Nadja was still screaming when the slide locked back on the small automatic.
“Reload! Reload!” yelled Iñigo between shrieks of pain.
I heard a car screech to a stop in back. More people.
Iñigo shouted toward the sounds. “Krystos!”
Goddamn it.
Nadja fished in her clothes for a new magazine, dropped it, picked it up with trembling fingers. All the time she babbled to herself. “Oh merciful God … oh sweet savior…”
Iñigo was crawling toward me, or so I thought. Then I saw that Mihai’s hammer and stake were right there. I squirmed and fought to get the dead weight off of me. Something hard jabbed me in the ribs and I realized that Irish Bob’s pistol was there, caught between us.
As Nadja slapped the magazine into the pistol I gave a great heave and tore the nine millimeter from the clamshell holster. It was a hammerless Glock 17.
Beautiful.
I couldn’t clear the body, though, so I buried the barrel against Irish Bob’s love handle and fired. The bullet met no appreciable resistance as it punched a hole through the dead man and caught Nadja in the stomach. It stopped her as surely as if she’d hit a wall, but there were footsteps in the kitchen. I fired twice more, hitting her in the sternum and then in the chin as she sagged to her knees.
Iñigo actually stopped trying to stab me and stared with uncomprehending horror at Nadja.
With a growl I kicked my way out from under the bodies and put two rounds into him. Then I rolled onto my stomach as three figures rushed down the hall toward me. Two of them had guns in their hands, but they were pointing chest high, expecting a stand-up fight. From my prone position I emptied the rest of the magazine into them. The Glock carried seventeen rounds. I’d used three on Nadja and two on Iñigo. That gave me twelve bullets to cut these cocksuckers down.
They all went down.
One of them—the guy in front—died right there.
The other two took multiple hits. Arms and legs. I was dazed and hurt and my aim was screwed up, so they lived through it.
That was not going to be a lucky break for them.
Chapter Fifty-Six
CIA Safe House #11
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 12:41 p.m.
I scrambled to my feet and rushed the men in the hall. They were in a groaning heap and covered with blood. One of them tried to bring up his pistol, but I threw my own empty weapon at him, catching him in the face. While he was screaming, I broke his wrist and took the pistol from him. That jacked his screams up another notch. I wasn’t in the mood for it, so I kicked him in the face until he stopped screaming, and then I dragged him by the hair into the living room.
The second survivor wasn’t screaming, but he was conscious. Barely. He tried to crawl away, but his attempt was feeble. Once I disarmed him, I grabbed his ankle and pulled him out and dropped him next to his friend.
I had no cuffs and no rope. On the living room table was a big leather valise of the kind doctors used to carry. I fished in it and found various tools, more hammers and stakes, and a roll of duct tape. Nice. A thousand and one household uses.
I used a lot of it on the wrists and ankles of my two prisoners.
One of them—the guy who hadn’t screamed—had a pretty bad wound high on his thigh. He tried to use his taped hands to staunch the blood flow, so I tore the headscarf off of the dead woman and made a compress of it, then bound it tightly with the tape. Not a great job, but good enough for now. He watched my eyes as I worked, and from his expression of despair I knew that he knew that this wasn’t an act of kindness.
Patting the men down produced wallets with local driver’s licenses. Even though I was never a cop in Iran I could tell that the IDs were phony. Even so, the name on the conscious guy’s license was Krystos Gallikos. The other survivor was Constantin Enescu. A Greek and a Romanian. Add in the Russian broad, the Spanish Iñigo, Irish Bob, and whatever the hell Victor and Mihai were and we had a real League of Nations here.
“You speak English?” I asked Krystos.
He stared at me without apparent comprehension.
I simplified things. I put the barrel of his pistol against his forehead, then bent and whispered in his ear. “Don’t fucking move.”
He grasped the subtleties of my request and gave me an enthusiastic nod.
Constantin lay in a fetal ball, apparently unconscious.
Out in the hallway Ghost barked weakly. I shoved the gun into my waistband and hurried out to him. He was a mess, totally entangled in the flexible wire net. It took me a couple of minutes to extricate him, and his panicked flailing did not help. I soothed him and spoke quietly, but Ghost had been pushed past his limits. When he was free he crawled toward me and buried his head on my thighs. He let loose a stream of urine that pooled around him.
I bent and kissed his head and told him that he was a good, brave boy. He gave my face a few nervous licks and his body trembled as badly as if he were in an icebox.
In the enclosed hallway the mingled smells of urine, blood, and garlic made a strange, cloying miasma that was completely unpleasant. It felt like horror and defeat. I tried to coax Ghost to follow me, but he wouldn’t; so I left him where he was for now.
Back in the living room I squatted in front of Krystos. His face was running with greasy sweat.
“I’ll ask this again,” I said, and I was mildly alarmed at how reasonable and calm my voice sounded. Given all that had just happened, this was not necessarily a good thing. “Do you understand English?”
He gave a stubborn shake of his head that allowed me to decide if he was saying no or telling me to go piss off. Behind me I heard a groan and whirled around. It was frigging Iñigo, still alive with two bullets in his chest cavity. Tough son of a bitch. He was crawling like a slug toward a pistol that lay on the floor a yard away. I went over and kicked the pistol under the couch.
Iñigo turned his head and glared up at me with total hatred. I stepped over and straddled his body, staring down at him from my full height. I looked from him to Krystos and back again.
“Who tipped you off about this place?” I asked him.
“Fuck you!” Iñigo growled and tried to spit at me.
“Wrong answer,” I said and shot him in the head.
I made sure I was looking into Krystos’s eyes when I did it. Sometimes you need to use visual aids to really make your point.
Krystos screamed and tried to crawl backward into the wallpaper. There is a difference between seeing death in combat and seeing an execution of someone you know. I lowered the pistol and walked back to Krystos and hunkered down in front of him.
“Okay,” I said into an ugly silence. “Let’s try this again. Do you understand English?”
Krystos whimpered and forked the sign of the evil eye at me with his bloody hands. I rang the barrel of the pistol off the top of his head. Not too hard, but hard enough.
“Last try,” I suggested. “English?”
All at once the fight drained out of him. Maybe he finally grasped the fact that he was totally helpless and I owned his life. He kept staring at what was left of Iñigo’s head. Without looking at me, he spoke in a tiny voice. “Y—yes. Some. A little.”
“Good, now we’re getting somewhere,” I said with an approving smile. “Are there any more of you fucktards around here? Anyone else in the house?”
His eyes roved around to take stock of all the dead. He shook his head.
I placed the hot barrel against the knee of his undamaged leg. “Be real sure.”
He whimpered as he cut a quick look toward the stairs and back. “No. My people … are all down here.”
I didn’t like the way he leaned on “my people” and knew that I was going to have to go upstairs. I sure as hell did not want to.
“Who sent you?”
“W—what?”
I said it slower. “Who. Sent. You?”
Now Krystos looked at me, and the expression that washed over his face was
one of complete puzzlement. He said, “God.”
His tone of voice suggested that he was surprised I didn’t already know that.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“God,” he said again, shaking his head.
“You’re saying that God sent you to kill me?”
He nodded.
“Do you even know who I am?”
He shook his head. “It does not matter. You are one of them. Upier!”
“Which is what, exactly?”
He shook his head in exasperation, apparently perplexed that I did not know what he was talking about.
“We’ll come back to that,” I said. “Why does ‘God’ want me dead?”
Krystos licked his lips and winced at the taste of his own blood. “To … stop.”
“Stop what? Or who?”
“Evil. Big evil.”
I was getting tired of this and it must have shown on my face because he immediately recoiled from me. “No! Please, no!”
“You’re jerking me around, friend, and I’m not digging it. You can’t be this stupid, so tell me what I want to know or we can up the ante on this game. Who are you people?”
“We are Sabbatarians. We are Sat … Sat…” and again he fished for the English version of a word but this time he came up with it. “The … Saturday People. Our … cell … was alerted. About you,” he said, picking each word with care. “They said … you were working with … the Ordo Ruber. Against God. To … kill us all.”
I sat back on my heels. “What in the wide blue fuck are you talking about? What are ‘Saturday People’?”
Krystos touched his chest then nodded to the dead scattered around the room. “Saturday. All Saturday.” He was trying to tell me something but he was clearly playing the wrong song for the wrong audience. His face twisted in fear and frustration. “They said … I mean … we believed … that there were no more … like you … no more Upierczi left. We thought you were all gone. Years ago. A hundred years. More.”
“What do you mean ‘like me’?”
He looked away, not wanting to say the word. I used the barrel of the pistol to make him face me again. I repeated my question. He thought about it and finally came up with a word that I did understand.
“Vampir!” he whispered.
Oh boy.
It was all so absurd that I almost smiled. Or, maybe I did. I felt my mouth do something ugly and twisted.
“Let me see if I have this straight. You jackasses think I’m a vampire?”
He cringed away from me, but he also nodded.
“Does that mean you think the Red Knights are vampires?”
Another nod.
I will rip your throat out and drink your life.
“Well, that’s just fucking peachy, isn’t it?” I said with a sigh.
There was a sound and we both turned to see Ghost, weak and trembling, standing in the doorway to the entrance hall. He started to come into the room, but I stopped him with a click of my tongue. Ghost sat down and studied Krystos with savage dog eyes.
A strange expression came over Krystos’s face. He looked at me, confused. “Are you … Stregoni benefici?”
I tried to sort out the translation. “Beneficial witch?”
He gave his head a violent shake. “Vampir,” he insisted. “Church vampir. Vampir for God.”
“Do I look like a fucking vampire, Einstein?” I snapped. Then I sat back on my heels and blew out my cheeks. “And … I can’t believe I just asked that question.”
Krystos continued to stare at me, but now there was a splinter of doubt in his eyes.
“Okay,” I said, “here’s the game plan. You are going to sit here and not move while I go check the rest of the house. My dog is going to watch you. You do anything to my dog, you even look at him crooked, and you’re going to find that I’m a lot scarier than a vampire. Are we communicating here?”
Krystos cringed back and tried to melt into the wall. “No…!” he gasped. “No hurt. Never hurt white dog … fetch dog … fetch!”
I was getting more confused by the minute. “You want to play fetch with my dog? Really, you want to make a joke now? ’Cause I have to tell you, pal, it’s not a great time to jerk my chain.”
“No,” he insisted, “fetch dog. Fetch!”
He searched my face for understanding and obviously found none because I had none to give. He turned his face toward the wall and began muttering prayers.
“You’re less than useless,” I told him as I got to my feet. “Stay there and shut up. Don’t even think about trying to escape. You wouldn’t get far and I’ll kill you for trying.”
He shook his head. Tears ran down his cheeks and dripped onto his shirt. A small part of me wanted to feel sorry for him, hurt and scared as he was, but the rest of me told that part to shut the fuck up.
The house was quiet. I checked the rest of the bodies. They were all dead.
I collected the weapons from the fearless vampire hunters. A couple of guns, some knives, and the hammers and stakes. I looked at those for a moment, still amazed that they were any part of my version of the real world. The stakes were eighteen inches long and lacquered to a high gloss. They hadn’t been whittled, either; each one had been turned on a lathe by someone who understood woodworking. There was a long prayer carved into each one. The writing was tiny and I had to squint to read it, turning the stake in a circle to read the Latin that rolled around and around.
Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio; contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus; supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae Caelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute in infernum detrude. Amen.
My Latin is only passable, but I could make out some of it: “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in the battle…” As far as I could make out it was a prayer against evil. It seemed to fit the agenda for Krystos and his crew, but it explained nothing.
“Joe, old son,” I said aloud to myself, “you need to go the hell back to Baltimore. You need to take in an Orioles game, get drunk. Maybe get laid. Either way, you need to get your ass out of this freak show of a country.”
How do you process something like this? I mean … these guys were actual vampire hunters. Or, to rephrase that, these total whack jobs were taking their shared delusion to an impressive level.
I found a second leather valise in the dining room. It was crammed with more stakes, pouches of garlic powder, jars of pure garlic oil, and bottles of water marked with a black cross. I opened the lid and sniffed. Far as I could tell it was only water. I looked at the cross again and then back to the babbling guy on the floor.
Holy water? I wondered. Well, why not? What the hell else would it be on a day like this? These jokers had the whole official vampire hunter kit.
Okay, I thought, lots of fruitcakes in the world. People’s beliefs are their own, yada yada.
But why did they think I was a vampire?
Because they think you’re a Red Knight, muttered my inner Cop. I thought about the knight. The eyes, the incredible speed and strength. The fangs.
I will rip your throat out and drink your life.
I’ll buy a lot of weird shit. I mean, my job kind of depends on a belief in weird, but I’ll only walk out onto that ledge as far as science will stretch. I’ll do mad scientists and radical gene therapy. Been there, done that.
But … vampires?
“No fucking way,” I said aloud. The echo of my words came back to sting me.
I didn’t even know where to go with that speculation. I’m hunting rogue nukes in Iran. These guys are European vampire hunters. There’s no couch for both of those things to sit side-by-side on.
“Shut up and check the house,” I told myself.
The kitchen was empty, and I saw only two cars parked outside. No guards with them, but then I hadn’t expected any. I’d check those later. There was no basement. When I came b
ack into the living room I saw the guy with the leg wound slumped over and for a moment I thought he was dead, but I found a pulse in his throat. He’d simply passed out. Whether from blood loss, shock, or fear I couldn’t tell and didn’t much care.
At the foot of the stairs I stopped and cocked my head to listen. I was pretty sure that there was no one else here, but “pretty sure” is a damn poor excuse for certain knowledge. So I left Ghost in the hall, pulled the gun, and ran the stairs.
I found Taraneh and Arastoo Mouradipour in the bedroom.
Or, rather, I found what was left of them.
Interlude Five
Krak des Chevaliers
Headquarters of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller Syria
May 30, 1192 C.E.
“Come in,” said the priest without turning. “You must be cold.”
Sir Guy removed his cloak and drew near to the massive fire that blazed in the stone hearth. The priest’s private study was deep within the bowels of the Krak des Chevaliers, and it was always winter down here.
“Draw near to my fire, my son.”
Nicodemus always said it that way—“my fire”—and it always mildly unnerved Sir Guy, as if the priest ascribed some special meaning to those words that no one but he appreciated.
Nicodemus picked a poker and began jabbing at the burning logs, repositioning them. Each thrust of the metal rod sent up showers of glowing sparks and dropped the ghosts of ashes onto the stones. “Tell me, my friend, what news do you bring from the agreement?”
“I met with Ibrahim as you directed, Father,” said Sir Guy, holding his hands out to the blaze to thaw his fingers. “He is ill, but still strong enough to work. We are nearly finished coding the books. I have four monks working now on the Book of Shadows, but Ibrahim does not seem to trust anyone else with what he is calling the Saladin Codex.”
“He is very secretive,” said Nicodemus, though his tone suggested admiration for that quality.
“However I fear for him,” said Sir Guy. “His health fails and I believe that it is the work itself that assails him. It seems to be draining the life from him with every page.”