“Swear to me, Guy LaRoque, knight of the Sacred Order of Hospitallers. Swear that you will live according to this agreement, now and for all of the days of your life. Swear that you will do everything in your power-everything that your faith and your imagination and your will demands-to insure that the substance of this agreement comes to pass. Swear that to me, now, on your knees, before God.”
Sir Guy bent forward and caught a fold of the priest’s robe and kissed the hem. “I swear,” he said, the words as much a vow as a plea. “I swear before God, to the end of the world and the redemption of my sinner’s soul… I swear.”
“Then rise, Sir Guy LaRoque, knight of the holy Hospital of Jerusalem, protector of the Holy Land, soldier of God. I bless you and sanctify this Holy Agreement and all of its precious secrets. I bless it and God blesses it. Amen.”
Sir Guy wept and kissed the priest’s hem again before he climbed to his feet. “Thank you, Father. Thank you!”
The priest waved away the gratitude and the tears.
“What do you call this crusade of yours-of ours — my son?”
“In truth I have not yet thought of a fitting title. Ibrahim has already given his order a special name. The Tariqa. It is the Sufi word for ‘the path.’ He will be its first Murshid, its first guide along that path.”
The old priest nodded. “We will have to do the same, for you know that you cannot use the name of the Sacred Order of Hospitallers for this cause.”
“I confess that I’ve come up dry on that and-”
“ Ordo Ruber,” said the priest.
“Father?”
“The Red Order. We are born in the blood of Christ, are we not? And it is the blood of sacrifices and martyrs that shall sanctify our cause.”
Sir Guy murmured the name, feeling how the words and all of their many possible meanings fit in his mouth. “Yes,” he said. “That is perfect. The Red Order.”
They stopped in the archway, both of them bathed in purple shadows. Sir Guy’s heart was swelling with love and gratitude. He took the priest’s hand, bent and kissed the blood red ruby of his ring.
“Thank you,” he said. “I thank you with all my heart, Father Nicodemus.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn
June 15, 2:50 a.m. EST
Aunt Sallie and Church were still in his office when the phone rang with an overseas call. “Well, well,” he said and showed the display to Aunt Sallie.
Auntie smiled like a happy cat in a canary store. “This should be interesting as all hell.”
Church activated the scrambler and speaker.
Without preamble, Lilith demanded, “Have you talked to your agent, Ledger, today?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that he met with Jalil Rasouli?”
“Yes.”
“Is he on or off the leash?”
“He has my trust.”
“Okay. Good to know, I suppose,” she said. Her tone was icy and scalpel sharp. “Word is that Rasouli gave something to Ledger. Care to tell me what it was?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Because I think Rasouli is playing a game.”
“And that would be different from his normal behavior in what way?”
“Don’t try to be cute,” Lilith said tersely. “Do you know that the new Scriptor of the Red Order is trying to recruit Rasouli as the new Murshid of the Tariqa?”
Church cocked an eyebrow at Aunt Sallie. She shook her head and began tapping keys on the MindReader interface.
“I was not aware of that,” admitted Church. “Until today the Order has been off the radar since Baghdad. I am rather surprised to learn that they are active again.”
“They never really stopped. The new Scriptor-Charles, the last of the LaRoques-took over after we took his father off the board.”
“So that was you.”
Lilith ignored that. “The Order slowed down for a bit until they could build a list of candidates for a new Murshid. Rasouli’s been on the top of that list for a couple of years now.”
Aunt Sallie signaled to Church to look at the information on her monitor. Church nodded.
“It’s my understanding that Charles LaRoque has been treated for a variety of personality disorders since boyhood,” said Church. “Paranoid schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, psychosis. A handful of others. How is he able to run an organization as sophisticated as the Order?”
“The priest.”
“Priest?”
“The priest,” she said again, emphasizing the word.
“Lilith, you never mentioned a priest to me. Let’s remember that I’ve asked you many times for a complete history of the Red Order and each time you’ve refused. Actually, each time you never responded at all. So, again I ask, which priest? Who is he?”
There was a pause and when Lilith spoke again her tone changed. Less harsh, more cautious. “When Sir Guy LaRoque founded the Red Order he did so with the blessing of a priest from the Knights Hospitaller. Ever since then, each Scriptor has had a priest as his spiritual advisor.”
“And the current priest is part of the Order? And he is managing Charles LaRoque even though the young man is mentally unstable? That suggests that it is the priest who is the de facto head of the Red Order.”
“Yes.”
“Who is this priest?”
“Arklight has been trying to figure that out for a long time,” said Lilith. “There are some anomalies in his file.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that when we compare a four-month-old surveillance photo of him it is a perfect match to a photo from 1936 that was part of some church records recovered after the Second World War.”
“There are a number of ways to doctor a-”
“And both photos match paintings hanging in churches in northern Italy. One from 1897 and one from 1633.”
Aunt Sallie mouthed the words “Oh shit.”
“We also have reliable visual confirmation from an agent in Baghdad that the current priest died in the bombing along with Charles’s grandfather and the Tariqa council.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything, St. Germaine.”
“I prefer ‘Church’ these days. Or ‘Deacon,’ that still works. I don’t really have a connection to ‘St. Germaine’ anymore. I’m sure we’re both adult enough to understand why.”
“Why not for once simply use your real name?” groused Lilith.
Church’s voice was very cold. “Do you really want to open that door? There are other skeletons in the same closet.”
Eventually Lilith said, “No.”
“Will you give me the name of the current priest? And the names of any of the others you know to have been associated with the Red Order?”
“You still don’t get it,” said Lilith. “There is only one name.”
“They… all adopt the same name?”
“That’s one theory.”
Church cocked his eyebrow at Aunt Sallie, who parked a haunch on the edge of the table and stared at him over the lenses of her granny glasses.
“Give me the name.”
Lilith said, “Father Nicodemus.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
On the Streets
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 11:22 a.m.
Ghost and I walked quickly through five or six streets lined with houses that had been left to crumble beneath the relentless Iranian sun. I saw a single sign with a notice about rezoning and impending construction, but it was at least five years old. The only life we encountered there were starving dogs who fled from Ghost’s warning growls, and a single vulture who sat on a telephone pole that had long ago been stripped of its wires. The vulture’s ugly, naked head swiveled slowly on its scrawny neck, watching us as we walked past.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I warned the scavenger, and gave him an evil squint that entirely failed to impress him.
A few blocks later we reentered a residential quarter where people still lived, though even here there was a sense of life fading to dust. I knew from my travels that the typical meal in an Iranian home was unleavened bread and lentils. That’s it. Animal protein was a rarity. I wanted to sneer about it and speculate on how often the ayatollahs had lamb or chicken; but I’m from Baltimore. I’ve seen American poverty at its worst, and as the richest nation on earth we’re the last ones who should throw stones about allowing poverty and starvation within our own borders.