by Tim LaHaye
Showered, changed, and newly focused, Murphy met her in the spacious lobby. “I think they should rename this hotel the Empty Quarter,” he joked. “Are we the only guests, do you think?”
“Tar-Qasir isn’t exactly a tourist destination,” she admitted. “But that’s not to say it doesn’t have its points of interest.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve been doing a little research while you were catching up on your sleep,” she said with a twinkle. It sounded as if sleep was something she indulged in only rarely, like the occasional drink. “As we know, it began as an oasis. A convenient crossing point of various trade routes through the desert. Gradually it grew into a proper market town as merchants began to settle here instead of just using it as a watering hole. And by the Middle Ages, it had become a genuine city Actually, rather a unique and unusual one.”
She was clearly enjoying herself, and Murphy was pleased to see it. “Unique and unusual? Let me guess, they had ice-cream parlors? No—baseball was invented here!”
She shook her head. “Rather more interesting than that. They had underground sewers. You see, the spring that fed the original oasis provided enough water for a remarkably efficient system. Probably the first of its kind.”
Murphy scratched his chin. “And it’s still in operation?”
“Heavens, no. But the original tunnels may well be intact. They built things to last in those days. If we want to find out what lies beneath the surface of downtown Tar-Qasir, maybe the sewers are the answer.”
“That’s a lot of maybes,” said Murphy. “How do we get in? And how do we find our way around when we’re down there?”
Isis hefted her backpack and stood up. She was dressed in combat shorts and hiking boots, but somehow still managed to look like a philologist rather than a mountaineer. “I suggest we pay a visit to Tar-Qasir’s municipal library and see if we can find out.”
Murphy sighed. A library. Of course. Where else would Isis suggest they go?
Out in the street the heat hit them like a solid wall, and they were relieved when an air-conditioned cab pulled up a minute later. But it was long enough for the sweat to have already soaked though Murphy’s shirt. Isis, on the other hand, looked as cool and pale as if they’d been hiking in her native Highlands. Maybe being an ice maiden does have certain advantages, Murphy thought.
From the outside, Tar-Qasir’s library didn’t promise much. The Victorian facade of the modest three-story building boasted more character than the washed-out concrete blocks that seemed to make up most of the downtown area, but its broken windows and dusty entrance hall suggested that its best days were long gone. An impression that was confirmed by the man who appeared to be its only inhabitant.
“We are in need of some refurbishment, it is true,” Salim Omar admitted, stroking his trim beard. “Tar-Qasir is a modern city that looks to the future, not the past, and all this”—he gestured to the shelves—or in some cases piles—of books that filled the room—“is considered irrelevant and unworthy of study.” He sighed. “It is a shame. For myself, I believe that it is only by looking deeply into the past that we can understand what the future holds for us.”
Murphy sipped from his glass of steaming mint tea and nodded. “I’m with you there, Mr. Omar.” He felt a surge of fellow feeling for the quiet-spoken librarian who appeared to have been stranded on an outcrop of the past as the tidal wave of modernity swept past him, and would have liked to spend more time drinking tea and learning his story. But Isis was all business.
“Sewers, Mr. Omar. We’re interested in sewers.”
Omar gave her a quizzical look, and she wasn’t sure if he was simply surprised that anyone wanted to know about such things or if he was particularly shocked to hear a woman express an interest. “Dr. McDonald, it is rare enough that anyone comes here seeking a book. Now two people arrive on my doorstep all the way from America and they want to know about sewers. This is most strange, I must say.”
“I’m amazed,” said Isis with, as far as Murphy could tell, a straight face. “Surely everyone knows about the sewers of Tar-Qasir.”
He looked at her as if she were slightly demented. “Perhaps. But very few make the effort to come and see what is left of them.”
“And what is left of them?” Murphy asked.
Omar spread his hands. “Who can say? No one has been down there for many years.”
“What if someone wanted to go down there? Are there any maps, any records of the construction? Any way of navigating?”
Omar glanced at the dust-covered telephone on the desk, and Murphy thought for a moment he was going to call the police to come and arrest these suspicious foreigners with their highly dubious interest in sewers. He was certainly beginning to look extremely nervous. “It is not good. Tunnels falling down and suchlike. I cannot help you.”
Murphy started to get up, but Isis put a pale hand on his arm. “Mr. Omar,” she began, giving him her warmest smile. “We would be delighted to make a contribution to assist with the restoration of your fine library if you were able to help us.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Some additional shelving would be very welcome. Perhaps some assistance in cataloguing…”
Isis kept smiling. “How much?”
He made a sour face as if to say such things were beneath him. “Shall we say one thousand dollars?”
“Five hundred,” Isis shot back.
“Some of the shelves are actually quite dangerous. I had a nasty fall only last week. Eight hundred.”
“Six.”
“Seven-fifty.”
“Agreed.”
Before Murphy could adjust to this new assertive Isis he didn’t quite recognize, she’d reached into her backpack and counted out a neat stack of bills. Omar flipped through them without comment, then stood up, gesturing for them to follow. Squeezing through a tiny door at the end of the room, they entered a chaotic Aladdin’s cave of books and manuscripts piled in drifts against the walls. After several minutes of fruitless burrowing, Omar at last emerged with his prize. He blew the dust off a slim morocco-bound volume before handing it over with a flourish.
“A real treasure. An eighteen forty-four first edition of Baron de Tocqueville’s A Curious History of Ancient Arabia. I think you will find it has excellent illustrations of Tar-Qasir’s sewerage system as it existed in the nineteenth century.”
Murphy watched Isis leafing through the stiff, yellowing pages. She looked as if she were in philologists’ heaven. “A first edition,” she breathed. “I didn’t know there were any editions still in existence. My father would have…”
He guided her back toward the door, worried that if they stayed any longer she’d never be able to tear herself away from this treasure-house of books.
“Thank you for all your help, Mr. Omar. And good luck with the restoration.”
Omar nodded. “And the very best of luck to you both,” he said solemnly.
After the heavy front door had closed behind them, he sat down at his desk, poured himself another cup of tea, and sipped it thoughtfully. After a while a young man dressed in a white djellaba slid silently out from behind a stack of books. He began riffling through the notes on Omar’s desk. “You let them go?”
Omar shrugged. “What could I do? They seemed very determined.”
“The woman was beautiful. I have never seen such pale skin. Do you think we will see them again?”
Omar put down his tea. “Are you serious? Knowing what is down there?”
The young man sighed. “What a shame. She really was very pretty.”
FIFTY-SIX
TALON PASSED THROUGH the ornately carved archway that led into the great hall and wondered if he was about to die. He had been summoned to the castle rarely during the two years he had been employed by the council, and each time he had been taken to the subterranean vault, his employers sat behind a huge obsidian table, seven anonymous black silhouettes that for all he knew were distorted further to conceal their iden
tities.
Now, for the first time, a sightless footman, who seemed to navigate his way through the castle by some extra sense, was pointing to a seat at the end of a long oak table where the Seven sat in clear daylight, their features unmasked. If they no longer cared that he could identify them, it could mean only one of two things: Either they trusted him completely or they weren’t intending to let him leave the castle alive. If it was the latter, he knew there was no point in trying to formulate an escape plan. But he did wonder how they would do it.
He suspected it would be efficient but also a little theatrical. They definitely seemed to enjoy a spectacle. And they had a keen sense of history too. Something medieval, in keeping with the castle’s setting? Perhaps a man-at-arms in chain mail was standing behind his seat at this very moment, ready to decapitate him with a razor-sharp halberd. Or something with more of a religious feel to it, perhaps. Could it be he was about to be flayed alive like St. Bartholomew, or broken on a spiked wheel like St. Catherine? That would certainly be spectacular. In fact, in a curious way, he almost looked forward to it.
At the other end of the long table, a gray-haired man with hard eyes and a nose like a hatchet was smiling at him as if he could read his thoughts. “Welcome, Talon.” He spoke quietly, but his voice had enough power to fill the hall. “No doubt you are wondering why you are here. Or, more specifically, why you are being allowed to see us without the benefit of…technological trickery. Let me assure you, it is not because we have decided to dispense with your services. Quite the opposite. You have proved yourself most efficient and reliable. Indispensable, even.” Nods from around the table. “In tune with our objectives of global governance. All done in the name of world peace, of course. If all goes according to plan, there will be much for you to do in the future—a future I doubt you can even begin to imagine. But I promise you will find it extremely fulfilling.”
Talon said nothing. He didn’t even change expression from the neutral mask he habitually wore. He didn’t want them to think he’d cared about dying. And neither did he want them to see his excitement at the prospect of more killing. Though they were prepared to reveal themselves to him, he wasn’t sure he was ready to return the favor quite yet.
He noticed a plump, bespectacled man to the speaker’s left, who seemed to be in some agitation. “I think now it might be time to see what Mr. Talon has brought us, don’t you think?” he said.
The gray-haired man nodded and the sightless footman was suddenly at Talon’s elbow. Talon pulled a cotton bag from inside his jacket and handed it over. Holding it out in front of him as if it were made of glass, the footman slowly walked to the other end of the table and laid it down.
There was a moment’s silence as all eyes fixed on the bag, and Talon took the time to scrutinize each member of the council. Nearest to him, to his left, an Asian man in a tailored gray suit sat ramrod-straight, his neutral gaze unfathomable. Next to him was a woman, fleshy, Germanic-looking, with her blond hair pulled tightly back from her forehead. She, too, seemed only mildly interested in what Talon had brought. But the next member of the council, a Hispanic man in an electric-blue jacket, with a neatly trimmed mustache, was leaning back and grinning. At the head of the table, the gray-haired man maintained his cold stare in Talon’s direction.
Judging by outward appearances, nothing seemed to unite these seven starkly different people. And yet Talon knew from experience the strength of their common purpose. Something had brought them together. Something that required huge resources but also cast-iron secrecy. Something that was worth shedding a good deal of blood for. Something that reached back into the Biblical past and made evangelical Christians their mortal enemies.
As he turned it over in his mind, searching for the elusive link, Talon wondered if he should be looking inside himself. After all, they seemed to think he was almost one of them now. So what did he see when he looked inside his heart? He allowed himself a thin smile. The same as always. Just blood and horror and darkness. Talon was driven by a fascination with evil and ruthless acts. His only interest in the Seven’s global plans was that they could provide him the means and unlimited resources to fulfill his twisted desires.
Then an angular woman in a striking emerald dress and with a shock of wild red hair put her hand on the moon-faced man’s arm and hissed, “Let’s see it. We’ve waited long enough.”
Slowly Sir William Merton reached forward and pulled the foot-long piece of bronze from the bag. As he held it up to the light, Talon could see his plump hand was shaking. Then a curious thing happened. The air seemed to thicken, there was an audible crackle of electricity, and Merton’s hand steadied. It must have been a trick of the light, Talon thought, but his eyes seemed to change color, from gray to a deep midnight blue. And when he spoke, the English accent was gone, replaced by something deeper and harder to place.
“Soon you shall again be one. As it was in the first days. And sacrifice shall be yours once more.” Then he closed his eyes and let out a long breath, and he seemed to deflate, becoming physically smaller. When he opened his eyes, he looked once again like a portly English cleric.
Talon had had plenty of time to examine the tail of the Serpent, but he looked at it now with a new curiosity. If this was what one piece could do, what were they expecting to happen when they had all three?
Merton had taken off his glasses now, and was peering intently at the Serpent’s belly. Around the table, a hush of expectation was building. “Yes, yes,” Merton said at last. “Yes, I see. Beautiful, beautiful.” He set the tail down and folded his hands over his belly with a satisfied smile.
“Well?” John Bartholomew said.
“Murphy is still working with Isis—Dr. McDonald?”
Bartholomew nodded. “They were last seen on their way to Riyadh.”
“The Desert Kingdom. Of course, of course. Well, if she’s her father’s daughter, she should have no trouble deciphering Dakkuri’s little puzzle. Perhaps Murphy even has the second piece in his hands as we speak,” Merton chuckled.
General Li turned his head a fraction toward Merton. “Then, should we not be taking it out of his hands, as we speak?”
Merton seemed unfazed by the general’s tone. “No indeed. I think not. She must have time to translate the next part of the riddle. As you know, the second piece leads to the third, and the third leads … well, I don’t need to tell you what that leads to.” The looks of ravenous expectation around the table confirmed he didn’t. “We must be patient. When Murphy has the last piece in his grasp”—he nodded in Talon’s direction—“that is the time to strike. And perhaps then,” he added with a leer, “Dr. McDonald and I might have an opportunity to reminisce a little.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
MURPHY GRIPPED THE iron ring in both hands, braced himself against the wall of the narrow alley, and heaved. He felt the beads of sweat begin to trickle down his forehead as his arms started to shake with the effort, but the stone slab remained firmly in place, exactly where it had been for what he estimated to be several centuries.
“You’re sure this is our best way in?” he grunted.
“Definitely. This will take us directly into the main sewer.”
“Assuming it still exists.”
“Have a little faith, Murphy. Come on, are you sure you’re really trying your absolute hardest?”
Out of the corner of his eye Murphy watched her as she leaned beside him in the moonlight, mouth pursed in concentration. If a bullwhip had been handy, he had no doubt she’d have used it on him. He was about to tell her to try lending a hand when he felt the great slab shift fractionally. He took a deep breath without relaxing his grip and gritted his teeth. The stone slab started to loosen, and he finally managed to drag it aside. Falling to his knees, he peered into the dark, airless hole.
“Give me the flashlight.”
She handed it over and he leaned farther in.
“What can you see?”
The darkness sucked the beam greedil
y into the depths.
“Nothing much. The brickwork seems pretty much intact near the top, but farther down…I don’t know. I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
She was beginning to look a little nervous now. “How do we…?”
“When in doubt, just jump right in. That’s my philosophy.”
Her enthusiasm was definitely fading. “You can’t be serious. It could be a hundred feet to the bottom.”
He swung his legs into the hole and gripped the sides. “I seem to recall this was your idea. Come on.” He saw the look of panic on her face and relented. “Okay, they built little handholds into the sides. Just take it slow and follow me.”
It wasn’t quite a hundred feet, and, remarkably, the ceramic rungs were mostly intact. Apart from the few times Isis lost her footing and a boot came thudding into Murphy’s shoulder, they descended without incident. They landed at a junction of four tunnels, and Murphy gave Isis a moment to regain her composure.
“So, where to now?”
Her flashlight beam made her pale face float in the darkness like an apparition as she flipped through the pages of de Tocqueville. “Well, the likeliest spot is at the source of the original well. That’s what Dakkuri would have been talking about.”
Murphy grabbed a handful of dust and let it trickle through his fingers. “How do we find that? It’s dry as a bone down here.”
Her frown made her look even more ghostly. “We just need to figure out the direction of flow, then work backward.”
Murphy crouched down and played the beam over the floor. “Okay, when the water finally dried up, it should have left some striations in the mud, and with a little luck they could have been preserved, like fossils.” He shuffled forward a few steps and focused the beam on what looked like a long, flat stone. “Here. Unless I’m very much mistaken, we need to go this way.”
