And then the fida’i moved.
His body seemed to vanish like smoke as he dodged in and to one side with incredible speed. The dagger vanished from his sash as he ducked under the sword of the left-handed prisoner, a fat man with bullish shoulders. The assassin danced past him and turned. As he did blood erupted from the fat man’s throat. Like a handful of rubies tossed into the wind, the drops of blood flew into the air and then spattered against the face and chest of the second prisoner, a tall man with the heavy forearms of a miller. The assassin pivoted and dropped low as the second man hacked at him with the sword.
“No!” cried the brave man, but it was too late. The miller was committed to the swing, and the assassin darted in and up; his blade opened a vertical line from crotch to breastbone. He stepped aside as the miller’s entrails erupted from the wound and flopped wetly onto the floor. The miller gagged out a shocked denial as he sagged to his knees and toppled forward.
And now it was the fida’i and the last Sunni.
The Sunni was not a rash man. He had just witnessed two men fall in two seconds, men he had seen kill in desert raids. The sword in his hand felt heavy but its solidity was reassuring. And yet…
The fida’i did not rush him, but instead began circling, stalking with catlike silence. The Sunni suddenly lunged, cutting upward at an angle that almost always caught an opponent off guard. It was nearly impossible to evade the cut at that distance, and the Sunni was not slow. But the assassin fell backward onto the floor, and as the blade passed, he arched his body and flipped to his feet again like an acrobat. When the Sunni checked his swing and cut backward to take the man across the thighs, the assassin leapt into the air, spry as a monkey, and the blade missed his bare feet by an inch.
The assassin landed on the balls of his feet, balanced and ready. The Sunni pivoted and cut again and again and again, alternating long and short slashes; stabbing and chopping. He stamped forward and darted left and right, whipping the sword at the assassin at angles impossible to evade. But the blade never once touched him.
“Stand still you devil!” cried the Sunni as his frustration disintegrated into doubt. With each passing second he began to fear that he was indeed fighting a demon, some desert ghost who could not be harmed by human weapons.
Then behind him, the Sunni heard Ibn Sabbah speak.
“Stop toying with him.”
For a fractured moment the Sunni thought that Ibn Sabbah had directed the comment at him; but then he saw the body language of the fida’i change. It was a subtle thing, a shift from acrobatic evasion to the attack posture of a hawk. With another blur of movement the assassin darted in under the Sunni’s next swing, slipping past the blade with a hair’s breadth to spare.
The Sunni felt the world freeze into a pinpoint of ice. He tried to speak, to ask what had happened, but his jaw would not move. There was a strange pressure under his chin, in his throat, and his brain felt wrong in ways the man could no longer identify. He heard a distant metallic sound and as an afterthought realized that he was no longer holding the sword. He saw the fida’i step back away from him, his hands equally empty. The Sunni reached up to touch his own throat and found the hard, cold edge of a blade there. That made no sense. How could a blade be in such an absurd place?
The room tilted as his knees gave way, and then the Sunni was falling, falling into the void with his jaws pinned shut so that he could not even speak the name of God.
The fida’i stood over him, his naked chest barely heaving to betray the effort he had just spent in the killing of these three men. On the floor, the Sunni lay with the hilt of the dagger pressed up against his soft pallet and the very tip of the blade standing an inch above the top of the man’s skull. The assassin glanced up at Ibn Sabbah, who nodded; then the assassin knelt and pulled his knife blade free.
Ibn Sabbah smiled down at the fida’i and waved him back to his place in line.
Yes, he thought, Ibrahim will be so very pleased.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
CIA Safe House #11
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 1:04 p.m.
I stared at Krystos. He would not meet my eyes.
My phone rang and I looked at the screen display. NO ID. I punched the button.
“Hello, Violin.”
“Joseph, are you all right?”
“Now’s not a good time.”
“I-”
But I ended the call. I was confused enough and didn’t need another cryptic conversation.
On the other hand, in a weird way some of this was starting to make sense, but the sense it made was badly warped, and I knew I was out of my depth. I told Ghost to watch the prisoners; then I walked into the kitchen to make a call. Church answered on the first ring.
I said, “Look, Boss, I know you’re busy-I’m busier.”
“Are you at the safe house?”
“Yes and no. I’m here, but it’s no longer a safe house.”
A slight pause, then he said, “I’m in video conference with Dr. Sanchez and Circe. I’ll cycle you in. Okay, you’re on speaker.”
“Cowboy!” Rudy exclaimed. “How are-?”
“Not a social call, Rude. I’m going to give this to you fast.”
They listened while I told him what had just happened. I heard Rudy curse and Circe gasp when I repeated the word “Upier.” Everyone started asking questions before I even finished. I had to yell to get them to shut the hell up. “Hey, guys-I’m in a compromised safe house with dead bodies and two wounded prisoners. I’m calling for field support, not a panel discussion.”
“Tell us what you need, Captain,” barked Church.
“Sure. Let’s start with this Upier stuff. Do we believe in vampires?” I asked. “The DMS, I mean.”
“No,” said Rudy and Circe.
Church did not answer.
“Boss,” I prompted, “say something, ’cause you’re scaring me here.”
“We have to keep an open mind,” said Church.
“Mother of God,” said Rudy.
“What the hell does that mean?” I demanded. “Answer the question. Do we believe in vampires or not?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Church.
Interlude Seven
The Leaping Stag
Newburgh, Yorkshire
January 30, 1193 C.E.
Sir Guy heard a scream as he stepped out of his room. The whole tavern was alive with shouts and yells and the stamping of boots as patrons and staff ran toward the front door.
“What is it?” demanded Sir Guy.
“It’s little Mary!” cried one of the tavern boys. “They’re bringing her in a cart!”
Sir Guy lingered for a moment, lips pursed, smoothing the wings of his mustache with two fingers. He heard a footfall and turned to see Brother Reynard, the little monk Father Nicodemus had sent to accompany him on this mission.
“You heard?” asked Sir Guy.
Brother Reynard nodded. “Is this what we came for?”
“Let’s hope so.”
They went downstairs and outside to join the crowd that was gathering around a rickety wooden cart pulled by a donkey. Sir Guy pushed his way through the throng. “Where is the reeve of this shire?”
A warty little man with a cheap sash of office was bent over the cart and looked up.
“I am, milord,” he said, snatching his hat off his head and knuckling his forelock. “Faville is my name, sir.”
Sir Guy removed a document from his pouch and held it up for inspection. The little man-chief constable of the district-could not read, but he was visibly impressed with all of the official-looking seals.
“I am here on orders from the Holy Father in Rome,” lied Sir Guy. “His Holiness has heard of your troubles and sent me and this good monk here to help.”
The reeve bobbed his head. “Thank you, milord. It is a great honor to have so distinguished a-”
“Let me see the body.”
Sir Guy pushed past the reeve and stepped to the side of the cart. He pulled on his gloves and then raised the threadbare horse blanket that had been used to cover the body.