by Seeley James
“You got a name?” I asked.
He gave me his soldier stare again. It was pretty good. This guy had stared down the barrel of some tense times. Then his gaze shifted to the knife. I picked it up and threw it hard into the door frame ten feet away. It drove in, point first, two inches deep. Anyone making a play for it would spend several seconds pulling it out. That rendered it useless to both of us. He calculated my gesture and relaxed just a little.
“I’ll call you Phineas then.” I tilted my head to see if he cared. All names in English sounded equally absurd to him, I guessed. “Well, Phineas, I’d appreciate it if you would keep my secret.”
That got his attention. He turned his head in a skeptical expression.
“See, my friends think I escaped from you and Mr. Baldy.” I pursed my lips and nodded. “You and I both know he could’ve killed me back there. It would be embarrassing if they knew he let me go. It would mean you guys aren’t afraid of me—and I don’t want that getting around. Ya feel me? So, what do you say, Phineas? Can I trust you to keep a lid on it?”
He leaned back as if I’d tossed a bucket of water on him. But he didn’t speak.
Room service arrived with our food. Two guys laid out a white tablecloth and real silver. They swirled the plates into position like we were at the finest restaurant in Manhattan. They stole glances at Phineas’s bound ankles but said nothing. They poured the lemonade and bowed and left.
Phineas stared at me as if eating food was beneath him.
“You haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours,” I said. I took a bite and munched. Excellent pork cooked Central American style, with tartness and sweet onions as opposed to Mexican style with spices. “Go ahead, it’s not poisoned.”
I smacked my lips and mmm’d to encourage him. What finally did the trick was inhaling through my nose. The scent was irresistible.
He took a tentative bite and loved it. He wolfed down everything on his plate.
“What’s the deal between the Knights and the Brothers, anyway?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I said, “You guys know I’m not on either side, right? I’m stuck in the middle. Mr. Baldy tried to kill me to get that box. I found that a bit rude. And he tried to kill me when I went to rescue Cherry. Again, just plain rude. Otherwise, I’m with the Brothers because they asked nicely. Said they were going to use it to save the world.”
Phineas kept quiet. He downed the lemonade in one go.
“I get it, you’re not going to tell me anything. Fine. When you’re done, you’re free to go. See, I watched that bald guy execute fifteen people. The way I figure it, I could torture you, but what would be worse is sending you back to that homicidal maniac. So. You’re free to walk away. Eat up, you’ll need the energy.”
He mopped up the honey with the last sopapilla on his plate then tossed his napkin on the table. A form of gauntlet to challenge my promise to free him.
I finished eating in silence. When I was satisfied, I retrieved the knife from the doorjamb. I knelt at his feet, put the knife in my left hand, looked up at him with a wry smile, shoved my pistol in his face, then sliced the bindings on his ankles.
He rose slowly, my pistol tracking his every move.
I rose with him and nodded to the exit. “Free to go, Phineas.”
He watched me slip my pistol back in the holster at the small of my back. After a long moment, he said, “Zafar. Zafar Muhadow.”
Reluctantly, he ambled across the veranda and down the steps and into the jungle and out of sight.
CHAPTER 39
“You WHAT?” Ms. Sabel’s voice rarely rose to that volume.
I turned to Miguel in the poolside lounge chair on my right for support. He yakked on the phone with his sister in Navajo, talking a mile a minute without looking up. Most of the time I counted on him to back me up in arguments. This time, he chatted away like a cheerleader gossiping about the prom, complete with giggles and OMGs.
“We know he’s not going to talk,” I said. “The least I could do was show him some kindness.”
“Did I miss something?” she asked with the heat still in her voice. “Jenny told me you wanted my help.”
Mercury popped out of the water and shook like a dog. Drops flew everywhere. He said, Bro, you finally asked Pia-Caesar-Sabel for help?
I said, Not intentionally. I need to improve my partner-communications. Jenny keeps yin-ing when I’m trying to yang. Or whatever.
Mercury said, If you’re going after the big dogs, you’re gonna need a Mastiff like Pia-Caesar-Sabel.
I said, Maybe things were different back in Ancient Rome, but in modern times, you don’t compare a woman to a dog.
Mercury said, OK, Sabretooth tiger then—you get the picture. You’re gonna need her help. Go on now, get up on your hind legs and beg.
“Jenny thinks we need your help,” I said. “To tell you the truth, you’d be better off not getting involved.”
Ms. Sabel took the lounge chair on my left and opened a book. She wore a shimmering blue one piece that would’ve been modest except it was so tight you could see every muscle group it covered. If you looked. Which I would never do.
I was reading Daniel Silva’s The New Girl but wasn’t sure what it was about since I’d lost my ability to focus after we left Cuba.
She opened her book, Death and Conspiracy, with exaggerated movements. Pissed. She looked over at me. “My shoulders still hurt from that pole, you know.”
I looked up at the sky. “Do those clouds look like they’re scudding to you?”
She looked up. “Scudding?”
“You’d think an author of Silva’s caliber could use a better term than one from the sixteenth century.”
“Read a decent writer then.” She tossed her book at me. It bounced off my abs. “Do you need my help or not?”
I set the book aside. Her question made my stomach turn and my lungs collapse. I’d rather face down the Taliban than eat crow. Through clenched teeth, I said, “Yes.”
“Then next time use my method. Stick him with a dart and wake him with smelling salts. By the third time, he thinks he’s dreaming.” She sat on the edge of her lounge and stared at me. “You want to be a one-man show, I get that. You want to do everything your way. I get that too. So why do this instead of dealing with Yeschenko?”
I couldn’t blame it on my fiancé. It could get awkward if Ms. Sabel knew Jenny wanted me out of her sphere. And I couldn’t tell her the truth. Going over the you-shot-me-once argument was uglier.
I sighed. “Yeschenko holds me responsible for the missing twenty-eight million.”
“Really?” She crossed her arms. “I’ll take care of it. Let’s talk about right here, right now. You’re not working well with others, Jacob.”
“I need order and discipline. How I was trained.”
“For what Jenny described to me, you don’t just need my help, you need Peng and Danny. And that means you need to make room for the way other people work.”
She got up, grabbed her towel, and strode away.
Before she left hearing range, I said, “I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll check with you.”
She stopped and turned and waited.
I said, “And I’d really appreciate it if you’d help me. I can’t do this alone. As I mentioned earlier, it’s a hopeless case, so there may not be another publicity stunt in it and it might get us all killed, but …” I thought for a moment while she waited. “I watched Mr. Baldy execute fifteen people. I don’t give a damn about Peng and her magic rock. I’m going to terminate Mr. Baldy.”
She stood still. Her face said fuck you, but she didn’t voice anything for a long time. Finally, she said, “I never do it for publicity. Our marketing team brought me a layout of you with the French president that had ‘Sabel’ written all over it. I told them to make it about you. The company you worked for was one sentence near the bottom when they released it. I don’t care about China or Mr. Baldy. I’m here because you care about this—and I care about you.”
>
She walked away.
The birds sang and the bugs chirped and the monkeys squawked. The humidity felt like a warm washcloth. I looked over at Miguel. He’d finished his phone call. His chiseled face stared back at me. It was one of those times I wished I could take back all the stupid words and leave the good ones.
“I could’ve used a little backup just then,” I said. “All these years I’ve known you, you never say more than five words at a time. Always the strong and silent type. But when I hear you on the phone with your family, you’re talking a like a teenage girl, full-on chatterbox. What’s with that?”
“Cultural bias,” he said. “Every time Natives talk to white people, we lose a million acres.”
I had no answer.
Danny stalked across the pool deck with Fiona-the-blonde one step behind him. He pulled up five yards away and crossed his arms. “We don’t need your help.”
I said, “Fine.”
Mercury popped out of the water again. Hey, homie, how come nobody likes you? Is it cuz you’re a first-class asshole who thinks he’s superior to everyone? Just cuz the President of France tossed you a ribbon doesn’t mean you earned it all on your own. Maybe you’re the Hero of Paris cuz the gods helped you out.
I said, I did some of that on my own. I can get along without you.
Mercury said, Get real, brutha. You had my help every step of the way.
I said, What about Chicago? Did you help me out there? Wait. You did. OK. Thanks for that.
Mercury said, And when I wasn’t carrying you, Jenny was. She’s your balance. And she says you need help. So, get balanced—ask for help.
I said, But what do I need Danny-the-Inexperienced for?
Mercury said, Numbers, if nothing else. If you’d gone to the temple with the Brotherhood, they would’ve all died, but you’d have the Stone.
I said, I’d rather lose the Stone than have the lives of innocent kids on my hands.
Mercury said, They’d rather have died than lose the Stone. See, these people believe in something. Maybe someday you’ll believe in something enough to tell Jenny.
“If you’re fine with that,” Danny said, “why is your girlfriend begging Peng to take you back?”
“Well, Fiona—” I turned to her “—did you need my help in Chicago, or were you OK with climbing into that cardboard box they were going to toss into the crematorium?”
“Oh. That. Thank you. But Danny freed me.”
“He didn’t tell you who freed him from a locked room at the top of the building next door?”
The two of them exchanged embarrassed glances. They shifted their weight from foot to foot.
“Why’s it always you who gets the glory?” Miguel sat up. “What’ve you got against people helping you, bro?”
I said, “They screwed up an operation with their chaotic, undisciplined tactics.”
“Don’t disrespect my people like that,” he said.
I looked over at him, surprised. Danny and Fiona did the same.
“Manuelito, Barboncito, Narbona, all the Navajo chiefs were guerilla fighters,” Miguel said. “They never lost to the white man’s army. Kit Carson had to burn their crops and hogans and slaughter their livestock to starve them onto the reservation. Same for Crazy Horse and Geronimo and Red Cloud and Cochise—all the great Native chiefs. They presented no fixed positions, presented no target. The US Army rarely encountered them of their own accord. The few times they did, from Red Fork to Wounded Knee, the soldiers killed mostly women and children and old men. Natives used unconventional tactics. They attacked from unexpected positions, often at night or early morning. Never with an organized plan. Each warrior found opportunities and exploited them. If he found nothing, he retreated and looked for a different opportunity. They didn’t teach that in Ranger School, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. Let these people do their thing. Build on their strength. Maybe they’ll save your ass next time.”
Miguel picked up his book, grabbed his towel, and padded by me. As he did, he muttered, “That probably cost us Kayenta.”
A few years ago, he took me to the town of Kayenta on the Navajo Nation in Arizona to visit his cousins and tour Monument Valley. Beautifully desolate, its magic was undeniable. I hoped they weren’t going to lose it on my account.
Danny and Fiona watched him leave. When he’d disappeared down the path, they looked at each other. They didn’t know what to say. Neither did I.
Mercury got out of the pool and dripped his way to the empty lounge chair where he flopped down. He said, Now you got all the knowledge and help you need, homie. You can do this.
I said, What are you talking about this time?
Mercury said, You know what the Knights are after. You got Pia-Caesar-Sabel on your side. You got lots of cannon fodder, I mean, the Brotherhood to help you. Put it all together and you gonna be the Hero of the G20! Check it.
I said, They aren’t looking to help. They’re telling me to take a flying f—
Mercury said, You understand the problem, my brutha? They don’t trust you. They think you want the Stone. I’ll give you words to say that’ll bring it all together for you. Trust me.
I said, You’re not going to throw Neptune into it again, are you? That didn’t work last time.
Mercury said, Will you let that shit go once in a while, homie? It’s not healthy to be hanging onto your anger like that. Take a deep breath, Ima paraphrase Alexander the Great for you.
“OK,” I said after catching Danny’s gaze. “I’m going after Mr. Baldy and the Knights of Mithras. To succeed, I need your help. And for your plan to work, you need mine. I make you this promise: I’ll take Miguel’s advice to heart. I’ll work with you on your terms. I wouldn’t blame you if you lost faith in my plans except that you saw me run every mile you ran. I took every risk you took. I wouldn’t ask you to do the work and let others take the reward. You want the Stone and I want Mr. Baldy. We’ve shared the struggles, the successes, and the defeats so far. We will share in the rewards. The Stone belongs to you. Peng is a good and honest leader. She’ll see that you’re rewarded with what you value more than gold: respect. Two of Ms. Sabel’s jets will be here in an hour. They’ll take us to Germany. Before we go, I ask you to speak to every Brother, one on one. Give them a chance to stay here or go with us. No questions asked, no judgments made. The challenge ahead will not be easy, and this is a nice place to ride it out. But I promise you, I’ll make those who go to Germany the envy of those who stay behind.”
CHAPTER 40
Joe Griffith paced his suite at Claridge’s in Mayfair, London. The video conference should’ve started ten minutes ago. Infuriating. Who did Amanow think he was? It was a poor strategist who made a play for Griffith’s job and lost. He should’ve known the outcome with certainty before making such a bold move. Griffith resolved to shove the upstart Knight into his place. The Protector already showed the man Griffith’s importance. Without him, the mission would have gone to Garmisch empty handed. If it had gone at all.
The demonstration of the Poison Stone had left Griffith unconvinced. He was a modern man. He believed in science. Though the incident did raise questions about the possibility of it having some unknown, unquantified properties that affected people in some way or another. The Protector was convinced. If Griffith wanted to be the next Protector, the current one had to believe that Griffith believed. He could go that far.
He checked his onscreen appearance one more time. He preferred standing for video calls. It made him feel more intimidating, more threatening. Now that the Protector had tied his fate directly to Amanow’s, he would make it clear who gave the orders. There was one Guardian and thirty-two Knights for a reason.
Amanow’s brazen play still chafed him. The fact that Amanow had agreed to the Protector’s terms didn’t fool Griffith for one minute. The man was ambitious enough to claim the Guardian role by killing him. Griffith had to stop the lunatic before the Protector eliminated them both. Which was exactly how th
e Protector would deal with any more infighting. Griffith knew this because that was how he solved problems in his organization. Over the years, the kleptocrats he laundered money for had taught him a valuable lesson: the best solution was cremation.
Griffith looked at his perfectly coiffed hair on screen. He looked sharp. He felt sharp. All he had to do was keep his goal in mind: Make Amanow understand killing him to get ahead would destroy them both. But what could he do to make the filthy Muslim appreciate him?
Finally, the system pinged with Amanow’s call. Griffith clicked it on. As soon as the picture flickered to life, he asked, “Why are you late?”
Amanow sat in a drab room with beige walls behind him. He replied, “It is not so easy to find a good connection in Belize.”
“Belize? Damn it, you were supposed to be in Garmisch by now.”
“One of my Knights became separated from us. We have retrieved him. Even so, I will arrive there before you.” Amanow smiled that smug grin of his. “Let us not waste time bickering. Our lives have been lashed together. I like it no more than you. Nonetheless, the Protector has made it clear: we succeed or die as one. So, tell me, my most esteemed Guardian, why did you ask for this call?”
“I felt it best if I explained our end game to you. We need to be on the same page. Now, I’ve sent an agenda—”
“You? Explain to me?” Amanow leaned back laughing. Then scowled and leaned into the camera. “Did you run twenty-seven and a half miles to arrive at Jacob Stearne’s location yesterday? Did you establish a perimeter to ensure snaring him? Did you lose three of your Knights in a deadly—”
“Yes, yes—” Griffith waved his hands as if batting flies “—you have great tactics. You and your Knights performed admirably. But let me remind you where those coordinates came from.”
“Information we would’ve had a day earlier by torturing Jacob Stearne and his girlfriend. An opportunity missed. A day wasted.”
“This won’t get us anywhere. You heard the Protector. We work together and succeed, or we die together.”