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 back 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.”
“And what sickness do you suppose he has contracted from doing God’s work?” asked the priest with asperity.
Sir Guy chose his words carefully. “Ibrahim and all of his Tariqa are very religious.”
Nicodemus paused to cut him a quick look, then continued to poke at the fire. “Can that not be said of all of us, my son? Did not the two of you conceive this as an expression of your faith and concern for the future of our respective churches?”
“Yes, Father, but when I have doubts and fears about the spiritual cost of this, I have you to turn to. You are the church to me. Ibrahim has no such guide or refuge.”
“Islam has Istighfar,” countered Nicodemus. “It is one of the five pillars of that faith. The Tariqa confess their sins directly to God-not through man. Have you not heard your friend say ‘ astaghfirullah ’? ‘I seek forgiveness from Allah?’”
“I understand that, Father, but when the Saracens pray for forgiveness they often cite specific sins that were made and the passages of their bible which speak of forgiveness of those sins. His struggle comes from the fact that we have essentially written new pages into the Koran and the Bible.”
“Ah,” said Nicodemus. “I see. Tell me then, what sins can he not find forgiveness for?”
“Murder of others of his own faith-”
“‘Sacrifices,’” corrected the old man. “Murder is an act of hate. We do not hate those we kill. We love them, and in loving them we sacrifice them for the preservation of the church and the glory of God.”
Sir Guy took a breath. “Of course, Father. Ibrahim is troubled by having to sacrifice those of great faith. Clerics. Their imams. His heart likewise rebels at the desecration of mosques.”
“And yet, my son, this is the heart of our Agreement. We will each tend to our own flock and sacrifice our own lambs at the altars of God.”
“Yes,” said Sir Guy with passion, “and have you not seen how this also hurts our own people? I mean no insult by this, Father, but you do not go into the field with us. You do not see the wounds we open in the flesh of true believers. You do not hear their voices as they cry out to God for protection against monsters; and you do not hear the weeping of our knights in the night, in the dark. Many of our stoutest knights weep like children for the countless lives they’ve taken. Ibrahim is not the only one who fears for his sanity and his soul.”
Nicodemus gave the fire a final jab and then turned, still holding the poker whose tip now glowed dark red. The blaze in his eyes was hotter still. “Is that what you’ve come here to tell me? Has everyone on both sides lost their nerve, then? I thought our knights were true soldiers of God. Are we to fold our tents so quickly, leaving so much sacred work unfinished?”
“No, Father. I proposed a solution to him that I believe will work to strengthen everyone’s resolve.”
Nicodemus narrowed his eyes. “What solution?”
“What we are doing now is all about, as you so rightly put it, sacrifice, and we have agreed that many sacrifices need to be made in order to inspire the people and remind them of their spiritual duty. We call it the Agreement, and we label each death as a sacrifice because we do not make war on each other. But what if it were otherwise? What I proposed to Ibrahim is a second Agreement that would permit a brand new kind of war. One that has never been fought upon the earth. One which would allow each side to feel the strength of holy purpose in their arm every time they draw a sword.” He stepped closer to the fire and the old priest. “Father, I am saying that we turn our swords against the enemies of God.”