Midnight At The Oasis

by Justin Gustainis

  Libby was silent herself for a bit, then she said, “I kind of liked John Wesley. He was a good guy, for the most part.”

  Morris gave her a look. “For the most part?”

  “Well, there was that time in London when he had one Scotch too many and grabbed me on the ass.”

  “You mean a couple of years ago, when we went over there on that Castor thing? You didn’t say anything at the time.”

  She tossed her head, slightly. “Didn’t seem worth mentioning, at the time.”

  “Did you slap him? You should have.”

  “No, but I did threaten to turn him into a toad if he ever did it again. That seemed to do the trick.”

  “You never turned anybody into anything in your life, Libby,” Morris said with a frown.

  “True,” she said. “But John Wesley didn’t know that.”

  Morris chuckled. The chuckle quickly turned into a laugh, and that got Libby started. The two of them stood in her kitchen, mourning the dead by laughing their asses off.

  As Morris fetched out a handkerchief to dry his eyes, he said, “Oh, John Wesley. He could be an asshole, sometimes.”

  “A good man, nonetheless,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said.

  “He died doing the work he was born to do, Quincey. The same work your family’s been doing for – what – five generations?”

  “Yeah, five, if you count the guy who died outside Castle Dracula.”

  “You once called it ‘the family business,’ and you were right. It’s what you do. It’s what we do.”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

  “And the reason we’ve survived this long has nothing to do with luck – it’s because we’re good at what we do. You and me, Quincey Jonathan Morris, we kick ass.”

  It was a full-on grin he gave her this time. “Yeah, you’re right, Elizabeth Catherine Chastain. Kicking ass is what we do.”

  She took in a big breath and let it out. “Then let’s find this fucking afreet, so we can kick its ass, too.”

  “Sounds like a plan – or it would, if we actually had a plan.”

  “I’ve got one – well, not a plan, but at least a starting point.”

  “That’s more than I’ve got, so let’s hear it.”

  She leaned against the range. “We travel so much, it’s hard to tap into any informal sources of information.”

  “There’s the Internet. We could just Google ‘afreet.’”

  “Yes, and I plan to. But that only gives us access to the public stuff. We both know that there’s some kinds of information that nobody’s going to post online. Ever. Fortunately, we have a friend who’s plugged into a lot of the private stuff. Or ‘the weird shit,’ as he likes to call it.”

  “Barry Love, everybody’s favorite occult private eye.”

  “None other. Barry might well have heard something useful – or if not, he probably knows somebody who does.”

  “It’s worth asking him, that’s for sure.” Morris reached for his phone, thought a moment, and put it back in his pocket. “No point in calling him. He doesn’t like talking on the phone unless he initiates the call. And he doesn’t have voice mail – I think he’s afraid someone will leave a curse along with his messages, or something.” He checked his watch. “He’s usually in his office late at night. Want to head over there with me, about ten?”

  Libby bit her lip for a second then said, “I can’t tonight, Quincey. I – I have a date.”

  Morris looked at her. In a flat voice he said, “Do you now.”

  Libby crossed her arms over her chest. “I have the right to a private life, Quincey.”

  “I know you do.”

  She made an attempt at a smile. “It’s just that I’m getting kind of tired getting myself off with the Hitachi all the time.”

  “That’s too much information, but I understand, Libby.”

  “Do you?”

  He shrugged. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “It’s not like I’m getting in over my head. I know how to take care of myself.”

  “I’m sure you do. And I hope you will.”

  “Count on it.”

  “Okay, then.” Morris began to walk toward the kitchen door. “I’ll see if I can catch up with Barry tonight. Give me a call at the hotel tomorrow, and I’ll let you know what I find out, if anything. Okay?”

  “Of course. Let me –”

  “It’s all right,” Morris said. “I know my way out.”

  So she stayed where she was, arms crossed, leaning against her four-burner range. A few moments later, she heard the condo’s door open and close.

  She stayed that way for several minutes, looking at nothing. Then she sighed, and went off to take a shower, her second of the day. Her lover didn’t care about body odor, but Libby had always been fastidious about such things – even when she was dating human beings.

  Ten

  MAO TSE-TUNG HAS famously written that “The guerrilla must move among the people as the fish swims in the sea.” Dr. Abdul Nasiri had read Mao, as well as Che Guevara, Frantz Fanon, and other masters of guerrilla warfare. Although he held neither the intention nor the hope of fomenting a revolt against the crusader government of the United States, Nasiri understood the value of protective coloration. That was why he had chosen Dearborn, Michigan as his base of operations.

  The ninety-eight thousand or so people who live in this Detroit suburb include at least forty thousand Arabs and persons of Arab descent. Many of them are Lebanese, whose forebears came to America in the first half of the twentieth century, drawn by the hope of employment in the auto industry. But the last fifty or so years have seen an influx of immigrants from all over the Arab world. Dearborn today constitutes the largest Arab community in the United States.

  Nasiri had dispersed his small group of jihadists around the city as they all waited for the day of vengeance. He had provided each man with money to live on, although he had encouraged them to blend in by finding jobs in the community. A man with a job does not face questions about where his money comes from.

  He had himself found employment as an adjunct faculty member at Detroit’s Wayne State University, teaching Middle Eastern history and culture to young idiots who were utterly oblivious to the fact that their privileged lives were built on the misery of a people most of them had never even heard of, let alone met. Nasiri could have cheerfully slit each of their throats – especially the females, immodest trollops who labored under the absurd delusion that they were the equal of men. He kept his rage in check by imagining the shock and sorrow that would be stamped on their faces on the day they learned of the revenge that Nasiri’s cohort had wrought upon their infidel dog country – in memory of the man known to jihadists as the Sheik, but more important, in the glorious name of Allah.

  The job at Wayne State was such perfect cover that Nasiri had violated one of the core principles of operational security, bringing his group onto enemy ground so far in advance of the strike. Proper procedure would have called for all of them to remain outside of America until the summer, to minimize the chance of discovery by the authorities – but the teaching position had been available for the spring semester, which meant it started in January. Had he waited, Nasiri might have been forced to accept employment in some menial position that would be an affront to his dignity.

  Although he kept them separated for security reasons, Nasiri liked to bring his men together from time to time, to remind them that they were united by a shared purpose and that their labors in the land of the Great Satan would soon bear glorious, bloody fruit.

  They met in a different location each time, always a public place, summoned by Nasiri’s text message on two hours’ notice. On this day the venue was Omar’s Al Shabash Restaurant, a small place on Warren Avenue, just a few blocks down from the Islamic Center of America, North America’s biggest mosque. Omar’s was rarely crowded at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and a small gratuity
to the owner guaranteed Nasiri and his friends a table far enough from the other customers to allow conversation in privacy.

  Nasiri arrived half an hour earlier than the others. This allowed him to stake out the table he wanted and to determine if anyone appeared to be taking undue interest either in him or the restaurant. If he found any reason to expect surveillance, a simple coded text to the others would instruct them to abort the meeting and expect further instructions later.

  But Nasiri saw nothing to cause him concern. The meeting would take place as planned.

  Jawad Tamwar was the next to arrive, as had been planned. He spotted Nasiri at once, but did not approach his table. Instead, receiving Nasiri’s nod, Tamwar went to the counter and purchased a kabob-to-go. He would eat it at a bench outside, watching the others arrive to see if either of them had attracted undue attention – or a tail.

  Mujab Rahim walked in five minutes later, exactly on time. He exchanged polite greetings with Nasiri and sat down, ordering a Coca-Cola from a waiter. Although Coke was available worldwide under various names, Rahim had discovered the cold, sweet beverage only recently, and had apparently developed a fondness for it. It was rare to have the opportunity to discern Rahim’s feelings about anything. The man’s thin face, with its improbably blue eyes, was always impassive, and would doubtless have remained so whether he was eating a meal, having a woman, or cutting an infidel’s throat – although Nasiri suspected, quite correctly, that Rahim would have enjoyed the latter activity far more than the others.

  Ten minutes later, Sharaf Uthman joined them. He was the oldest of the group, and he had been a practitioner of black magic for the last twenty-six of his sixty-four years. It was his magic that had circumvented the locks and alarms at the Chicago institute, allowing them to retrieve the fragment of metal said to be part of Suleiman’s Seal.

  Uthman could have magically overcome the guards that night, leaving them harmlessly unconscious for hours – but Rahim had insisted on solving the problem with his knife, and Uthman had decided not to gainsay him. Even with his abilities, the magician thought it wise to walk carefully near the empty-eyed Rahim.

  Uthman ordered a cup of black tea and sat fidgeting until it arrived. The tea was followed moments later by Jawad Tamwar, who had left his post outside now that the last of the group had arrived.

  “All is well, brother?” Nasiri asked him.

  “All is well,” Tanwar assured him, which meant neither of the other two had been followed. Tanwar ordered green tea and had just begun to sip it when Nasiri turned to Uthman, looked at him quizzically and said, “You seem ill at ease today, brother.”

  The wizard nodded glumly and said, “There is a... problem that has arisen with Rashid.”

  Rashid was the name of the afreet, as it had informed them on one of the few occasions that it had been allowed out of its lamp-prison. Since Uthman possessed magical skills – and was the only one among them who spoke the ancient Arabic dialect that was the afreet’s sole language – he had been entrusted with the creature’s care and security. In an effort to make sure the afreet would obey his commands on the day of vengeance, Uthman periodically allowed the creature to leave the lamp – after first surrounding it with a circle of salt beyond which no djinn might venture. Uthman also had the piece of Suleiman’s Seal that he had helped purloin from the museum in Chicago. That kept the afreet under his control.

  The first time Uthman had called the creature forth from the lamp, he had taken a grave risk, as he had been fully aware. If the artifact was a fake, or if for some reason the salt circle did not contain the afreet within it, Uthman could have suffered an instant, fiery death. But such was his commitment to jihad that he had taken the chance – and Allah had given him success. But that success, as he had recently learned, was not absolute.

  Nasiri was staring at him now, and the expression on that face would have frightened a lesser man. Truth be told, it made Uthman a bit uneasy, too. “You will speak to us of this ‘problem.’”

  Uthman nodded hastily. “Of course, my brother. Last night at midnight I allowed the –”

  “Rashid.” Nasiri’s voice cut in like a scimitar. “You call him Rashid.”

  “Forgive me, my brother,” Uthman said. “I allowed Rashid to venture forth from... his dwelling. As usual, he tried to bargain for his freedom...”

  Eleven

  Fifteen hours earlier

  “I WOULD GRANT thee all that thy heart desirest, o great wizard,” thundered the double-bass voice of Rashid the afreet. “All thou needst do is free me from this prison, that I may return to my own place, and my own kind. But before departing, it would please me to bring thee all good things that thou might wish.”

  They were in the garage of the small house that Nasiri had rented for Uthman in one of Dearborn’s quieter neighborhoods. Each time before summoning forth Rashid, Uthman invoked a cloaking spell to cover the inside of the garage, lest the afreet’s mighty voice should awaken the entire block.

  “I have told thee before, mighty Rashid,” Uthman said, “that I may not free thee before the task that I will set thee is complete. Elsewise, my life would be forfeit at the hands of my master, a man of fearful disposition. And I know thou art indeed powerful, but only in the matter of fire. It may be that some of thy brethren could deliver to me wealth, power, and a hareem of comely maidens. But thine own talent is to burn, and nought else. Let us not feign otherwise between us, for deceit is an offense against Allah, before whom all creatures, man and djinn alike, must be obedient and humble.”

  “Then mayest thou at least speak to me of this great task thou wouldst have me perform as the price of my freedom? Thou hast said little of it to this time, and I would know its nature.”

  “Since thy gift is for fire, then it is fire that I would have of thee. There is a great building – in this land, but far removed from here. At a day and time that has been chosen by my master, I would have thee unleash flame mighty enough to destroy this great structure, and all who may be found within it. Then thou wilt be set free, to return to thine own folk, far from the affairs of men.”

  The afreet studied him. “A great building, as thou sayest. And how many cubits doth it measure, from the ground to the sky?”

  “I cannot answer thy question in numbers of cubits. Indeed, I know not the exact length and width and height of this structure. But I have images of it that thou mayest study – behold.”

  Uthman reached into a nearby cardboard carton and removed several sheets of paper. Each was an image of the same building, but seen from different angles. Uthman had simply found them online and printed them. Many photos and artists’ renderings were freely available to anyone with an internet connection.

  There was no point in handing the papers to the afreet. For one thing, Uthman knew how unwise it would be to pass any part of his body over the ring of salt. For another, he was quite certain the paper would burst into flame the instant that the afreet touched it. So he contented himself with displaying the photos for the creature’s perusal, slowly, one after another.

  “A great structure, indeed,” Rashid rumbled. “Grander even than the Caliph’s palace in days of old. And doth each of those tiny squares thou hast shown me represent a chamber where a man might dwell?”

  Uthman realized that Rashid was referring to the building’s many windows, which could be seen in the photos. The structure was going to be used for commerce, not apartments or condos, but Uthman saw no reason to confuse the issue.

  “Aye, great Rashid. Each of those shows a single chamber. The building is perhaps one of the largest to be found in this land of infidels.”

  “Then I must tell thee that what thou askest is not within Rashid’s power. I will be unable to do thy bidding and make of this building a tower of flame.”

  “What! Do not defy me, disobedient one. Thou wilt serve my will on the appointed day, lest I smite thee unbearably!”

  As long as the afreet remained under his control, Uthman could use h
is magical ability to cause the creature great pain, as he had demonstrated the first time he had summoned it forth from the lamp – just to make clear who was in charge.

  “Smite me as thou wilt. It changes nought. I do not defy thee, o mighty wizard. Rather, I am unable to carry out the task which thou hast set me.”

  “But thou art Rashid the Mighty, before whom the whole earth once trembled!”

  “Aye, ’twas once true – all who looked upon Rashid feared him, and with reason. But I have been confined within the lamp for many centuries, without nourishment. It shames Rashid to say that he has grown weak with the passage of so much time.”

  Uthman’s mind raced. If he reported to Nasiri that the afreet would not carry out vengeance on the crusaders as had been planned for so long, Uthman’s life would almost certainly be forfeit. Nasiri would either disbelieve him, and kill Uthman for incompetence – or he would believe Uthman, and realize that the wizard was of no further use to him. Either assessment would mean Uthman’s death, and that end might be neither quick nor painless. Nasiri had been known to be vindictive when his plans were thwarted.

  But then, as Uthman contemplated what Rashid had just told him, he realized the full implications of the afreet’s words.

  “Thou hast said that thy power has diminished for want of nourishment, o mighty Rashid. Would thy strength be restored to its full glory if such nourishment were provided to thee?”

  The afreet considered the question, or pretended to. “Aye, such a thing might well be. If Rashid is fed, Rashid may grow strong again, and hence be able to fully perform thy will on the fateful day.”

  Uthman had the sinking feeling that whatever food the afreet needed would not be available at his neighborhood Kroger, but there was only one way to find out.

  “Then say unto me, o great djinn – what food must thou have to regain thy power, which once made the very earth quake in fear?”