“Fuzzy math?” asked Rudy.
Circe grunted. “The Codex is supposed to be questionable commentary on an exact science, right? That says ‘fuzzy math’ to me. Could be some code hidden there. You get anything from the Codex, Bug?”
“Not so far. We don’t actually have a copy of the Codex, so I can’t check to see if there’s anything buried in the text.”
“Damn. Who has one?”
Bug made a face. “There is exactly one copy and it’s in the National Museum in Tehran.”
“Crap,” said Circe. “Any full or partial scans online?”
“Not that I’ve found, but searching all foreign-language databases will take a little longer.”
“What about the other one?” asked Rudy. “The Book of Shadows. Surely I’ve heard of that somewhere…”
Circe nodded. “It’s the book of spells used in Wicca.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” complained Rudy, flapping a hand. “Really? We’ve done zombies, clones, and mutants, now the DMS is squaring off against black magic?”
“Don’t laugh,” said Circe with surprising heat. “And stop being so Catholic for a minute. Wicca isn’t devil worship or black magic. That was all medieval propaganda created to suppress the rise of education among women. And even the concept of ‘black’ magic is completely unconnected to the modern Wicca, which is earthcentric and practiced according to positive energy and harmony with nature.”
Rudy held up his hands, palms out. “Mea culpa.”
Circe gave him a harrumph. “The modern practice is built mostly on a set of traditions created by Gerald Gardner, who first introduced the Book of Shadows to the initiates of his landmark Bricket Wood coven in the 1950s. It eventually became the central text for most of the other branches of the faith, including Alexandrianism and Mohsianism. But … I do have to admit that I don’t see how it could possibly relate at all to nuclear bombs.”
“I don’t think it does,” said Bug, “and the Gardner book probably isn’t the Book of Shadows involved in this case. Rasouli didn’t say anything to Joe about witches. Here, let me put the pdfs up and you tell me if this is Wiccan stuff or not.” He loaded an Adobe program and then opened the nine pdf files, throwing them onto nine smaller screens. Each file was a low-resolution scan of a single page from what looked like an ancient manuscript. Rudy bent forward and frowned at it. There were green and brown paintings of exotic plants that he did not recognize and line after line of writing in a language Rudy could not identify. Two of the pages were only text, and one was a complex diagram of the sun, with a face in the center and writing running in circles around the drawing.
“What language is that?” Rudy asked.
“I don’t know,” said Bug. “I just found these, and I wanted to show you before I started the recognition software. And the images are very low-res, so some of it might be hard to—”
Circe gasped. “My God!”
Rudy and Bug stared at her.
“I know what that is,” she said.
Chapter Forty-One
Barrier Safe House
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 10:39 a.m.
The good news was that between the CIA, the DMS, and a few other alphabet agencies, we had safe houses and equipment drops all over Tehran. One agency spook I knew told me that he could hardly walk down the street without seeing someone from the “family.”
“Invisible network my ass,” he added.
So, I went to the closest haven. When Echo Team had first arrived in Tehran we spent half a day at a safe house run by Barrier. It was staffed by two agents, a father and son. The father, Fariel, looked old enough to have been a school chum of Xerxes. His son, Cyrus, was a schoolteacher and probably the most boring person I’ve ever met. The kind of guy who speaks in a nasal monotone and can only talk about what he saw on TV.
Right now, though? I could use normal and boring. That house also had plenty of weapons and equipment. Rearming would go a long way toward chasing off the shakes. If I’d had a good fighting knife this morning then the encounter in my hotel room would have been a whole lot shorter and more satisfying.
At least I think it would have.
The Barrier safe house was a one-stop, two-room little pillbox near a bus stop. Lots of people coming and going all the time, lots of strangers. Good place to hide, right there in the open.
I knocked. There was no special trick. I didn’t have to knock three times then two then wait and knock four times. That was the movies. I knocked, and they answered.
Except that’s not exactly what happened.
As the locked clicked open and the door swung inward, Ghost stiffened and gave a sharp woof. Even dazed as he was he knew that something was wrong.
I pushed inside, driving whoever was behind the door in and back. I kicked the door shut as the man fell. I pulled the pistol and dropped into a combat crouch.
The man who lay on the floor staring up at me was Cyrus, the son of the man who ran the safe house. He looked up at me with eyes that were wild with fear and pain.
He was covered with blood, head to toe.
Ghost growled, but he was still trembling and looked ready to collapse.
I squatted near him and whispered in Persian. “How many are there?”
He tried to speak but only blood bubbled from between his lips. Cyrus gestured wildly toward the doorway at the end of the short foyer.
I was already in motion, running with quick, small steps, the pistol held in front of me, mouth set and hard. At the end of the foyer I crouched and did a fast look around the corner.
The living room was a study in crimson.
I eased around the corner.
Nothing moved.
But it was not empty. A man—Fariel Omidi—hung on the wall. Big carpenter nails had been driven savagely through his wrists and hands and feet. He had been crucified.
His head hung low, and from the damage I saw there was no way he could still be alive. No way in hell.
Ghost whined from the foyer but I waved him to stillness.
I could see through the living room into the eat-in kitchen. The back door was open to the sunlight. The door to the bathroom stood ajar and I crabbed sideways and wheeled around to cover the interior space. Toilet, sink, and tub. All bloody, all empty.
Every cabinet and storage trunk had been torn open. All of the weapons and equipment were gone. Even the trapdoor beside the fridge had been ripped from its hinges. The boxes of grenades, shape charges, detonators, and other explosives were gone.
At the back door I peered into the alley. There were two bloody footprints and then tire tracks in the dirt.
This was all past tense. I lowered my gun and pulled the door shut, engaged the locks and propped a chair under the handle. Then I grabbed a bunch of dish towels and raced back to the entrance foyer.
Cyrus was still alive, but only just. I gingerly peeled back the shreds of his clothes to see how bad he was hurt, and I was sorry I did it. Everything had been done to him. Cuts and punctures. The bruised and ravaged marks of tools, probably pliers. Big burned patches. Maybe a portable propane burner. That and more.
I was amazed he was still alive.
I sponged blood from his nose and mouth and rolled some of the towels to place under his head. God only knows how Cyrus had managed to stay on his feet long enough to answer the door. Hope, maybe? If so, it was one more crushing disappointment on the worst day of his life. Cyrus was shivering with shock. I rushed back to the living room for a throw rug and draped it over him. The rug was bloody, too, but that didn’t seem important.
“Hey, buddy,” I said gently. “Can you understand me?”
His mouth worked for a moment and he made only mewling sounds, but he nodded ever so slightly.
“Who did this to you?”
He shook his head.
“How many were there? How big a team?”
Cyrus managed to raise his hand a few inches. He held up a single finger.
&nbs
p; “One?” I asked. “You’re saying that one man did this.”
He shook his head but held up the single finger again. I tried to get him to explain. It wasn’t one team, it seemed. It was one, but he objected to my choice of “man” or even “woman.”
Cyrus tried hard to speak, but each time it came out as a meaningless wet mumble. And then with crushing and horrible realization I understood why.
They had cut out his tongue.
I closed my eyes for a moment and tried hard not to scream. Ghost whined from the living room doorway.
When I opened my eyes I saw Cyrus looking at me. He was slipping past the point where pain mattered to him, and he knew it. We both knew it.
“Listen to me, Cyrus,” I said, dabbing cold sweat from his forehead, “I want to be straight with you, okay?”
He began to cry, knowing what I was going to say; but he nodded.
“You’re hurt bad. Very bad. I—I can call for an ambulance, but…” I let it trail off. I was feeling too cowardly to put it into words. Cyrus reached out with his swollen, bloody hand and did something that broke my heart. He patted my thigh. He was taking me off the hook from having to tell him that he was dying.
I took his hand and held it.
“I’ll find whoever did this,” I promised him. “So help me God, I will find them.”
He smiled with his ruined mouth. A small thing.
Cyrus touched one finger to his bloody chest and then slowly drew something on the floor. He used the pad of his finger to make a crimson dot, and then overlaid it with the symbol of the cross.
He looked from it to me and tried once more to speak the name of his killer. No—not a name. A word, a description. Two toneless syllables formed by a mouth that could not even speak that word.
Monster.
It was a horrible word, but it was no surprise to me. All this damage, all of the signs of physical power and rage—doors torn from their hinges, these men brutalized. I wonder if Cyrus and his father had stared into glaring red eyes as they were torn apart. A knight had done this, and if there was a better example of a monster hunting the streets of this country, I couldn’t imagine it.
Cyrus sighed and his hand dropped away. I sat with him while all that had made up this little man evaporated into the red darkness. I hadn’t liked him when I’d met him yesterday. A boring little guy who hadn’t much liked me either. But now that was different. He would live in my heart and head forever. Cyrus Omidi. A victim of the very old war that defines the Middle East? Or a victim of something new?
I spoke his name aloud seven times. Don’t ask me why. It felt like something I had to do.
I got to my feet and walked into the living room.
Fariel Omidi was past helping. There was nothing I could do for him. But I said his name seven times, too.
While I stood there, my phone rang.
“Captain,” Church said, “sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. Give me a sit rep.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Barrier Safe House
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 10:46 a.m.
I turned away from the dead man and stared at the floor. Ghost came and lay at my feet.
“I don’t know where to begin,” I said into the phone.
“Tell me,” said Church.
So, I told him. About Violin. About the Red Knight in my hotel room. About the dead men whose pain seemed to scream through the air around me. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but Church cut right through my words.
“Are you injured?” he demanded. “Do you need immediate medical attention?”
I paused. “No. No, I’m good.”
“Are you in shock?”
“I—” I began and then stopped, realizing why he was asking that. My mind replayed the last few things I’d said and there was a rising hysterical note to my voice. The room was too bright, the colors too vivid. And the smell …
I took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I’m good,” I assured him. “Been a bad day.”
“For all of us, Captain.”
We gave that a moment.
“You are going to need to get out of that location,” he said.
“I know.”
“Don’t go to another Barrier safe house. The Company has one close to you.”
“Soon as we’re done I’m out of here,” I assured him.
“The woman,” Church said, shifting back to my report. “Violin. Give me a read on her.”
“Hard to say exactly. She’s a voice on the phone and she’s probably lying to me.”
“Then give me guesswork and suppositions.”
I thought about it. “She sounds young. Late twenties. Her base accent is Italian, though she could be any nationality or race with an accent picked up by familiarity. She’s a trained sniper. She’s for hire. The people who hired her are connected to Vox, which is how Rasouli hired her. No idea whose side she’s on, though she doesn’t seem to like Rasouli. And she’s tied up with someone or something called Arklight.”
“Arklight,” he said, repeating the name slowly, seeming to appreciate it. “Interesting.”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Yes. Did she confirm that she was part of Arklight?”
“No, when I asked her about it she hung up on me. Why? What’s Arklight?”
He didn’t answer.
“Yo! How about a little help for the guy standing in a room full of dead people?”
“Captain,” said Church, “to tell you anything useful about Arklight would mean betraying a confidence.”
“I don’t care.”
“It could also put you in danger.” He paused. “And, yes, I know how absurd that sounds, given the circumstances.”
“You think?”
“I need to make a call about this. In the short term, I have had dealings with Arklight in the past. Most of the time those dealings were harmonious. Working together against a shared threat, that sort of thing. But they are not allies. There are no standing nonaggression agreements between us.”
“Can you try to vague that up a bit more? I almost understood it.”
He changed the subject. “The man who attacked you at the hotel, you said that he was winning the fight? Assess that. Are we talking about superior combat skill or something else?”
“We were pretty well matched for skill and technique. It’d be hard to put a label on his fighting style, but he wasn’t trying anything on me that he hadn’t done a lot of times before. Everything was very smooth, very efficient.”
Church grunted his understanding. At a certain level, when you’re fighting to kill rather than trying to win a belt or a tournament, all style is stripped away in favor of a selection of techniques that are the most practical and effective at the moment. Experts who engage in these kinds of fights usually rely on a small percentage of the skills they’ve learned; skills that they know they can use, and which they can use without thinking about it. At that level a kick is a kick is a kick; a punch is a punch.
“What about enhancements?” Church asked.
“I don’t know. Nothing obvious, no exoskeletons or combat suit with joint servos. Nothing like that. He was faster and stronger, but the weird thing is that he didn’t have the bulk for it. This was way beyond the limits of ‘wiry strength.’”
“In the absence of the sniper, would he have won the fight?”
“Coin toss,” I admitted. “We were hurting each other, so I guess it would have come down to who wanted it more. I tend to want it quite a lot.”
“Fair enough.”
“On the other hand, let’s not rule out enhancement. Something chemical, maybe.”
“I wonder what Dr. Hu would find in a blood test. I don’t suppose you collected any—?”
“I didn’t take a cheek swab or get him to pee in a cup for me, but I have plenty of his blood on my clothes.”
“I’ll arrange a pickup.” He paused. “The attacker … gauge
his strength. Use Bunny as a yardstick.”
“Twice as strong. Easily,” I said. “I know that sounds ridiculous, but that knight was a bull and—”
“Wait,” Church cut in sharply. “You just called the attacker a ‘knight.’ What did you mean by that? You didn’t mention that earlier.”
“Oh,” I said, and realized that he was right. When I’d blown through the story the first time I had called the attacker “the goon.” So I backed up and explained what Violin had told me.
There was a long silence on the phone.
“Describe the symbol Cyrus Omidi drew on the floor.”
“I can show it to you. The knight had it tattooed on his arm. I took a picture.” I fiddled with the phone and sent the e-mail.
I heard Church hitting keys to open the e-mail.
When he spoke again his voice was tight and urgent. “Captain, listen to me very carefully. Get out of that house right now.”
“Why—what’s wrong?”
“Violin was correct. That was a Red Knight you faced in your hotel and another one who killed the Omidis. That means Arklight is involved. Get out of that house immediately and call me from the CIA safe house.”
“Why—”
“Go!”
Chapter Forty-Three
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn
June 15, 2:25 a.m. EST
Mr. Church set the phone down and stared at it. His hands were balled into fists on top of his desk blotter.
Then he snatched the phone up again and punched a speed dial.
“Yo,” said Aunt Sallie after two rings.
“Auntie, the situation in Iran has just gotten significantly worse.”
“We’re hunting nukes, Deke, how much fucking worse can it—?”
“Captain Ledger is being hunted by Red Knights.”