newton. Most of it was useless fairy-tale stuff or speculation without hope of verification. Some of it, though, was more practical, taking a look at the possibility of vampirism as a natural phenomenon. That was the same ground I had covered with Hu, but there were some things here that I found very interesting. Especially about garlic. In the movies, garlic simply repels a vampire, kind of like pepper spray, but it doesn’t kill them. In a lot of the world’s folklore, however, garlic was lethal to them, especially if introduced into the bloodstream or via a mucus membrane. In something called the “ritual of exorcism,” fresh garlic was placed in the mouth of a vampire. In some cultures garlic paste was used on skin or clothes as a deterrent and could kill a vampire if one of them bit skin that was coated with it. Of course … that would require a vampire with a head cold who couldn’t smell the damn garlic.

  As I thought that, an idea skittered across my brain. It was there and gone. My three inner selves—the Cop, the Warrior, and the Civilized Man—all made grabs for it, but we came up dry.

  So I went out and retrieved the Sabbatarians’ valise from the back of the vegetable truck, and then laid out the contents. Hammers and stakes to one side. I doubted they would be useful. Ditto the vials of holy water. But the bags of garlic powder and the jars of garlic oil … even touching them coaxed that idea out of its hiding place in the shadows of my brain.

  I held a bag of garlic powder in one hand and a jar of oil in the other.

  It was the Cop who figured it all out.

  But it made the Warrior smile and smile.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Abandoned Warehouse

  Outskirts of Tehran

  June 16, 1:34 a.m.

  I needed to sleep, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Instead I walked the perimeter of the warehouse to make sure it was secure. It was. We could not have been farther from the flow of life here in Tehran if we were on the moon. The night sky was immensely dark and littered with ten trillion cold points of light.

  I fished a stick of gum out of a pocket and chewed it, enjoying the mint burn, glad to be rid of the lingering taste of garlic. Ghost came sleepily out of the warehouse and trudged along with me, pausing now and again to leave his mark on useful walls.

  I called in for Church but was rerouted to Aunt Sallie. She listened to my report without much comment except to make a biting remark about my “letting” Jamsheed get killed.

  “You’re a charming lady,” I said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Eat me,” she replied. “Church will be in touch when he wants you to know something. Until then, lay low and try not to get anyone else killed.”

  A crushing reply was poised on the tip of my tongue but she hung up on me.

  Almost immediately the phone buzzed and I hit the button in hopes of flattening Aunt Sallie with my rejoinder.

  “Hello, Joseph.”

  I smiled, “Hello, Violin.”

  She paused and I strained to hear if there was any background noise, anything that I could use to get a lead on where she was. But there was nothing. Ghost must have heard her voice and he actually wagged his tail. Dog’s a little weird.

  “Are you somewhere safe?”

  “For now,” I said, though that was only true in the physical sense. Everything inside my head felt like it was a junk pile of hand grenades without their pins and bottles of badly stored chemicals. “Thanks for the help today.”

  “I wish I could have warned you, but I found out where you were by following the Sabbatarians. There are teams of them all over Tehran.”

  “I’m surprised they can operate so freely.”

  “They can’t. There have been a lot of arrests over the years, here and elsewhere. They are charged as spies. The church doesn’t know about them and their own people disown them. Most of them die in prison.”

  “Pity,” I said. “Are they really part of the Inquisition?”

  “How did you—? Oh. You must have questioned some of them.”

  “Only one and he didn’t know much.”

  “You’re probably wrong about that. How hard did you try?”

  Ouch, I thought. Ghost stood sniffing the wind as if trying to catch Violin’s scent on the breeze. Something caught his attention and he wandered off into the shadows. Probably some interesting jackal poop. Ghost is a scatological connoisseur.

  “Since I already know some of it,” I said to Violin, “how about telling me more?”

&n
bsp; “Yes,” she said.

  It took me a two-count to catch up to that. “What?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think it’s time to tell you what’s going on.”

  “First—whoopee, and I mean that sincerely. Second, why the change of heart?”

  “It’s … complicated.”

  “That seems to be a theme lately. Care to elaborate?”

  “I asked my mother.” When I laughed, she said, “I’m not joking.”

  “Your mother. Lilith, right?”

  “How—? Ah … Mr. Church told you. Good, that will make it easier. She’s here in Tehran and she’s asked me to bring you to her.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Can you get away for an hour?”

  “Maybe,” I said dubiously. “Where are you?”

  “Right behind you,” she said.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Abandoned Warehouse

  Outskirts of Tehran

  June 16, 1:41 a.m.

  I spun around and tore my pistol out of its holster.

  She was ten feet away and she already had her gun out and up.

  Ghost came pelting out of the darkness like a white bullet, but I gave him a hand signal and he stopped thirty feet from Violin’s right flank, uttering a low growl that was full of promises. So much for wagging his tail. I guess that he didn’t like being blindsided any more than I did.

  “Drop it,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “I don’t think I will.”

  We stared at each other.

  She smiled first. Small and tentative. Then I felt my mouth twitch.

  “On two?” I said.

  “Sure.”

  I counted it down and when I hit zero we both abruptly tilted our pistols to the sky and took our fingers off the triggers.

  We stood there assessing each other, then lowered our guns. Neither of us reholstered them, though.

  “Hello, Joseph,” she said.

  “Hello, Violin.”

  She was both similar and different to the image of her that I had constructed partly from memories distorted by the smoke and thunder of the gun battle at Jamsheed’s and partly from how I’d imagined her since that first call yesterday morning. Lean, fox-faced, with erect posture and the slightly splay-footed stance you see in ballet dancers. The MTAR-21 assault rifle hung from its strap, and she held a Ruger Mark III .22 caliber pistol down at her side. In many ways she reminded me heartbreakingly of Grace, but she was also very different. Younger, taller, with an air of innocence about her—despite her profession—that Grace did not share. I wondered if they could have been friends.

  “Come with me,” she said. “Lilith is waiting.”

  “You call your mother by her first name?”

  Violin shrugged.

  “Is it a code name? Like Violin?”

  “Nobody I know uses their real names,” she said, and there was sadness in her eyes.

  “I do.”

  She nodded. “And I find that so strange.”

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  The Warehouse

  Baltimore, Maryland

  June 15, 5:15 p.m. EST

  Rudy set the coffee cup down where Circe could see it, but she was too focused to notice or care. Her workstation monitors were filled with multiscreen images from the Voynich manuscript and the Book of Shadows. Images came and went as Circe, sitting rock-still except for the hand controlling the mouse and her darting eyes, studied the arcane pages.

  The communicator gave a soft bing-bong and Bug’s face replaced one of the screens. He was grinning.

  “Hey, docs … I got some good news. Or, at least I think it’s good news.”

  Circe looked up and Rudy could see the lines of stress and worry that were etched into her lovely face. That, and the desperate hope in her eyes, made his heart ache.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “MindReader came through again. I had my buddy Aziz help me with some search arguments in a couple of different Persian dialects, and that gave us the edge we needed to slip through the security at the National Museum in Tehran. And guess what we found there?”

  Circe’s eyes came fully alive and she half rose from her chair.

  “You found it?” she demanded.

  “Yes, ma’am,” beamed Bug. “I just uploaded it to the server. A complete copy of the Saladin Codex.”

  “Is it in the same ciphertext?” asked Rudy.

  The question dialed up the wattage on Bug’s grin. “Nope. There are fifty-four separate translations. Persian, Arabic, Pashtun, Farsi, and … wait for it, wait for it … English.”

  The change that came over Circe’s face was miraculous. As Rudy watched he could see the weariness drop away, the stress burn itself to nothingness, revealing a refreshed intensity and a predatory glint that was startling and, he had to admit, a bit intimidating. For the first time he could see in her eyes the reflection of her father.

  “Now we have a chance,” said Circe fiercely. “Damn it, now we have a real chance.”

  “Let’s just hope that there’s some clue in there to help us crack the other books,” observed Rudy and he was instantly sorry he said it because the newfound confidence in Circe’s eyes diminished by half in the space of a heartbeat. He wanted to bang his head against the wall, but Circe set her jaw and almost sneered at the possibility of defeat.

  “No, damn it,” she growled. “We are going to crack this. We have to.”

  It broke Rudy’s heart to hear her tack on those last three desperate words.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Arklight Camp

  Outskirts of Tehran

  June 16, 1:50 a.m.

  Violin led me to another warehouse two blocks over. The rear loading doors were open and there were several cars and small panel trucks parked inside, out of sight. Ghost sniffed the air and growled, cutting inquiring looks at me. I signaled him to remain calm and alert. Having the signal seemed to calm him—dogs are always at their most content when the pack leader has things under control. Not that I actually did, but it was nice that my dog thought so.

  There were twenty-five people in the warehouse, all women. The youngest was about Violin’s age, the oldest was at least seventy. They all looked fit and trim, though, and they were all armed. The women stood in a loose circle around another woman who sat on an overturned packing crate. As we approached, the circle opened to allow us in. The eyes that turned toward me were in no way welcoming. There were no smiles, no acknowledging nods. Twenty-five sets of eyes assessed me as if I were a side of beef, and not a very fresh one.

  “I brought him, mother,” announced Violin. She peeled off from my side and went to stand by the seated woman. That gave me a chance to take a closer look at the woman I presumed was “Lilith.” Each of these women looked powerful, but Lilith was different. She was magnificent, with a face that was cold and beautiful, like the death mask of an ancient queen. Sculpted cheekbones and a strong chin, straight nose and a high, clear brow. But her eyes were absolutely compelling. Endlessly deep and intelligent. And totally without mercy.

  “These are the Mothers of the Fallen,” said Violin. “And this is my mother, Lilith.”

  Ghost whined faintly and looked at me. It was pretty obvious that he was confused in the presence of what was perhaps a much more powerful pack leader.

  “Captain Ledger,” said Lilith. “My daughter has risked much to arrange this meeting.”

  I stopped about ten feet from where she sat. “So what’s the drill? Do I bow and curtsy?”

  “No,” she said, “but you can mind your manners.”

  “Yeah, about that?” I said. “Kiss my ass.”

  Violin stiffened but before she—or anyone else—could say anything Lilith raised her hand slightly. It silenced all reaction, but I could feel all those eyes burning into me. The Mothers of the Fallen were not lining up to join the Joe Ledger fan club. That went both ways.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said, “it’s not that I have
any specific disrespect for you—whoever the hell you are—or these fine ladies here. Or your daughter. It’s just that I just had a real bitch of a day yesterday, and I’m tired, sore, and cranky. I’ve been chased, attacked by Sabbatarians and vampires, and people have been very mean to my dog.”

  Ghost woofed.

  “And,” I concluded, “your daughter put sniper scopes on me to force me into a meeting with Iran’s biggest psychopath who told me that there are nuclear bombs planted all over the Middle East. One of those bombs is in the United States. My boss gave me the impression that you know more about what’s going on, but so far you haven’t told me shit. So, if you’re looking for deference or civility, I’m fresh out. In fact, I’m wondering why the fuck you’re wasting time with clandestine meetings, cryptic phone calls, and a lot of cloak and dagger bullshit.”

  Lilith smiled a little. Beautiful as she was, her smile was unpleasant. Kind of an Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS vibe.

  “I won’t apologize for the confusion, Captain,” Lilith began. “Arklight is not in the habit of sharing information except under very limited circumstances. When my daughter was contacted by Rasouli yesterday she had no idea who you were. Once you provided your name, she was able to do a database search to come up with some background on you. We know about your military and police careers, and we know that you are an agent of the Department of Military Sciences. You work for St. Germaine.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Church.”

  “What do you know of Mr. Church?”

  “Almost certainly more than you do,” she said.

  “And we’re back to the cryptic bullshit. You still haven’t explained what the ‘Mother of the Fallen’ are, what Arklight is, and how you know anything about Mr. Church.”

  Lilith ignored that. “There have been times when Arklight’s agenda has overlapped with his operations.”

  “‘Overlapped’ is a slippery word. I don’t know who you ladies are or what you stand for. Granted, Violin saved my bacon at the hotel when the Red Knight attacked me, and she stepped in during the Sabbatarian hit on one of our safe houses, so she gets a lot of Brownie points for that.” I saw Violin look away to hide a smile. “But at the same time she’s stalled me all day long, feeding me enigmatic bits and pieces of information. Plus there’s that whole ‘working for Rasouli’ thing. Let’s start with that, and I’d like some straight answers. No bullshit, no runaround.”