Silver ota-1

by Steven Savile

  The toad shook his head. “On the contrary. They tked plenty. They begged. They pleaded. They swore blind they didn’t know anything. It was all we could do to stop them talking. Unfortunately they were telling the truth. They had nothing of use to say. We had hoped that by taking one of them we might work our way up the chain, get the name of his contact, track down the next man in the line, bring him in, break him, get the name of his contact and so on. It didn’t work out quite like that.” The toad licked his lips nervously. She was naturally uneasy about people who licked their lips. It was a furtive thing, a reflex that smacked of nervousness. “The first name on our list was found floating in the Yarkon estuary the morning after we brought his man in. It was a quite literally a dead end.”

  Orla nodded again. It made sense that someone would be making sure they kept their house clean. Given the nature of the Shrieks, either the disciple himself, or more likely, his right hand, would have seen to it that Schnur’s men couldn’t simply kill their way up the chain to the top.

  “This is all very interesting, but, and forgive me for being blunt, Gavrel, how exactly does this all link up with our two Akim Caspis?”

  “A few days ago I would have said it didn’t,” the toad admitted, shifting in his seat again. She pitied the chair. “I wasn’t even sure it did until you showed me that photograph of your man. Then, as they say, it all became clear.”

  “You recognize him?”

  The toad nodded slowly, as though deciding how much it was reasonable to share. “I do,” he said. “He was one of us.”

  Now that had her attention. “You mean Intelligence?”

  Gavrel nodded again. And again the gesture was painfully slow and drawn out, as though it physically hurt him to share even that much. “Now he calls himself Mabus. When I knew him his name was simply Solomon. He was Akim Caspi’s protege.” He looked at the photograph of the Masada dig again. “The fool took him under his wing, taught him everything he knew. I think he saw him as the son he never had. It is a common flaw among childless men of a certain age. Curious that Solomon chose to pass himself off as Akim. This was taken when?”

  “Around two months after the real Akim Caspi died,” she said. “It was taken at an archeological excavation at Masada after the ’04 earthquake.”

  “Meaning, if I understand you right, two months before these mysterious payouts from Humanity Capital began?”

  She nodded.

  “Curious.”

  “You could say that,” she agreed, “but I’m still not seeing how this all ties together. I feel like I am missing something obvious, something staring me right in the face.”

  “From here on, what I am about to tell you is pure conjecture. It has no basis in fact. I have no real reason for believing it, but I do. I believe Mabus is not merely a self-styled Disciple of Judas, but rather he is the First Disciple, the man who stands above them all. That he should be reborn at Masada, well, perhaps that is not so surprising. How much do you know of the place?”

  “Some,” Orla said, leaving it to the Israeli to work out for himself what she did and didn’t know.

  “For a while Masada was a Roman fortress, then it was occupied by a group who called themselves Sicarii. They wanted to expel the Romans and their partisans from Judaea. One could argue it is the same fight we are having today, but isn’t that always the way? People fight about territory. Anyway, the Sicarii were dagger men, assassins. That’s where the name comes from in point of fact. Sicae is Latin for dagger. Sicarii, men of the dagger. They were forerunners of the Arab Hashshashin. Patient killers. They worked their way close to their target, ingratiating themselves into their service, becoming trusted friends. Confidants. Allies. They would become indispensable to the Roman generals they sought to kill. They worked away in the background. Then, when the guard was down, they struck and faded away into the chaos of the murder scene, often calling for help for the dying man and holding him like the friend they were supposed to be.

  “Does any of this sound familiar? It ought to. It is the story of Judas, or at least a version of it, after all. Even his name Iscariot is interpreted by some scholars as a Hellenized transformation of sicarius. The suffix — ot could be interpreted as denoting his belonging to the Sicarii. Of course, it’s only a theory, but it is a theory that is supported by the knowledge that Menahem ben Jair and his brother Eleazar, the last known leaders of the Sicarii, were the grandsons of Judas. And, interestingly enough, the brothers died together at Masada in AD 73 when the entire sect committed mass suicide rather than be captured by the Romans. So why wouldn’t Masada be the perfect place for the first Disciple of Judas to be reborn? There’s a certain sick symmetry to it.” He shook his head.

  Orla didn’t really understand half of what he had said. She had stopped listening halfway through when something the toad had said had derailed her train of thought. Something wasn’t right about this.

  “Mabus has been their mouthpiece for the last five years. He is the one obsessed with taking terror to a new level in this country. He makes hate films and distributes them via the Internet. They call it Viral Fear. In them he claims responsibility for attacks in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Gaza and along the West Bank. He taunts us openly. He goads our investigators as we hunt his people. Last year they instigated a one-of-them-one-of-us policy.

  “After we captured their two men, they snatched two of my men, good men, and showed their beheadings on the Internet. It makes me sick what this man does. I watch the filth he spreads, and it makes me want to crush his windpipe with my bare hands, Miss Nyren. As I am sure you appreciate, I am not a violent man. For Mabus I would make an exception. For Mabus, I would get blood on my hands. What frightens me most, though, is not the films or the beheadings-we all know the risks when we enter this line of work. No, what frightens me most is he knows us; he knows how we think, because he was one of us.”

  Orla understood that all too well. No one wanted an enemy who shared their mindset and knew the ins and outs of their protocols. It meant he could anticipate every response, every action, and compensate for it. It wasn’t just that it gave him an advantage; it was as though he could reach into their minds and pluck out each and every measure and countermeasure even before the first strike had been made. It made their enemy omnipotent. Godlike. But what she didn’t understand was how the toad knew it was him.

  Gavrel Schnur reached down and opened one of the drawers in the pedestal legs of his desk. He pulled out a dossier marked “Mabus.” He flipped it open and laid it down on the desk between them. “We never found the man responsible for my old friend’s death,” the toad said. “But now,”-he tapped the photograph on the table with a thick stubby finger-“I think we have. I think I am finally beginning to understand a lot of things that have bothered me for a long time, Miss Nyren, and for that I thank you.

  “Now, I believe I have upheld my end of the bargain and told you all we know of the Shrieks.” He pushed the folder across the table toward her. “It should prove interesting reading, if nothing else. This is every last scrap of information we have gathered on Mabus and his people. It’s yours. I wasn’t sure what arrangements had been made for your stay, so I took the liberty of booking a junior suite for you at the Dan Tel Aviv. It’s one of the nicest hotels in the city, with a stunning view of the water. And I really do mean stunning. I’m not just quoting a line from the sales brochure.” He chuckled at that. “I don’t know about you, but I appreciate a little space when I travel.” The toad cupped both sides of his pendulous belly with his hands and wobbled it. It was an oddly self-deprecating gesture. “But, don’t get me wrong, there’s ng quite so enjoyable as a little bit of indulgence, either.

  “Take the dossier, digest it. There is much in there. I will arrange for Sokol to collect you in the morning. If there’s anything you don’t understand, or want to go over, we’ll pick it up tomorrow. How does that sound?”

  Orla took the folder from the table and slipped it straight into her bag, as though
she was afraid he might change his mind and take it away from her. She couldn’t imagine someone in a similar position in MI5 making the same offer. Perhaps she had misjudged the toad? “That is most considerate of you,” she said. “All of it. Obviously I hadn’t had the chance to think about where I was going to sleep tonight, so thank you. A bit of pampering is exactly what the doctor ordered.”

  “Think nothing of it. You have flown a long way to solve the riddle of my friend’s murder. It is the least I can do to thank you. I am told the shiatsu massage is to die for. I wouldn’t know, personally. It has been a long time since I allowed anyone to touch my body.” His eyes momentarily drifted toward the model car on the bookshelf.

  She understood.

  She started to stand, realizing that her meeting with the toad was over.

  “One last thing, if you would,” Gavrel Schnur said, looking up at her. “Before you go, perhaps you might tell me why this thorn in my side was prickly enough to draw you to my city?”

  He’s good, she thought. He’d saved his fishing expedition until the very last moment and she was on her way out of the door. It was all about catching her off balance. She continued to rise, pushing the chair out behind her. The chair legs grated on the floor. She smiled at the sound; it was a petty rebellion that said he wasn’t going to get it all his own way. Gavrel Schnur wanted to know what they knew. It was as simple as that. He’d revealed their hand, and now, to continue the poker analogy, he was calling her.

  She wasn’t about to lay all of her cards on the table though, not yet. Nothing had changed since she walked in to the toad’s lair. In this world information was still hard currency. It was that simple. He might have just given her a small fortune, or he might have tried to pass off a few counterfeit notes. Without checking out the file Orla had no way of knowing. Of course, to sell her the deal, he was pressing for something in return now. He didn’t want to wait. Quid pro quo.

  “Let me read this tonight,” Orla tapped her bag. She kept her voice neutral, light, and made sure she didn’t allow her doubts to creep into her tone. She didn’t want to offend the toad, but neither did she want to tell him everything that she knew.

  She reached the door and turned back toward the fat man, deciding, as her hand closed around the door handle, to offer him a little something to whet his enormous appetite. “We believe that this man you call Mabus could be behind the deaths of those people in the photograph with him.” She didn’t say how they had died, or what it was about their deaths that had brought it to Sir Charles’ attention. If Gavrel was as good as she suspected, he already knew and was just looking for confirmation. That, too, was the nature of information in this clandestine world of deceit, half-truths, shadows and eavesdropping. “It’s a link we are very interested in following up. When we get together tomorrow perhaps we can compare notes?”

  “I’d like that very much, Miss Nyren,” the toad said.

  18

  The Water Washes Away Her Soul

  Orla didn’t check into the junior suite at the Dan Tel Aviv.

  There was something about the offer that just didn’t sit right with her. She couldn’t put her finger on why it felt off, but try as she might she couldn’t imagine a British spy-master being so considerate or so extravagant. That was enough for her.

  Instead she crossed the port and used her “flexible friend” to check into the Dan Panorama.

  She had no luggage, but the porter insisted on accompanying her all the way to the room, then held his hand out expectantly. She tipped the guy, apologizing that she didn’t have any local currency. He assured her it wasn’t a problem. The air conditioning was on, and the TV screen welcomed her to the Dan Panorama and hoped she enjoyed her stay. The wide windows looked out over the crystal blue water. The balcony door was half open and inviting. She went out onto it and stood there for a full five minutes, hands braced on the balcony rail, just drinking in the incredible view.

  The suite itself was three rooms, a lounge area with two small couches arranged around the flat screen TV and a coffee table. A varied selection of magazines from Business Today to Architectural Monthly, What Photo? and Harper’s were fanned out across the coffee table, light reading for every possible palette. A luxurious robe hung on the back of the door. She ran a hand over its thick plush. Behind the couches was a nicely proportioned dining area. On the table there was a full bowl of fruit stacked high with everything from apples, oranges and grapes to kiwi fruits, guava and papaya. The cooler was stocked with miniature bottles of champagne, San Pellegrino, orange juice, Absolut Vodka, a decent half-bottle of both red and white wine, the usual bags of nuts and enough chocolate for even the sweetest tooth.

  She pulled her blouse off, glad to feel the air on her skin, and threw it onto the nearest of the two couches.

  She rooted around inside her bag for her cell phone and called in. It was a short conversation; she updated Lethe on what she had unearthed, which, when it came to spelling it out, was very little. The Disciples of Judas, that name again, Mabus, a history lesson and a lot of dead ends. Gavrel Schnur hadn’t said anything about Masada or why the real Akim Caspi had been murdered. She hoped the truth was inside the Mabus dossier, but somehow she didn’t thint was. Truth was an alien concept in this city.

  She hung up on Lethe and went through to the bedroom.

  It was like something out of A Thousand and One Nights. The bed was covered in sumptuous silks and piled with a dozen pillows. The furniture was rich, black wood, handcrafted with incredible detail. It looked more like a rich man’s brothel than a hotel room.

  She put the dossier down on the nightstand, kicked off her shoes, pushed away more than half of the pillows, and lay back on the huge bed.

  The mattress fashioned itself to her shape, cocooning her in its soft embrace. A ceiling fan rotated lazily in the heat. Unlike a cheap motel where the fan would have driven her insane with its irritating background groans, this one was oiled precision. She couldn’t rest. She felt itchy in her own skin. After two minutes lying on her back she pushed herself up off the bed. She felt exhaustion sweeping up to meet her thoughts, but she didn’t want to sleep yet. She needed to think. She went through to the bathroom and started to run a bath instead.

  Orla set the lights down low and emptied an expensive bottle of bath salts and luxury foam into the water, swirling it around with her hand until it started to bubble up. On the way back out of the bathroom she set the air conditioning to bring the temperature down to a comfortable 68.

  In the bedroom she stripped out of her clothes. They smelled like she had been wearing them for two thousand miles. Naked, she stretched, bending her back supine and cracking the vertebrae by leaning first left and then right. She walked across the room to the phone and made arrangements for the maid service to collect her clothes and have them laundered and ready for the morning.

  On the wall in the bedroom, there was a motion-sensitive Bang and Olufsen surround sound system. Orla waved her arm across the onyx face, amazed at the luxury money could buy, and the case opened up. The hotel room was better equipped than her entire flat. It ought to have been for the best part of a thousand bucks for the night. Schnur had been right about one thing, sometimes a girl did want a bit of pampering. Inside the surround system, instead of a CD player there was a four-inch touchscreen that listed the various genres preloaded onto the rig. She set it on ’80s shuffle, adjusted the volume and set the speakers to the bathroom, and went back through to the bath. The bubbles in the water were close to overflowing and the mirrors were blind with steam. She turned off the taps, moved the largest of the towels to within reaching distance of the tub, and sank into the suds.

  la closed her eyes and savored the stinging heat on her bare skin.

  Haircut 100 sang “Fantastic Day” to her through the small speakers set into the tiled wall on either side of the fogged mirror. It didn’t feel fantastic, unless the meaning of the word had been changed to never-ending. She let the water wash over her, cl
eansing her skin. The tiredness threatened to take her under. She scooped up a handful of suds and massaged them into her arms. She slid down so the water rose up over her face, holding her breath while she counted to twenty in her head, then came up, shaking the suds out of her hair like a dog. She popped her ears, working the water out of them with her little finger. Then she soaped herself thoroughly, just enjoying the feel of the lather forming on her skin. Again she submerged, letting the water rinse her clean. When she came up again the song had changed. Duran Duran were “Hungry Like The Wolf.”

  Then she heard someone moving about in the other room. Her first instinct was panic. She knew she had locked the door. But then she remembered the laundry. The maid service had master keys. She shouted above the music, “The clothes are on the bed!”

  She lathered shampoo in her hands, then worked it into her hair, massaging it in all the way down to the roots, then slipped beneath the surface again. She worked her fingers through her hair over and over while she held her breath. The lather formed a film on across the surface. She came back up for breath, then submerged again.

  Something had been bothering her ever since she left the toad’s office. It wasn’t just that he’d taken the liberty of booking her a room in the Dan Tel Aviv. That could have been old-fashioned human kindness. It was something else. She couldn’t say what it was, just that something, some nagging doubt, chipped away at the back of her mind. Something he had said or something he hadn’t. She rose to the surface again, letting the breath leak out of her mouth and nose. She inhaled and exhaled five times, slowly, then went under again. It was like one of those elaborate finger puzzles that had been popular when she was younger, where you put your fingers in at either end, and the harder you tried to pull them out, the more stubbornly the trap clung to them. She worried away at it, but her mind refused to make the connection.