Assassin's code jl-4

by Jonathan Maberry

  Rudy said, “You called it a ciphertext rather than a codetext. What’s the difference? I thought a cipher was another name for code.”

  Circe shook her head. “A cipher is the result of encryption performed on plaintext using an algorithm. It’s mathematical. A code is simply a method used to transform a message into an obscured form. Like letter transposition or word-swapping. You decipher a code with a codebook that has the letters, words, or phrases that match the coded message. A cipher is much more complex, and it’s often the word people should be using when describing something that has been encrypted.”

  “I knew that,” Bug said quietly.

  “I didn’t,” said Rudy, “and I have no idea what you just said. What I want to know is what the Voynich manuscript is and how it relates to seven nuclear bombs.”

  Circe blew out her cheeks. “Scholars have spent the last century trying to decipher the manuscript. How that relates, or how it helps… is anyone’s guess.”

  Rudy stood and bent closer to the screens showing the two mystery pages. He looked back and forth between them, and then studied the Voynich pages. He grunted.

  “What?” asked Circe.

  “Well… I’m no handwriting expert,” he said slowly, “but I don’t think these other pages were written by the same person.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  On the Run

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 10:59 a.m.

  Mr. Church said run, so I ran.

  When Church is so rattled by something that he freaks at me on the phone, then my own scare-o-meter starts burying the needle. I ran like a son of a bitch and put a lot of gone between me and the death house.

  Three blocks away I cut down an alley behind an abandoned house. Once I was sure that the place was completely deserted, I broke in. Ghost was too weak to do much running, so I left him in the kitchen and quickly cleared the whole house. Six empty rooms, lots of junk, some bugs, a dead rat, and nothing else.

  There was no water, so we couldn’t stay long, but I needed more information from Church. He answered my call right away.

  “Are you somewhere safe?”

  I explained my location.

  “Very well. I’m retasking a satellite to try and track you. Echo Team is six hours out, and I’ve alerted Barrier as to the hit on their house.”

  “Good,” I said, “so now tell me why I ran away like a six-year-old from a party clown. Who the hell are these Red Knights?”

  “They are trained killers. Very, very tough.”

  “Yeah, well so am I.”

  “Captain Ledger,” he said quietly, “take your ego out of gear for a moment and look at this objectively, I-”

  “I am looking at it objectively,” I cut in, “but your lack of confidence is starting to piss me off.”

  “Get over it,” he said quietly and waited for another smart-mouth comment from me. I said nothing. After a moment, he continued. “The Red Knights are members of a brotherhood of assassins that emerged during the later Crusades. Over the centuries they have been tied to acts of murder, sabotage, and destruction that by today’s standards would be classified as terrorism. Very little is known about them, and much of what is recorded is questionable. History distorts reliable intel; and, much like the ninja of Japan, the knights themselves contributed to, edited, and distorted their own mythology.”

  “Gosh, where have I heard that before? Oh, yeah… your friend Hugo Vox. Are we saying that this is all his scheme?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Who runs these knights?”

  “Also unknown, though there are unsubstantiated rumors of a group called the Red Order, but so far we haven’t been able to put together a file on them. It’s even possible Red Order and Red Knights are interchangeable terms; that’s to be determined.”

  “Okay,” I said dubiously, “so why haven’t I heard of these Red Knights? If they’re political it sounds like something we should be handling. What do we know about them?”

  “About their organization? Next to nothing. About operatives like the one you encountered? We know bits and pieces, and none of it is good. Do not underestimate them and don’t waste time with a database search on them. The DMS has not crossed paths with them before this.” He paused. “ I have.”

  “Crossed paths or crossed swords?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer that.

  “Did anyone tell you to run away?”

  “Captain-”

  “Tell me why I just ran away, Church. Sure, the knight at the hotel blindsided me and I had some trouble. I was unarmed then. Different story now; and now I’m going to be expecting the next one to be stronger and faster than the average psycho asshole with fangs. And, speaking of which, what’s with those goddamn fangs? Do they hire freaks? Are they implants of some kind, or is this some gene therapy bullshit?”

  “We don’t have time for a full briefing right now,” Church said. “Continue on to the CIA safe house and when you are safe and settled we’ll have a longer conversation. In the short term, I want you to be sensible of the degree of threat these knights represent. If you encounter another one, or even suspect that you are facing one of them, do not hesitate and do not give them a single chance. Escape if you can, and if that is not an option, do not allow yourself to be drawn into another hand-to-hand confrontation.”

  “Because-?”

  “Because it is unlikely you would survive it.”

  “Kiss my ass. I was starting to win that fight.”

  “From what you told me, Captain, the knight wanted information from you,” replied Church. “That opened a window of opportunity for you. If you are unfortunate enough to encounter another Red Knight, he’s likely to be less chatty. My recommendation stands: don’t engage them. The odds are not in your favor.”

  “Gee, Coach, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Mr. Church snorted. “You got lucky at the hotel, Captain. Don’t bank on your new girlfriend being on hand to save you next time.”

  I will rip your throat out and drink your life.

  “Jesus,” I said, “what are you trying to do here? Scare the hell out of me?”

  “If that’s what it takes to drive the point home,” said Church. “You haven’t faced anything like this before. If you encounter another Red Knight, I want you to avoid contact and flee, or failing that, to terminate him immediately and with extreme prejudice.”

  I bit down on a few of the things I would have liked to say to him.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I’m serious, Captain.”

  “Don’t worry, if I see another scary bad man I’ll run away screaming like a nine-year-old girl.”

  He sighed. “See that you do. Call me from the safe house.”

  The line went dead.

  I looked at the phone. “Kiss my ass,” I said again.

  But his words had made cold sweat break out all over my body.

  Interlude One

  Near the City of Acre

  May 17, 1191 C.E.

  A cold wind blew out of the desert, stirring the thousands of banners and flags that rose like a forest of silk above the camp. Hundreds of cooking fires set the night ablaze and the air was filled with laughter and songs and conversation. The fragile quiet of the night-time desert recoiled back from this rude intrusion, and overhead the stars seemed to turn shyly away from the firelight below.

  Sir Guy LaRoque sat astride his horse and watched as his king, Philip II, walked toward the command tent with a phalanx of advisors around him. The whole camp was on fire with excitement. The kings of Europe were coming to the Crusade. Philip was there first, as was only right, bringing eight thousand men in one hundred ships and enough provisions to mount a countersiege against Saladin. By June, Richard the Lionheart of England would be here, and more crusaders would flood into the Holy Land in his wake. After a weary siege and inconclusive battles, the tide was turning.

  The energy crackled like lightning in the air, and Sir Guy smiled. T
his was how it should be. This was what served God. Still smiling, Sir Guy tugged on the reins to turn his horse away from the camp, kicked it into a light canter, and set out into the darkest part of the surrounding desert. The standard-bearer, an old and trusted family servant, spurred his mount and followed. They rode in the general direction of the coast, but once there were hills between them and the camp, Sir Guy turned his horse away from the smell of salt water and headed toward the deep desert. A half an hour’s easy gallop brought them to an outcrop of rock that rose like a cathedral from the shifting sands. Sir Guy stopped on a ridge and ordered his companion to unfurl the white flag.

  After a full minute, a small light appeared at the base of the tall rock. A lamp was unshielded for a moment and then covered again. Sir Guy waited until this action was performed again, and again.

  “Stay here,” he told his servant. “Stay alert and sober.”

  With that, Sir Guy dismounted and walked down the sloping sand toward the rock. When he was ten yards away he called out in perfect Arabic.

  “ As-salamu ‘alaykum.”

  “ Wa-laikum as-salam,” replied a voice from within the featureless shadows at the foot of the rock. There was movement and the lamp was once more unshielded, revealing in its glow the thin and ascetic face of a bearded Saracen. Sir Guy went forward to meet the other man and they shook hands warmly.

  “Come, my friend,” said the Saracen, “I have food and a warm fire inside.”

  Together they passed beyond the tapestry and entered a cave which cut nearly to the heart of the towering rock. Inside, the cave was comfortable, furnished with a rug for the floor, pillows, a low brass tray piled high with cooked meats and dried fruits, and a tall pitcher of clean water.

  “You look well, Ibrahim,” said Sir Guy as he warmed his hands over the flame.

  Ibrahim al-Asiri was a tall thin man with a hawk nose that had been broken and badly set, giving him a villainous look that was at odds with his role as diplomat and counselor to Salah-ed-Din Ayyubi. Like Sir Guy, his counterpart in the politics of the wars here in the Holy Land, Ibrahim was a scholar, but, unlike the Frenchman, the Arab was also a mathematician of some note and the author of complex books on engineering, geometry, and algebra.

  While they ate, the two men picked up the thread of a conversation that had occupied them over many previous secret meetings.

  “I am taking the matter to a priest,” said Sir Guy. “One of the Hospitallers of my order. An old friend of the family. He is a wise and subtle man, and I think he will see the logic of our plan.”

  Ibrahim frowned. “What will happen if he does not agree with us? What will he do?”

  “Do?” laughed Sir Guy. “He would denounce me and I would be lucky to escape being publically whipped to death. My lands and fortune would be seized and I would be excommunicated.” The Frenchman waved a hand at the expression of alarm on Ibrahim’s face. “No, no, my friend, that’s what could happen, but I do not think that it will happen. I know this man.”

  “So far,” Ibrahim said, “this has all been nothing but an intellectual exercise, a discourse of a philosophical nature. Once you speak to this priest, it becomes something else.”

  “I know. With the first words I say to the priest it becomes treason and heresy.”

  They thought about that for several moments, each of them staring through the flickering fire at the future.

  “We could turn back,” suggested Ibrahim. “Now, I mean. We could finish our meal and you could ride back to your camp and I to mine, and we could never speak of this again.”

  “We could,” agreed Sir Guy.

  “If we do not, then we are irrevocably set on a course that will wash the world in blood and pain and destruction from now until the ending of time.”

  “Yes.”

  “We must be sure.”

  “I am sure,” said Sir Guy. “If you were not a heathen of a Saracen then we would drink wine together to seal the bargain.”

  “And if you were not an infidel deserving of a jackal’s death we would spit on our palms and shake upon it.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “Let us do this, then,” proposed Sir Guy. He sat forward and took a knife and held the edge of the blade in the heat of the fire. The steel grew hot very quickly. “Since flame and steel and blood are the things with which we will prove our allegiance to God and with which we will preserve His holy name here on earth, then let it be with flame and steel and blood that we seal our agreement.”

  “Our Holy Agreement,” corrected Ibrahim.

  Their eyes met across the flame.

  “Our Holy Agreement,” said Sir Guy.

  He removed the smoking blade from the fire and opened his left hand. “The Crusades and the armies of the church are the right hand of God. We will be His left hand.”

  He cocked an amused eye at Ibrahim, “And don’t tell me that your left is the hand you wipe your ass with, for I know that. No one will look there for proof of your fealty. And every time I see it I’ll laugh.”

  “You are a whore’s son and the grandson of a leper,” replied Ibrahim, but he was laughing aloud as he said it.

  Their laughter and smiles ebbed away as the edge of the blade turned from flat gray to a hellish red gold.

  “Swear it, my brother,” said Ibrahim, nodding to the blade.

  “I swear to defend the church, and to preserve it, and insure that it will endure forever. By my heart, by my hand, by my honor, and by my blood I so swear.” He set his teeth and pressed the flat of the blade into his palm. The glowing blade melted his flesh with a hiss and a curl of smoke. Sir Guy growled out in agony and then turned his cry into a ferocious prayer. “By God I swear!”

  Gasping, gray-faced, he pulled the knife away and handed it to Ibrahim, then slumped back against the pillows. Ibrahim held the blade in the flames until the fading glow flared again. Then he, too, swore by his faith and on his God as he burned his promise into his skin. Then he dropped the knife into the heart of the fire where it would eventually melt into nothingness.

  The smell of burning meat filled the tent.

  The faces of the two diplomats were greasy with sweat.

  Ibrahim held out his burned hand to his friend. “The left hand of God,” he said.

  Sir Guy grunted and leaned forward, reaching out to clasp hand to hand.

  “The left hand of God.”

  They shook and it seemed to them that all around them the world itself trembled.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The Hangar

  Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn

  June 15, 2:30 a.m. EST

  “I say we pull him,” growled Aunt Sallie. She flung herself into the leather guest chair across the desk from Mr. Church. “Pull him now before he screws everything up.”

  “Why?” asked Church. He sat back, his elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled, eyes unreadable behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. “Beyond your general dislike of Ledger.”

  “He can’t handle the knights and you damn well know it.”

  “He survived one encounter.”

  “Because some psycho bitch with a sniper rifle bailed him out. Pure luck.”

  “Ledger is lucky, Auntie. You have to admit that.”

  She snorted. “He may be, but the people around him sure as shit aren’t.”

  “That’s not entirely fair.”

  “Isn’t it? Grace Courtland? Marty Hanler? Sergeant Faraday? I could keep going.”

  “How are any of those his fault?”

  “Come on, Deke, we both know his history. Everyone who’s ever been close to him has gotten killed or hurt.”

  “Again, that’s not a fair assessment.” Church took a Nilla wafer and pushed the plate across the desk. Aunt Sallie took one and snapped off a piece with her sharp white teeth; then she pointed the other half at Church. “If we’re being fair here… then you tell me how it’s fair to leave him in play? You actually like that ass clown. Do you want
to see him torn apart?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember what happened in Stuttgart? In Florence? In-”

  “I remember, Auntie.”

  “No, I think you need to refresh your mind on what happened, Deke. The knights are tougher than they ever were. Someone or something has amped them up. They tore apart an entire Mossad team. Sixteen trained agents. Dead. Drained. Is that what you want to do here? Feed your boy Ledger to those things?”

  “Of course not. The Mossad team had no idea what they were up against.”

  “Does Ledger?” snapped Aunt Sallie, her eyes blazing.

  They regarded each other across Church’s broad desk. Aunt Sallie cocked an eyebrow.

  “That sniper chick,” she said.

  “Violin? What about her?”

  “She’s with Arklight, isn’t she?”

  “Possibly.”

  “‘Possibly,’ my ass. The number of woman snipers is pretty small, and the number of those who work the Middle East is a lot smaller. You do realize that she fits a certain profile.”

  “Yes,” he said, “that has occurred to me.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to call the Mothers?”