by Seeley James
Mr. Baldy’s voice floated through the darkness. “Allah has smiled upon you once more, Jacob Stearne. I missed my opportunity to kill you, but it is a small matter. You are about to endure the worst fate a soldier can ever face. What fate is worse than death for an international hero, Jacob?”
I said nothing.
He waited a beat. Then he said, “Defeat.”
The Knights retreated. They pulled out with too many trees between us to stop them.
Ms. Sabel and Miguel looked at me. She said, “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then go back along the trail and meet Danny and the Brothers. They’ll escort you back to the resort. We’re going after Dhanpal.”
Instantly, she and Miguel disappeared into the darkness.
I wanted desperately to follow, but she was right. Tactically, I’d be nothing but a liability. If they could recover our comrade, the battle would be a minor loss. If they could recover the Stone as well, it would be a draw. I had to leave it in their capable hands.
And that made me realize Mr. Baldy was also right. His words echoed in my ear. For a soldier, nothing is worse than defeat.
I started walking. And trying to imagine what I’d say to the Brothers and Jenny.
Mercury appeared next to me.
I said, Go away. I don’t want to hear it.
Mercury said, Hear what, homie? About how you got spanked by a mediocre soldier from Turkmenistan? I wouldn’t bring that up. Nor would I bring up how you SHOULDA LEFT THE POISON STONE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN, because I’m not that kind of vindictive, mean-spirited god. Now, I did hear about a dude who once took a whip to the moneychangers in the temple—
I said, Just leave me alone. I don’t need any spiritual guidance right now.
Mercury said, Boy, you’d be dead wrong right there. Think about it—if I left you alone right now, you’d get all suicidal and shit.
He had a point. I felt like Napoleon crossing the Berezina. The Frenchman went to Russia with half a million men. By the time he retreated to the river, he was down to 90,000. Only half that many made it home. One of the greatest defeats in the history of warfare. In the same way Napoleon disappointed France, I’d let Jenny down. And Peng and Rafael and Cherry and Danny—and why not throw in a billion Chinese while I’m at it?
Mercury said, Hey, who told you to make up with Pia Sabel?
I squinted at him. Not going there.
Mercury said, She saved your ass back there. If you had her and Monster Slayer backing you up from the beginning, you—
I said, STOP! If you’re so great, why didn’t you tell me something useful when I needed help?
Mercury said, Why didn’t you tell Jenny about me when you had the chance?
I said, Because you’re not real. I’m totally off my rocker and having this conversation is proof.
Mercury said, What is with you, bro? I already done told you how to get ahead of this, but you didn’t spend one minute reflecting on my hints.
I said, Told me what?
Mercury said. Why do the Knights of Mithras want it? What’re they gonna do with it?
How would knowing Mr. Baldy’s plans help me? I didn’t have the Stone. I wasn’t going to hand it to Peng so she could save China. And that meant Peng would be disappointed. If Peng were disappointed, Jenny would be disappointed.
Mercury said, There’s probably something Freudian about you being afraid to disappoint women. Still, you gotta think about things here. You can’t go around saving humanity without the right knowledge about stuff. Knowledge is what sets you apart from your average, everyday hero. You can’t just save lives, you gotta save the right lives for the right reasons. That means you need to know stuff like: If the Brotherhood wants to free China, what do the Knights want?
I said, To subject China to … I don’t know. What?
Mercury grabbed my arm to stop me. He looked into my eyes. Dude. We’ve been over the god-rules before. We can’t be spoon-feeding you this shit. The whole point to your life on Earth is to figure things out for yourselves. Like Holocaust, bad; acceptance, good; atom bombs, bad; medicine, good; prejudice, bad; loving the one true messenger—
I said, Yeah, I get it.
Mercury said, Bro, China is a dictatorship. If Peng’s gonna turn a dictatorship into a democracy, the opposite is gonna be what?
I said, Turning democracies into dictatorships? What’s that got to do with anything? You kept telling me to work for Yeschenko and leave the Brotherhood alone. Now you’re telling me, what? Why can’t you be clear?
Mercury said, You didn’t want to work with Pia-Caesar-Sabel. You wanted to go it alone. Well, guess what homie? Look around you. You be alone.
I looked around. I was alone in the middle of nowhere. I looked up and let the warm rain fall in my face.
Mercury said, Because you wanted to go it alone, all you could handle would be finding Yuri Belenov for Mikhail Yeschenko. If you want to turn China into a democracy, you gonna need some help. You gonna need the Brotherhood. And even then, you’re gonna be shorthanded. Ya feel me? You need Pia-Caesar-Sabel.
His endless chatter felt like torture. Especially because it made sense. But I didn’t want to hear any more. I was tired. Beat. Defeated. I had to figure out what to tell Jenny. I sat down under a tree.
I’d never felt so helpless before.
I once saved a hundred worshippers in a Paris cathedral. I saved an admiral from murderous vigilantes. I saved the world from a mad arms dealer. I did it alone. Sure, I had help getting around the world thanks to Ms. Sabel’s jet. Sure, I had an unlimited expense account at Sabel Security. But when it came down to it, I faced destruction with no one else around me. And yet I managed to come back alive every time. Until now.
Defeat.
Half an hour later, I was still sitting under the tree when I heard people running in the forest. Shadows came through the trees to form a circle around me. Danny, Mark, Fiona, the guy whose name I still didn’t know, and the rest of the Brotherhood materialized into view.
My shame was complete.
CHAPTER 36
Joe Griffith entered the suite at the Lanesborough Hotel in London. It belonged to the Protector of the Knights of Mithras. The Ionic columns separating the foyer from the green room impressed him. He made a mental note to have solid marble columns installed in his foyer. If the Protector had something, Griffith wanted to have same thing—only better.
Griffith’s father had been a Guardian who was passed over for Protector when the Central Asian crowd showed up. Why the board of the Knights wanted to muddy their Anglo-Saxon lineage with a Georgian-born Protector baffled him. Griffith had been so disappointed that he’d joined the Keepers when he came of age and rose through their ranks. But in his heart, he’d always wanted to earn the title denied to his father.
In later years, he switched to the Knights because the Protector proved to be adept at manipulating connections despite his heritage.
The Protector had proven his value by pulling strings in every major country. He knew presidents and prime ministers and every diplomat worth bribing. Griffith had been impressed by the man’s pull. And he profited handsomely.
At the same time, he’d been shocked and horrified at the man’s unnecessary brutality. There are many ways to achieve one’s goals. Griffith preferred financial leverage to this barbaric killing spree they were on. Violence poisons all connections eventually.
When the time was right, he would replace the filthy Turkmen and Georgians who’d overstayed their welcome among the Knights. He would return the Knights to civilized methods. That was a vow he’d made to his father on the old man’s deathbed.
The butler, in tails and white gloves, coughed politely. Griffith stopped daydreaming and followed the man into the blue room. The walls, the upholstery, the carpet, all in differing shades of pale blue. Just like the color-coded rooms in the royal palaces nearby, Buckingham and Kensington.
A giant video screen stood to one
side. A bright yellow chair faced it at a good distance.
The butler coughed again and pointed to a place on the floor next to the video screen. “Here, sir. Face the chair.”
“Of course,” Griffith took his position, standing at attention before the yellow chair.
The video screen flickered to life, visible in Griffith’s peripheral vision. The butler stood in front of it, adjusting something with a remote control. The butler said, “Ah, there you are, Captain Amanow. Very good, sir. You can hear me?”
“Indeed,” Amanow’s voice was crisp.
Griffith stole a glance. The Knight stood at attention in what appeared to be a Yucatan hacienda, the faux limestone walls fashioned to look Mayan.
“Gentlemen,” the butler said, “kindly remain standing until His Excellency, the Protector, arrives. Good day.”
The butler closed the double doors at the far end as he exited.
Griffith considered chatting with Amanow to gauge the tension between them but decided against it. Better to let the Protector witness Griffith’s superiority in the moment. Apparently, Amanow had the same thought. They waited ten minutes at least. The silence stretched until Griffith’s knees began to demand movement. He knew the soldier in Amanow would endure the drill. Griffith resolved to best his adversary.
Behind him, a door opened, and the sound of the Protector’s shuffling walk came to him. Griffith turned his head, considering if he should assist the limping older man, but recalled being told the powerful Protector hated any offering that diminished his standing.
The Protector’s knuckle pushed Griffith’s chin forward. A silent rebuke for not maintaining his posture.
The old man wobbled with the aid of a four-wheeled walker to the yellow chair and sat with a tired exhale. He rolled the walker to the side. Griffith noted the Protector did not look well. He wore a black military uniform festooned with medals under a thick robe of deep navy blue. His face had gone from light gray to nearly iridescent white. After a bout with skin cancer, the Protector had taken sun-avoidance to new extremes. Even that didn’t explain the man’s pallor. Griffith bowed and caught a glimpse of Amanow doing the same on screen.
“You were given a simple mission,” the Protector said in his rough baritone. “It is time to deliver your progress report. Captain Amanow, have you succeeded?”
“I have,” Amanow said. The pride in his voice spilled out in his words. “I am in possession of the Poison Stone now.”
“Have you opened the box?” the Protector snapped.
“Not yet, Your Excellency. We have just returned—”
“Then you could have a sack of flour for all you know. Jacob Stearne is no fool. Have one of my Knights open it behind you while we talk. Have him hold it with his bare hands.”
“We have one of Sabel’s people,” Amanow said. “He picked up the Stone and joined us. An Indian named Dhanpal. It worked to convert him to one of us.”
“How do you know he is not a plant tracking your every move?”
Griffith desperately wanted to look at the screen to his right. He could only imagine the look on Amanow’s face at being called out.
“We will test the Stone at once, Your Excellency.” Amanow gave tersely whispered orders to someone off camera.
“Captain,” the Protector said, “you have questioned the effectiveness of my chosen Guardian. State your accusations.”
Amanow cleared his throat. “The Guardian’s function is to provide critical intelligence about the mission and shield the Knights in the field from—”
“Do not tell me what I already know,” the Protector snapped.
“My most sincere and humble apologies, Your Excellency,” Amanow said. “The Guardian failed to inform us that Jacob Stearne left Hidalgo’s camp before our arrival. Further, he failed to provide an accurate location for Stearne’s exfiltration. His order to preserve Stearne’s life, focusing instead on the young woman, proved disastrous in our exit from Guatemala. We could have easily killed Stearne and taken the girl to the location that day. Instead, we wasted five days clearing records at the International Court—”
“You knew where Stearne hid the Poison Stone on the first day and you failed to recover it?” the Protector asked.
“Not exactly. But we could have triangulated the location and conducted a search—”
“Ultimately, you required Stearne to retrieve it for you, did you not?” The Protector’s voice grew louder. “Even if you located the temple, penetrating it proved disastrous. Stearne made it all the easier for you. And he did so because of the Guardian’s efforts, is that correct?”
Amanow said, “Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Continue with your next accusation, Captain.”
“When under fire in Chicago, the Guardian failed to secure his own property with his security team. Amid the search, the Guardian fled the premises. When he called upon the Knights to defend his stronghold, he failed to tell us the extent of his hidden passages. Had we been so informed, Stearne would be a handful of ashes at this moment.”
“Again, you raise the question: How would you have retrieved the Poison Stone?” the Protector asked. “Next.”
Amanow stammered for a moment before taking a breath and continuing. “The Guardian proposed to use LiDAR to find Stearne’s hiding place. He wasted days and still has nothing to show for it.”
The Protector turned his pale face to Griffith and stared long and hard. Griffith could find nothing to say. The LiDAR map wouldn’t be completed for another day. The engineer overpromised the processing time. This idea had indeed been a failure.
In a voice loud enough for Amanow to hear, Griffith said, “The honorable Knight is correct. My miscalculation of the delivery time would have cost us an extra twenty-four hours.”
The Protector scowled and turned back to Amanow. “Anything else?”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Amanow said. “He refuses to share information on Stearne’s current location.”
Again, the Protector turned his cold eyes to Griffith and said nothing.
Griffith said, “I refuse to reveal information obtained from my asset for fear of exposing that person. Stearne is no longer of any concern. My asset will be extremely valuable to us in the next phase.”
The Protector turned back to Amanow. “What do you propose as a corrective measure?”
“The Guardian has done nothing effective and has caused us many delays,” Amanow said. “If you approve, I propose we dismiss the Guardian and I will assume his duties.”
Griffith felt a cold shudder overtake him. He hadn’t expected a Knight to be so bold. He tried to read the Protector’s inscrutable face as the older man turned to stare him down.
Dismissal could be a blessing. He could go back to his hedge fund and be done with all this intrigue. In fact, if he’d known these superstitious Eurasian-rednecks believed in the stupid artifact, he would’ve avoided them and stayed with the equally august and ancient body of the Keepers. Connections and death-bed promises be damned.
Then again, Griffith considered what the word dismissal meant to these people. Educated as they were, their morals were decidedly medieval. In the Roman era, the ancient order chose rank by contest. Like gladiators, those aspiring to higher office fought for the honor. Losers were even executed on rare occasion. In this case, the Central Asians would insist he take his own life. Even if he were allowed to live, the Protector would destroy Griffith’s empire.
Perhaps he should turn the tables and recommend dismissing Amanow. All Griffith’s hard work was on the verge of paying off. The dumb bastard would get them all thrown in jail before it was over. But the Protector favored the brutal solution to every problem over anything requiring finesse.
“Indeed, I have failed you,” Griffith said. “In one small detail that would not have cost us the mission. But that is a detail for you, and you alone, to judge. I will not question your decision. In my defense, I have a plan for completing the mission. One based on proven metho
ds that I have reviewed with you. Captain Amanow pins all his hopes for the future on an unproven piece of rock. Without it, the Knights of Mithras have prevailed for centuries. Our only setback was a brief span of time after the Second World War. To leave everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve in the hands of a mere captain from Ashbagat would carry great risks. In twenty-four hours, I meet with Pia Sabel. Would a woman of her means meet with our good captain? In a matter of days, our well-trained but low-caste Knight expects heads of state to meet with him? My answer is to dismiss our presumptive captain and replace him with one of the other Knights.”
Griffith didn’t need to look. He could feel Amanow’s hate and anger through the screen.
“Need I remind you,” the Protector asked, “that I plucked Captain Amanow from obscurity, sent him to the finest schools, arranged for him to have the finest military training in the world? Of course not. You know I did these things because, even as a boy, Batyr exhibited no delusion of morality, no concern for personal safety, no weakness. He did as instructed without hesitation. He has always followed my orders. No one from any other chapter of the Knights has bested him. You, Mr. Griffith, came to me with the highest recommendations from the Keepers. You should know better than to diminish a man of his standing.”
“My apologies, Your Excellency.”
“Do you not believe in the Poison Stone?” the Protector asked with an edge in his voice.
“I believe in what has been proven. Would it not be the most prudent course of action?”
Instead of answering, the Protector pointed to the screen. “Step around and we shall see together. If the legend is true, you will work together. If it is false, you will be dismissed together, and I will take the meeting with Ms. Sabel.”
The Protector had better connections than Pia Sabel. In fact, the Protector could have easily set the meetings for Griffith but had chosen not to. Why? When the old man clearly favored Amanow over him, why was Griffith suddenly the front man? Was the old man’s illness worse than it looked? The Protector’s threat shook him to his core. It was all he could do not to visibly tremble.