The Lovecraft Code

by Levenda, Peter;

  That was when Ti Frêre stopped by and dropped off another file.

  “This is the real estate record for the site that was bulldozed. It went through a coupla hands before the Chinese guy bought it.”

  “Vietnamese.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Thanks.” Cuneo looked at the paper on the lot and its dilapidated building. There were no utility bills, of course; no electric or phone, but it had indeed gone through three different owners since Katrina probably as investments that never panned out because the value of the property kept falling with each sale. It was the owner who had it at the time of the hurricane that interested him.

  Ah, there it was. A name, something to work with finally.

  Legrasse.

  Angell felt himself slipping away with each kilometer they traveled. They were in a mountainous region that might have been beautiful under other circumstances but which now was only sinister and foreboding. They were hugging a winding river, and were within a stone's throw from Pakistan. He overheard the two agents discuss how raiders from Pakistani towns would come over the border and engage with Afghan troops from time to time. He also heard how everyone in the area considered the Nuristanis to be pagans and devil-worshippers, not real converts to Islam, and how they were driving into a part of the country that even the Afghan security forces avoided. Even the Russians had avoided during the Soviet occupation. No one wants to go to Nuristan. They go because, for one reason or another, they have to. And they leave as quickly as they can.

  The road itself was a narrow, single lane dirt track that hugged the side of the mountain and threatened to pitch them into the river at every turn. Adnan's head was sticking out the window on the left-hand side, watching the wheels to make sure that they didn't stray over the edge. It was nerve-wracking and slow.

  They had passed the town of Naray on the way up, and suffered the stares of villagers as they passed. Although they were dressed like local Afghans, the villagers did not recognize the van so they knew they were strangers. Angell felt like he was living in a scene from Dracula, and it was Walpurgisnacht.

  The last ten kilometers would take at least an hour of very slow driving. The two agents in the front seats debated walking instead of driving into the town, but came to the conclusion they would rather stay with the vehicle. They saw a pickup truck precede them into the town, driving as slowly as they were, but apparently unconcerned. A local farmer, probably, judging from the pile of corn in the bed of the truck.

  And ahead of them, finally, after a very long day of driving, was Kamdesh.

  It was a town built on the side of a mountain, from what Angell could see. Mud colored houses, made of something like adobe, crawled up the mountain like a peculiar form of organic life. Suddenly, for reasons he could not explain even to himself, Angell began trembling uncontrollably. This was something other than fear. Fear had a “fight or flight” component, and this reaction had neither. This was surrender in the face of an overwhelming force. Angell felt himself giving up, and he didn't know why.

  He tried to keep his condition hidden from the other men in the van, and ignored the shaking of his legs and arms and the weird sensation of trembling in his chest. It felt as if his mind were leaving his body, as if he had already been killed, and briefly wondered if that was so: if they had been blown up or shot at or been the target of an RPG. He actually wondered if he was already dead.

  “Sir, we're here. Welcome to beautiful downtown Kamdesh.

  Now let's get the living fuck out of here, shall we?” It was Magenta, and Angell watched him check to be sure a sidearm was locked and loaded. Brown was doing the same, and had passed a nine millimeter automatic to Adnan who checked the magazine and then tucked the weapon somewhere within the folds of his Afghan costume.

  Brown and Magenta knew that Adnan spoke Farsi and Arabic, and that Angell had a working knowledge of Pashto as well. But there were a lot of dialects in this part of the world, including Dari and Urdu, so they would have to be careful. Brown and Magenta knew Dari and Pashto and spoke the languages like natives, which was the whole point. They had the thick beards and thicker attitudes they would need to pass as Afghans. They knew they couldn't pass as Nuristanis and wouldn't even try. They would say they had come from Jalalabad, but that their relatives were from Kabul. That should explain any perceived strangeness in their accents.

  The two agents already knew who they were looking for. They had been briefed by Peachy by phone and again by Adnan and Angell themselves. They were going to find the headman of the village and make their request known to him first, as was customary. Adnan and Angell were told to keep quiet and be respectful.

  And no sudden moves.

  They exited the vehicle and began walking slowly in the direction of the center of the town. People came out from their houses to watch them, but said nothing. There was an Afghan National Police building—a small adobe hut by the side of the road—but no one was there. Brown and Magenta walked point, with Angell walking slack and Adnan at the rear. Finally, a young man with blonde hair and the bluest eyes Angell had ever seen walked up to them and started chatting with the two agents.

  After a minute, Brown turned to Angell and Adnan and spoke to them in Pashto, saying they were going to see the headman.

  They followed the young man down a dirt path as Angell noticed another man, older, talking on a cell phone. It was the weirdest thing Angell had seen in a long time. A cell phone in a region that seemed to have no indoor plumbing or even electricity. He was about to say something to Adnan who knew what Angell was thinking, and whispered to him, “The word is going out that we are here. Someone, somewhere, is being notified. Let's just hope it isn't the Taliban. Stay alert.”

  There was another structure in front of them, looking pretty much like every other one in the village. They were asked to enter and as they did they saw several village elders already sitting in a half-circle on an old carpet. They looked up as the strangers walked in, and made some greetings first in Dari and then in Pashto. Brown answered for all of them. They were invited to sit down and join them for some chai.

  The thick milky tea was poured and everyone settled down and tried to get comfortable. The two agents, Brown and Magenta, introduced themselves with Afghan names and talked pleasantries, as did their hosts. No one seemed to be in a hurry to discuss why there were there.

  Angell for his part calmed himself down. He could not afford to look nervous in front of these men, and he had the mission objective firmly in mind. Well, maybe not firmly. What was firm was his determination to get out of all this alive. He sipped his chai, and looked around at the bare walls, the reddish carpet, and the long beards of the elders all around him as he listened to the conversation and tried to understand as much of it as possible.

  The Nuristanis did not like Pashtun people, whom they viewed as invaders and interlopers. They didn't like the Pakistanis, the Taliban, or Al-Qaeda. They just wanted to be left alone. So Angell and his team were taking a chance by coming into Kamdesh in the first place. But the stakes were too high and, anyway, they had what seemed like the perfect excuse: the name of the man they were coming to see and a recommendation to see him from the Zoroastrian priest in Yazd. This was an acknowledgment that there was a network of brothers and that Angell and his crew were part of that network. That made Angell feel somewhat more secure.

  Slowly, Brown and Magenta began to introduce this information into the conversation. Questions came in Dari, Pashtu and Urdu. Sometimes a mix of all three. Angell had a hard time following the dialogue between Brown and a man who seemed to be the village headman, but he heard references to the Katra more than once. The first time, there was silence among the elders as Angell could feel them appraising him and his colleagues in a new way.

  Finally, the headman stood up and the others followed, including the four foreigners. He pointed up, straight up, and said something in Dari that Angell did not understand.

  Then he pointed straight
up again. This time his meaning was clear. The man they were seeking lived on top of one of the mountains outside the town.

  Something about this didn't seem right to Angell. This was all happening too fast. But before he could say anything to any of the others he felt woozy. His vision blurred and he started to lose his balance.

  He was blacking out. His last thought before he lost consciousness was I've been drugged.

  All was darkness.

  Angell could feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing. Is this death? he asked himself. Has it finally happened?

  Then, a sound. Distant. Terrifying. A plaintive chant, a base note thrum of anti-matter that threatened to overwhelm the material world. Sounds, ideas, memories all clashing in Angell's mind, crashing on the individual, sharpened rocks of his identity like waves of dystopian visions through the untranslated scriptures of the Original People.

  Who the hell are the Original People? he asked, mentally. Where does that come from?

  And why do none of my thoughts make any sense?

  He vaguely remembered a room full of Nuristanis. A carpet. Chai. The sense of being drugged.

  That sound again. A chant. An incantation. Male voices, he realized for some reason. All the voices were male. Or almost male. Almost human. As if humans were deliberately trying to sound non-human. To make sounds that humans could not make. Was that it? It sounded vaguely Tibetan, had none of the lilting quality of Gregorian chant. Could be Middle Eastern. Can't make out the words.

  A smell now. Sharp. Pungent. He knew it. Juniper. Someone was burning juniper. Maybe he wasn't dead yet. Maybe he was being prepared for burial, though. An incense to cover the smell of decaying flesh. His flesh. His burial. Maybe he was dead, and his soul was lingering over his body. He tried to tell himself it wasn't necessary. He didn't have to stick around. What if they cut off his head? What if they cut it off and put it on a stake by the side of the road, a warning to Americans and foreigners and professors of religion that they had no fucking clue what they were doing and what they were talking about.

  If you don't understand violence, he realized with a shudder that went through him like ague, then you have no business talking about religion.

  The juniper smoke was rising all around him, but he still couldn't see. It was seeping into him somehow. His nostrils must be working. Either that, or the smoke was penetrating his body through its pores.

  A phrase came to him in his smoked-out stupor. Funny words. Lyrics to a song, maybe. Or the punch line to a dirty joke.

  Kutuluhu akhbar.

  Toodle-do akhbar. Oodles of akhbar. No.

  Kutuluhu akhbar.

  Oh, God, no. He heard his voice as if it was booming from a boombox based in the Bronx. In the Baghdad section of the Bronx. In the Bronx neighborhood of Baghdad. Jalalabad. Asadabad. Islamabad. My bad.

  Kutuluhu akhbar.

  Someone was screaming. Screaming this insane phrase! Someone was ...

  Oh, crap.

  It was him.

  He vomited, and passed out.

  A little while later, he came to. Someone had poured water over his head and clothes. Cold water. Ice cold river water from the Kunar River. How did he know that? But it was still dark, pitch dark. He shivered from the cold and tried to warm himself with his hands, but they wouldn't move. He tried again. He heard a sound. Steel. Steel on steel.

  He was shackled to something. To something metallic and cold behind him.

  He heard voices. He passed out again.

  They undid his shackles. They lifted him up by the arms. They half-dragged him to another room.

  They pulled the black woolen hood off his head so he could see. He blinked in the light of the room, which was dimly lit by candles and a kerosene lamp.

  He looked around and saw an old wooden bookcase against a white-washed wall. In the bookcase were a number of gold-embossed Qur'ans, bound in leather, a few volumes on shari'a, and some computer and technical manuals.

  The unreality of all of it made Angell believe he was still stoned, still high on something, tripping on some Kafiri kif, some Nuristani narcotic. Some Afghan horse, not the polo kind, extracted from the only crop that made Afghanistan any money at all: opium. Was that it? Was he on the nod? A Nuristani nod, courtesy of the Katra of Kamdesh?

  He couldn't keep the alliterations out of his head. They were like song lyrics he couldn't shake to a tune he couldn't hear.

  He just wanted to sleep.

  There was a commotion outside, and three or four men wandered into the room and took up positions in the corners. They were all Afghans, wearing the baggy white trousers, the white tunic that went to their knees, the dark vests, and the strange, flattened beret or turban that was their signature hat. They all had long, black beards and carried AK-47s. The smell of their gun oil was heavy on the air. A fly buzzed into the room, making the only sound, and then it abruptly stopped. There was silence.

  Into the room walked another man, rather tall and ascetic-looking beneath his turban and behind his full, black beard. His cheeks were sunken and hollow, but his eyes burned with intelligence and conviction. He sat down on the floor across from Angell and the room, if possible, became even quieter.

  He spoke in English that had traces of an Oxford accent.

  “You will be pleased to learn that your comrades are still alive and well. Their disposition will depend entirely on the outcome of this meeting. That is, on your cooperation.”

  “Where are they?” Angell managed to croak.

  “They are safe.”

  “Who are you? Are you Taliban? Al-Qaeda?”

  “My name is Omar Mansour. And that is the last question you will ask me. Your job is to answer them. First, what do you seek? Why are you here?”

  “My name is ...”

  “We know who you are, Doctor Angell. We have been tracking you for some time. We know about your famous uncle, as well. We know how he died. Murdered, wasn't he?”

  Baffled, Angell could only nod.

  “Close to the ocean ... in New England, I believe.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Yes. Almost eighty years. But you have not answered my question. What are you doing here?”

  “I am looking for a book.”

  Angell noticed the sound of shuffling behind him. Hushed voices. But only for a moment. His interlocutor watched him briefly, as if assessing him, and then replied: “A book? All this for a book? What book?” He gestured behind him at the bookcase before Angell could answer. “We have books. Many books. But the only book that really matters is al-Qur'an. Is that what you are looking for?” He smiled. “There are many Qur'ans in New York, where you live. You can buy them in Barnes and Noble, even order them on Amazon. There is no need to come to this place to find a Qur'an.”

  He leaned towards him.

  “But perhaps the book you are looking for is something haram? Something unclean? Forbidden? Like that filthy text of the Yezid?”

  Angell swallowed.

  “It is not the Black Book of the Yezidi that I seek.”

  “Then why were you seen visiting their village? Asking questions of its elders? Observing that obscenity at Kutha?”

  He didn't know how much they knew, or how much he could safely divulge. Angell was surrounded by armed men of what was probably an Al-Qaeda or Taliban cell deep in Nuristan. How had they known about his visit to the Yezidi in the refugee camp on the Turkish border, or the ritual at Tell Ibrahim in Iraq? Had he told them about all of that when he was stoned and chained to a pillar? Or was it an Al-Qaeda leader he was speaking with, someone with a network of informants throughout the East and especially here in Afghanistan?

  If he was still in Afghanistan.

  Hanging on the wall above the bookcase were swords. Two of them. Crossed. Curved scimitars. A familiar image from propaganda videos and decapitations.

  Angell suddenly had a desperate urge to use the toilet. But he calmed myself, and placed a hand over his roiling bowels, to s
ettle them. He knew he could not afford to show too much weakness now, even though he was their prisoner.

  “I am looking for another book. I had information that perhaps the Yezidi knew of it, knew where it was.”

  “What is this book? What is the title? Perhaps we have it in our library?” The last was said with a sneer, and it elicited some amused sounds from the armed men around me.

  “It is called Kitab al-Azif.”

  The silence that greeted that statement was absolute. Even outdoor sounds were suddenly absent, as if every jeep, every crying child, every braying goat, had been shushed by some cosmic power. It was a silence that had a life of its own. Angell couldn't even hear his own breath.

  His questioner spoke the next words slowly, even softly.

  “That is a strange name for a book. Do you know what it means?”

  He nodded.

  “Something to do with the sound insects make.”

  “The howling of insects, you might say, although insects do not howl. Not normally, at any rate. Why do you seek this book? What value does it have for you?”

  This could be his last day on earth. His last hour. If he answered falsely, and they knew it, he would die. Perhaps slowly, his head severed from his shoulders by inexperienced executioners with rusty blades. All those horrific video images ran through his mind of hostages beheaded by fanatics. He had no doubt that the man in front of him was just such a murderer.

  If he answered truthfully he might still die at the hands of these fanatics. He had the same to lose no matter which way he answered, but he thought his chances were marginally better if he was truthful. And, by staying alive, that meant he still had a chance to find the book and stop the imminent bloodbath from happening.

  In less than a second, Angell had made up my mind.

  “The book is important. To a lot of people. To Sunnis. To Shi'a. To the Kurds. To the Iranians. To the Saudis. Yes, even to the Americans. And to you. The book is about evil, and how to stop evil. A worse evil than any of us can imagine. I know I can imagine a great many evil deeds. This surpasses any of them. It is a book written by a man who had seen this evil and who knew how to stop it.”