Isis had a sense that she should leave him be, that he needed time to gather his strength for what was to come, and was happy enough to bury herself in her books. Although she wouldn't admit it, she was worried that she was going to slow Murphy down and consequently was determined that at least her linguistic skills would be honed to razor sharpness. If they did manage to find the second piece of the Serpent, she wanted to make sure she could unlock its secrets.
In particular, she was revisiting an old volume that had belonged to her father. Bishop Henry Merton's Lesser Chaldean Apocrypha . She had read it before, of course, but not, she was beginning to realize, with quite her full attention. Or perhaps it was simply that Merton's study of some of the more obscure corners of ancient Mesopotamian religious belief had never seemed terribly relevant. Now, however, his exhaustive
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analyses of Babylonian idol worship seemed tailor-made to her needs.
Of course, he hadn't been "Bishop" Merton when he'd written the book. Just a young country vicar in a half-forgotten parish in Dorset, England's sleepy southwest. That was where her father had first come across him. As he told the story, they had both been reaching for the same first edition of Frazer's The Golden Bough in a secondhand bookstore in Dorchester. After a protracted argument, during which they each insisted the other had first claim on the book, her father had finally prevailed (steely Scots self-denial winning out over English politeness), practically herding the young cleric to the counter with his prize.
After that, of course, Merton could do no other than invite his benefactor to tea and scones at the little shop around the corner. It was there, amid the chintz and china, that his interest in the dark rituals of the world's forgotten religions was revealed. An interest, her father recalled, bordering on obsession. Not that there was necessarily anything wrong or even strange about that, given her father's own proclivities--except that Merton was wearing the black shirt and collar of an ordained Church of England vicar. "It just seemed rather odd," he'd recalled, "to listen to this young man, who by rights ought to be spending his time harvesting souls for Jesus, speak with such passionate intensity about the demons inhabiting the gloomier reaches of the Sumerian underworld."
Despite the elder archaeologist's instinctive qualms, a lively correspondence had ensued after they parted. The lure of Merton's vast erudition was simply too much to resist. But
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after a few months, her father had stopped replying to Merton's letters, and it was clear to the adolescent Isis that something had deeply disturbed him.
She never discovered what it was. But now, as she slowly turned the pages of Lesser Chaldean Apocrypha , she remembered that this was the very volume her father had been clutching when they found him.
She shuddered, and her fingers went instinctively to the amulet around her neck. It was the head of the Babylonian goddess Ishtar, a gift from her father, and it was a constant comfort in times of stress.
With a little shake of her head, she returned to the book. Whatever the truth about Bishop Merton, he knew his Chaldean rituals. If anyone was going to provide an insight into the mind of Dakkuri, it was him.
On the flight from London to Riyadh, Murphy hadn't interrupted her reading. It seemed to have the effect of recharging her batteries--something she surely needed after the trauma of the last few days. Certainly by the time they'd made the long taxi ride through the desert to Tar-Qasir itself and settled into a large modern hotel called, appropriately enough, the Oasis, she seemed positively bursting with energy. Murphy had passed out again as soon as he lay down on the cool white sheets before he'd had time to wonder what their next step would be. And now, some hours later, the crisp rat-tat-tat on his door that jolted him out of a dreamless sleep seemed to have all the hallmarks of her restless spirit.
Showered, changed, and newly focused, Murphy met her in the spacious lobby. "I think they should rename this hotel
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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?"
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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
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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 effo
rt 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
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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
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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."
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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 identities.
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
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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
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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
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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
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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.