City of Shadows

by Declan Finn

  The first five entries covered their businesses—politics, museum curators, manufacturing, and journalism—and the next ten were about all of their charities. They were “pro-LGGBDTTTIQQAAPP”… which was the extended version of L.G.B.T.M.O.U.S.E. (if you care, it stands for “Lesbian, Gay, Genderqueer, Bisexual, Demisexual, Transgender, Transsexual, Twospirit, Intersex, Queer, Questioning, Asexual, Allies, Pansexual, Polyamorous” and a partridge in a pear tree). They were “pro-refugee” and “pro-immigration,” and had been a large supporter of bringing in more refugees into every nation, especially London and Germany.

  A few more minutes of searching Duck Duck Go (which I presume is “ducking” for short … which meant that searching for yourself was “go duck yourself”), I got a bit more of the stories. Because not only were Fowler and Toynbee pro-sex, they were pro-sex for everybody, at any age—the headline read that they supported “the classical view of sex advocated by Plato,” but the small print in the middle of a paragraph quickly mentioned that Plato’s Republic discussed the proper way to court and seduce twelve-year-olds. Being pro-refugee and -immigration wasn’t about every refugee and immigrant—only Muslims. If a refugee or immigrant was Buddhist, Kurd, Christian, white or Tibetan, then they were just flat out of luck. They had actively campaigned against allowing non-Muslims out of the Middle East, and those were the groups being annihilated.

  Another charity was to “support immigrants suffering against racism”—which, in their particular case, meant slipping money to the Rotherham sex slave ring.

  I slipped my phone away and leaned back in the chair of the cafe. “You know, it’s called original sin. One of these days, I want these people to consider something original. These talking points could have been out of Mayor Hoynes’ platform.”

  Pearson cocked his head, looking at me quizzically for a moment before he nodded. “Understood.” He smoothed out his parka. “Shall we have at it? The tower. The infiltration?”

  I nodded slowly. I didn’t really know from breaking and entering. While I theoretically could pull it off with an apartment or a house, I wasn’t an expert in raiding office buildings. Everything I knew about spying could be summed up by spy media. Even though I had a genuine former spy across the table from me, I didn’t think it would be that good an idea to just walk in the front door.

  It took me a moment, but I ran through the other ideas. If I levitated towards the floor with the Soul Stone, I could smell which floor it was on, then smash through a window with the pistol. If I bi-located directly to the floor with the stone, I could grab it, and maybe just fade away, bringing it away with me.

  Either version would have me run smack into the other guards around the stone, and they would fill me so full of lead that I would sink immediately when they tossed my body into the river.

  Then it hit me.

  I stood. “Father, I’m going to need you to come with me. We have some prep work to do before we go in.”

  Two hours later, I walked into the front lobby of Toynbee Tower, flashed my badge at the front desk, and said, “Tell Fowler and Toynbee that Tommy Nolan, NYPD, wants to have a conversation with them.”

  Father Pearson waited outside as I waited for the front desk to pass my conversation up the chain of command. His purpose was to cover my ass in case Fowler and Toynbee were different than the other pricks I had gone up against. Because if they were smart, they would have gunmen pour out of every nook and cranny, mow me down with automatic fire from machine guns, then drop my body somewhere in the center of the rioting. My body would be written off as an unfortunate death of a nosy tourist with delusions of investigative adequacy.

  Except there was one thing I had noticed in my dealings with pure evil. Despite having fought a demon, the President of a major political and business powerhouse, as well as a warlock with the ability to level buildings and sweep away armored forces, they all had one thing in common.

  That one thing was the inability to shut the Hell up. The demon broke into my home, held my family at knifepoint, and would later start a riot—and the first thing it did was lecture at me. The leader of the death cult had me at her mercy and her first act? To gloat. Mayor Hoynes, warlock? Instead of crashing the house I was in down upon me, he unleashed his shadow matter, slapped me around … and gloated.

  I had caught a definitive pattern in MO. If I didn’t know better, I would have declared right then and there that evil was, by its very nature, insecure and desperate to be understood.

  If I believed in pop psychology, that would have been my diagnosis. It was more likely that evil was naturally self-obsessed and narcissistic, requiring them to brag at every available opportunity.

  The elevator behind the front desk pinged. I leaned over, ready to reach for the handgun I carried.

  Two uniformed rent-a-Bobbies came out. They were big and brainless. One said, “Nolan?” in a cockney so thick, even Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins would tell him to try again.

  I nodded and went along with them.

  They walked me into the elevator. It was strangely against a wall of the building instead of through the center, like most elevators. One guard took his security card, swiped it, and hit the button for floor forty-five.

  As we traveled up, I mentally ran through the rosary, being certain to keep my breathing calm and steady. I didn’t want to trigger the guards into acting prematurely, but I also didn’t want to be taken off guard.

  But when the elevator slowed to a stop, the doors opened, and they waved me out. I stepped out, the doors closed, and the elevator with the guards still on it.

  The hallway was the size of a loft apartment. It was heavily decorated. It alternated between statues, art pieces, and fancy full-length mirrors. The floors and walls were marble. The floor was a smoothly-streaked ivory marble parquet, and the walls were cloudy pinkish variegated marble, almost overwhelming the white marble statues. The statues were nude classical Greeks at play, from young nymph girls to a convincing replica of The Athlete. Who knew, maybe The Museum housed the replica, and this was the real thing. In pride of place, a diminutive statue of Ganymede sat on a pedestal in the center, close to where it met the larger space. The attractive young boy held up a delicate cup in a startling mockery of the Eucharistic Blessing. I averted my eyes and focused on the more benign looking march of wall décor. The wall paintings were washes of color and mood in bright but modern gilt frames. They displayed vague arrangements of vegetation and buildings from a past where golden sunshine did a poor job of defining edges, but the colors were lurid splashy pastels. The collection matched the walls, at least. The endless hallway was amplified by the fact that every other wall frame was a large mirror hung in the same type frame that housed the paintings.

  Check off the narcissist box.

  I walked down the hallway calmly. I was almost surprised that the guards hadn’t frisked me. But then again, everyone expected the anti-gun laws to work.

  At the end of the hall was a massive chamber that took up the center of the building. This explains the placement of the elevators.

  The chamber was also filled with armed Jihadi wannabes, complete with the black flag of ISIS and the typical ninja-style black hoods and pajamas often seen during beheading videos. The guns they carried were mostly AK-47s, with a smattering of other automatic rifles. Unfortunately, they all had their fingers on triggers, and they held their guns in a number of different ways—cross body (pointed at each other), held by the rifle butt (pointed at the ceiling) and at the ready (mostly at me, but it amounted to a circular firing squad).

  One of them was behind Fowler and Toynbee, his gun pointed at the floor, his finger off the trigger. He was the only one.

  At the opposite end of the chamber was a wide double desk, with Fowler and Toynbee behind it. They had large comfortable executive chairs that were more like thrones. Behind them were massive windows that covered from floor to ceiling. The chamber was so large, two of the four walls were windows.

  The rest of
the decorations were reminiscent of a country estate and a museum. If they were religious, I would have said that they had raided a temple and took souvenirs. Some of the plaques that I could read included “Taken from Santorini (Atlantis)” underneath a trident, or “found in Prague” under a stone arm. There was a statue of a monster that said “Property of the Museum of Natural History.” A stone had a plaque that read “from the Walls of Sodom.”

  “For atheists, I’d normally think you’d be less superstitious,” I said aloud. “But you guys seem more superstitious than pagans I know.”

  Fowler smiled broadly, his eyes hooded like he was half-asleep. He stood and spread his arms wide. “Inspector! How nice of you to come and join us.”

  I looked around at all of the ISIS knockoffs. “How could I miss the party?” I looked at the smart Jihadi behind their desk and behind them. “Especially since my favorite Imam was going to be here.”

  The Jihadi paused for a moment and gave a brief laugh. He reached up and pulled off his mask. Imam Kozbar smiled at me and gave a little bow. I looked around, and two other Jihadis pulled off their masks—Bariq and Shifa, the one who threw lightning bolts and the other one who just wouldn’t die.

  I looked at them. “While I waited to get here, I looked up your names. Lightning and healing? You guys really do think you’re X-Men, don’t you?”

  Fowler gave a big theatrical sigh as he walked up to me. He stopped a reasonable conversation distance away. He must have assumed his friends would aim well if I made a move. “Oh, Inspector, you just don’t get us at all, do you?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t. You know, for a bunch of atheists, you believe in a soul stone? You’re working with Jihadists?”

  Toynbee sighed from behind the desk. “How droll.”

  Fowler’s eyes narrowed. They were less asleep and more the hooded vipers. “Yes. Quite the droll little Catholic copper, aren’t you?” He shook his head, disappointed. “Oh, we don’t believe in this sort of thing, you know.”

  I flinched, taken aback. I looked over the two of them, and they seemed sane … and bored. “Then what exactly do you think you’re doing?” I asked. “You take an artifact that claims mystical properties and the ability to destroy a city, charged solely by suffering, misery, and death, and you teamed up with armed Jihadists to steal it and use parts of it. If you told me you were art thieves and stole it yourself, it would make more sense.”

  Toynbee sat back in her chair. “Our alliance with Imam Kozbar is simple. He’s helped us get artifacts out of the region before. And he has goals similar to ours.”

  I nodded slowly, humoring the deranged criminals with armed minions. “You got it out of Iraq in the first place. Why hand it over to the Museum if you were just going to steal it again?”

  Fowler shrugged. “A miscalculation on our part. We didn’t realize what the Soul Stone really was until after we turned it in as a valued cultural relic.”

  “And what is that? You said the Soul Stone isn’t what I think it is?”

  Fowler nodded, happy to pontificate. “It’s in a Rose Cut pattern. That’s the sort of thing requiring modern technology. There are no tool marks on it. That’s impossible, even by today’s standards. The legends say that Anubis came from the underworld to personally hand it to the first dynasty Pharaohs. What does that tell you?”

  I looked at him stupidly for a moment, and I internally groaned at what his conclusion was going to be. “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic?”

  Fowler laughed joyfully and spread his arms, happy that I had reached the “correct” conclusion. “Yes! Of course! It’s obvious. This ‘soul stone’ is merely alien technology!”

  I looked back and forth from Fowler to Kozbar. Kozbar seemed bored by Fowler’s ranting. I asked, “And the idea that it runs on suffering?”

  Fowler dismissed it with a wave of his hands. “Oh, that’s easy to explain. The human brain undergoes certain brain wave changes when they feel pain or anguish, and dies. That’s all. There’s nothing magical or demonic about this toy. What sort of people do you think we are anyway?”

  I involuntarily laughed and spread my hands at the Jihadists. “I think you’re the sort of people who would level a city for fun.”

  Toynbee tittered. “Oh, not for fun, dear boy.” She rose from behind the desk and walked over to join her husband and me. “Oh, of course, we’re getting rid of London and the royal family. Being Anglican is all about political power. That’s all it’s ever been about. That’s why the royals officially run the church. We all know there’s no God, but it comes in handy. It’s good for running the masses. The opiate of the people, don’t you know?”

  Fowler nodded as his wife joined him at his side, added, “But dear me, even some of the royals have married Catholics.”

  Toynbee shuddered in disgust. “As for the citizenry, well, they’re going Catholic in droves. Droves! Whole parishes.”

  Fowler shook his head sadly. “We can’t have that. We’re going to alienate the tolerant, peaceful Muslims. Like Kozbar.”

  My mind went full blue screen of death for a moment. The stupidity so overwhelmed me, I couldn’t process it for a moment.

  By the time I tuned back in, Toynbee was saying, “… even worse, the Royal family might actually make us give back everything that our ancestors stole from the Catholic church over 500 years ago.”

  I paused, then nodded. Money motives were at least something I could wrap my brain around. But their ideas of what was a good plan was … moronic. “So you’ll nuke London for going Catholic, but align yourself with people who will cut off the head of those who disagree with them.” I looked at Kozbar and snarked, “No offense.”

  Kozbar shrugged. “None taken.”

  I looked back to the two Brits. “You guys are just so chock full of tolerance.”

  Fowler and Toynbee exchanged a glance, then back to me. “Of course we’re tolerant,” Fowler said. “Just ask our charities.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I saw your press releases. Your ‘pro-gay’ support is all about sleeping with children.”

  Fowler shook his head. “No. You misunderstood. All men are secretly gay. Hetero is just something imposed upon them by cultural and societal pressures.”

  Toynbee nodded. “Dealing with children just makes it easier to break the conditioning of society.”

  Fowler shrugged. “Make them enjoy themselves often enough, they’ll realize their true nature.”

  Toynbee looked at her husband. “Or they’re so ashamed they enjoyed it, they run full into their true nature.”

  Fowler smiled dotingly at her. “True, that.”

  The words Are you fucking kidding me? didn’t even begin to cover what was going through my head.

  Fowler looked at me and waved at his Jihadi buddies. “And yes, of course! Our fellows agree with us when it comes to boys. Not girls just yet, but we’ll get them there in the end. We’re right, after all. Not that there’s any such thing as objective right and wrong. But we’re definitely correct.”

  I felt so ill, I wanted them to just shoot me and get it over with. “What are you going to do with me?”

  From the window, Kozbar finally spoke. “Let’s see if the soul stone will vaporize you.”

  Fowler glanced back at the Imam for a moment, paused, then laughed. “Yes! Splendid idea!” He looked back at me. “You see if it’s powerful enough to destroy a city… well, you can see what happens with just a small fleck is embedded in the skin. Or in a weapon.”

  I nodded. “I noticed. You sure it’s at full strength after breaking off pieces from it?”

  “Oh, they grew back. It’s one of the reasons why it was in Trafalgar Square. It takes a lot of energy for matter-energy conversion. And we spent a lot of time causing people to suffer.”

  17

  Getting Stoned

  Kozbar left the room to grab the Soul Stone. I looked around the room and calculated my odds. Even if everything went to my v
ery sketchy plan, odds were that I wasn’t going to make it out of the room.

  I slipped my hands in my pockets and waited. Shooting all of them was unfeasible. Unless I bi-located four times, I wouldn’t even have enough bullets.

  Kozbar came back with the stone in his hands. I had to admit, it was pretty. The high-gloss obsidian sheen was mesmerizing, and the embedded glyphs looks like silver on one side and rubies on the other. As Kozbar held it, the red glyphs thrummed with a red glow.

  Then Kozbar confused me. He offered me the stone.

  Fowler’s eyes widened and stepped forward, holding up a hand. “What are you doing?”

  I concurred, confused. There had to be a trap in there somewhere. “Aren’t you afraid that I’m going to use it on you?”

  “Only those who are worthy may wield it,” Kozbar said with all earnestness. He allowed himself a smile. “Not you, infidel. No infidels could use it.”

  I remembered the witnesses at The Museum saying that the first thief to grab the stone doubled over in pain. But whoever did it survived. That evening, I had been stabbed through the hands, feet, side, torso, impaled, burned alive and beaten to death. I had felt death punching me in the face repeatedly that night alone. This stone didn’t scare me.

  I reached forward and grabbed the stone with both hands, braced for the pain.

  I wasn’t nearly braced enough.

  If you’ve been burned by flame or by steam, you have a small idea of what it’s like to be burned alive. Just imagine the seconds of pain only without end. If you’ve been punched, you have a small idea of being beaten to death. Imagine the blows keep coming until you stop moving.

  The point is that it is easy to imagine what pain is like if you’ve felt a similar type.

  If you’ve broken a bone, imagine every bone being crushed at the same time. If you’ve been hit in the head or broken a rib, imagine them being kicked in one by one. Or the sense of taking a hit to the head, just how disorienting that can be. Or accidents with sharp objects slicing the flesh.