Greer took the phone and, leaning his weight against the side of the stove, said, “Captain Derek Greer.”
There was a pause, then a man with a slight foreign accent—maybe Middle Eastern—said, “Mr. al-Kalli received your letter.”
Greer instinctively straightened up.
“And he would like to discuss it with you.”
Greer’s mind was racing. He’d always thought he’d be prepared for this call, but that was when he’d expected it to come in on his cell phone.
“How’d you get this number?” he finally said.
“Mr. al-Kalli likes to know everything he can about the people he deals with.”
Now Greer knew perfectly well why they’d used this number, and why the guy had been chatting up his mother. It was classic technique—come at your enemy from the quarter they don’t expect, catch them off guard, and let them know you’re already way ahead of them in the game. Greer needed to do something to show that he wasn’t thrown off balance.
“This is Jakob, right?” The man he’d given the box to in Iraq. “Glad to see you made it out of that hellhole alive.”
“That’s right,” the man replied. “And yes, that was a very dangerous place.” He said it in a friendly enough tone, but Greer still thought it sounded like he was saying, “This could be a very dangerous place, too.”
There was a silence on the line, and in the apartment, for that matter; his mother had shut off the TV, and if Greer had to bet, she was eavesdropping on every word he said from her easy chair.
“Why hasn’t Mr. al-Kalli himself called?” Greer asked. “He’s the one I need to talk to.”
“And you will. Would you be free this afternoon?”
Greer knew he didn’t have to check his busy schedule—all he had on for today was some physical therapy at the VA, but Indira would be just as glad not to see him there. “Sure. What time?”
“About three? I’ll pick you up there.”
Alarm bells went off in Greer’s head. The last thing he was going to do was get into al-Kalli’s car, with this guy driving. If he didn’t wind up in the river, he’d be fed to that creature up in Bel-Air. “No, that’s not gonna work,” Greer said.
“Fine.” It sounded like Jakob had known it wouldn’t. “What do you suggest?”
Greer had already given this a lot of thought, but he’d never been able to decide on the perfect spot. It had to be public, it had to be outside, and it had to have a lot of people around, no matter what time of day it was. The best he’d been able to come up with was the Santa Monica Pier. At the roller coaster ride. For want of anything better, he suggested it now.
“Three o’clock,” Jakob repeated, and then the line went dead.
Greer hung up, and a few seconds later, his mother, who had plainly been listening in, came back and said, “Well? What did he want?”
“They’re doing a survey,” he said, turning the burner back on. “They want to know how we’re adjusting to civilian life.”
“No. Really? I couldn’t help but overhear you; you were making a plan for later today.”
He slapped some cheese between two slices of bread and laid it in the pan. “It’s a survey, I told you. Some of it you have to fill out in person.”
She still stood there, not believing him.
“That’s it, okay?” He tended to the sandwich. “I don’t suppose we’ve got any no-fat pickles around, do we?”
EARLlER THAN HE had to, he left for the rendezvous point. He left his Mustang down below, right near the parking lot exit in case he needed to make a quick getaway, and then walked up and onto the pier. The whole place was one long, noisy, crowded amusement park, lined with arcades and rides and concession stands, and it was, as Greer knew it would be, mobbed with tourists and beachgoers. The roller coaster was out toward the ocean end, and he could hear the screams of the riders even before he saw it. A bunch of kids were already lined up next to the iron railing, waiting for the next run. Right now, the thing was hurtling around a sharp turn just overhead, the wheels clattering loudly on the wooden tracks.
Greer leaned against the railing and started to light a cigarette. He hadn’t even put the match down before a lady with a broom and a trash bin on wheels said, “No smoking on the pier.”
He took a puff anyway, then ground the cigarette underfoot. She waited till he was done, then swept it up and into the bin—but not before giving him a glare. Goddamn state, Greer thought. You couldn’t smoke anywhere anymore. Pretty soon they’d be telling you that you couldn’t smoke in your own apartment.
The roller coaster swooped down behind him, and even though this was the place Greer had said al-Kalli should meet him, he moved off a few yards, to the relative shelter of one of those quickie photo booths. A couple of teenagers were inside, and he could tell from their shrieks and cries that the girl was flashing her boobs at the camera while the guy egged her on.
Greer checked his watch; he was still a few minutes ahead of time. He meandered over to the side of the pier and looked out over the ocean. Gulls were idly soaring on the breeze, and you could see Catalina Island, lying like a sleeping beast, on the horizon. Greer had gone there once, when he was a kid; it was a school trip, and he remembered that there were buffalo. The herd had been brought out, a long time ago, when silent movies—westerns—had been shot out there. He remembered wondering, at the time, if he could go back and work as a cowboy there one day. Man, that was a long time ago.
He checked his watch again; he didn’t want to be late, but now that he gave it some more thought, it wouldn’t look good to be there too early, either. It would make him look too nervous, or eager. He’d been going over his strategy a thousand times—what he was going to say, how he was going to say it. He was going to start off sounding reasonable, reminding al-Kalli of the great job he’d done for him in Iraq, and the grave injuries he’d suffered while doing it. He’d even resolved to make his limp a little more pronounced than usual. But at the same time, he wanted to be sure that he didn’t come off as weak or beholden in any way; he wanted al-Kalli to know that he, Captain Derek Greer, was a force to be reckoned with.
At three sharp, he went back to the roller coaster. They were just boarding another bunch. Greer moved out of the way and saw al-Kalli coming toward him, with Jakob close behind. A lot of other people saw him, too, and several stood back to watch him pass. It wasn’t often that you saw, out here on the pier, a bald man in a cream-colored linen suit with a scarlet pocket square and gleaming alligator shoes, strolling toward you with an ebony walking stick in one hand.
Even Greer was impressed—which he knew he shouldn’t be. The second he started feeling inferior, the game was lost.
“Captain Derek Greer?” al-Kalli said as he approached. He smiled and put out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”
Greer took his hand, and noted that al-Kalli’s was cool and dry, while his was warm and damp. Again, not good.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“No, I just got here myself,” he said, and when al-Kalli smiled again, Greer thought, Damn, he knows I just lied.
Al-Kalli looked around, as if appraising the pier and its attractions. “I’ve never been here before.”
No shit, Sherlock, was what Greer thought. But what was it with this English accent? That night when Greer had crept into the zoo, he’d been too far away to hear what al-Kalli was saying. And though he’d been expecting him to sound like an Arab, or have trouble speaking the language at all, he sounded instead like that guy who played Lawrence of Arabia in the movies.
“Shall we take a look around?” al-Kalli said, as if he actually cared, and before Greer could reply, he’d sauntered off toward some of the other rides. Greer of necessity tagged along, with Jakob, in wraparound shades and a short-sleeved shirt that conveniently revealed his powerful arms, bringing up the rear. Greer wasn’t sure how he’d imagined this playing out—maybe the two of them standing over by the ocean railing, speaking s
oftly, in private, while the gulls wheeled above?—but this was definitely not it. Suddenly Greer felt he wasn’t in control of the situation at all; worse, he felt like some poor relation who’d foolishly invited a big shot to meet him at some dive.
“Reminds me of a place called Brighton Beach,” al-Kalli said. “Ever been to Great Britain, Captain Greer?”
“No, not yet,” Greer replied, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.
“It’s just as tacky as this, but it lacks the California sun.”
Greer knew that he had to take charge, or else al-Kalli would just keep snowing him with this bullshit. Setting himself squarely in front of al-Kalli, and using the line he had practiced at home, he said, “Have you had time to consider my proposal?”
But at home he had never imagined it getting a laugh. “Why,” al-Kalli said, “are we getting married?”
Jakob snorted, too, and Greer felt even more like a fool.
“In business,” al-Kalli advised him, “never appear too eager.”
Christ, Greer thought, he’s giving me blackmail advice. Al-Kalli stopped in front of one of the Skee-Ball booths and watched as a fat kid with a Lakers T-shirt hanging down to his knees rolled ball after ball up the alley.
“You sell yourself short,” al-Kalli finally said, without even bothering to look at Greer—who had no idea how to take that remark. How could he have asked for too little? He hadn’t even mentioned an actual price in the letter.
“Why stoop to blackmail when you have proven yourself, up until now, so resourceful?”
The kid in the Lakers shirt, unhappy with his final score, kicked the booth and stomped off, brushing past Greer like he wasn’t even there. Greer was starting to wonder if the kid was right.
Al-Kalli had moved on, too, strolling with his cane in hand toward the bumper car rink. Greer caught up to him again at the rail.
“I know, for instance, how you gained entrance to my estate,” al-Kalli said, his eyes riveted on the bumper cars careening around the course. “And that’s been taken care of. But what, precisely, did you see? And how much do you really know? Your letter was somewhat vague on these points.”
Now, Greer thought, they were finally getting down to brass tacks. “I saw enough,” Greer replied, ever conscious of Jakob hovering just out of earshot.
“Enough for what?”
One of the bumper cars banged up against the rubber wall in front of them, and then got smacked by two others from either side.
Al-Kalli finally turned to face him, and his eyes glittered like beetles in the afternoon sunlight. “You don’t seriously believe I would pay you hush money, do you?”
Greer was speechless.
“It would never end. I’d have you showing up with your hand out for the rest of my life.” He turned his gaze back toward the bumper cars. “No, I’d much sooner have you killed.”
“You could try,” Greer said.
Al-Kalli laughed again. “Please, Captain, we both know your car—the green Mustang, with the cracked window, parked by the exit ramp—could easily have been wired by now. I could be done with you by nightfall.”
This was not going at all as Greer expected. Maybe he should have mentioned an actual figure in the letter. Maybe al-Kalli thought he was going to be unreasonable, and yes, keep showing up for more money. But Greer wasn’t like that; he was a man of his word. If he asked for a million, he’d take the million and then he’d be gone. Hadn’t al-Kalli seen, from his actions in Iraq, that he was as good as his word?
“So what are you suggesting?” was all Greer could come up with. He felt that he needed time to fall back and regroup, but he wasn’t going to get any.
Al-Kalli was already moving on, toward the video game arcade. The racket emanating from its doors was unbelievable.
“A job.”
A what? Greer thought he might not have heard him correctly over the din. “What did you say?”
“Clearly, I need help with my security,” al-Kalli conceded. “I’ve fired the gatekeeper, fired the Silver Bear company, and you, as it happens, are already compromised. I can either employ you or . . .” He shrugged, as if to suggest the Mustang could still blow sky high.
Greer was dumbfounded. He caught Jakob staring at him from a few yards off. Did he know what was going down?
“But you will need to tell me now,” al-Kalli said, “so I can make my plans accordingly.”
The bells and chimes and buzzers and whistles going off in the video arcade made it hard even to think. But Greer knew he had to.
Al-Kalli started to walk away, idly rapping the end of his walking stick on the wooden boards underfoot. Jakob followed him, and turned toward Greer as he passed him by.
Greer stood where he was, unsure of what to say or do.
They were fifteen or twenty feet away, before Greer, who felt himself suddenly fresh out of options, said, “Okay.”
But they didn’t stop or turn around, and for all he knew they hadn’t even heard. So he had to swallow his pride and shout, “Okay!” after them.
They were just disappearing around the corner of the next concession, on their way back toward the parking lot.
“Okay!” he shouted again, and a bunch of kids gave him a funny look. “I’ll take it!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
WE WERE TWENTY-FIVE days with barely enough food and water to sustain us, and in the dead of night, when we most needed his help, Peter the Hermit fled our camp, with William, Viscount of Melun, known to us as the Carpenter because of the axe he wielded so prodigiously in battle. The next day, the Frankish lord Tancred pursued and recaptured them, and upon their return they were made to give their public oath that they would not again abandon the cause of Christ and our pilgrimage.
Beth knew that the scribe’s account was true; she had checked the standard historical texts, and Peter’s desertion was well recorded in the annals of the First Crusade. As was the scribe’s account of the siege of Antioch, which immediately followed.
Though the walls of Antioch had been breached, the inner citadel and its defendants still resisted, and we found ourselves besieged in turn by a mighty army led by Kerboga, the Prince of Mosul, and twenty-eight Turkish emirs. We were offered but two choices—servitude or death—and so, under the Banner of Heaven we went forth to meet the enemy. It was in the first hours of that battle that I was made prisoner, and while those in my company fell to the curved blade of the Saracen, I was spared by the Grace of God and by the peculiar skills of my hand. A commander of the infidels, judging by my tools that I was capable of both art and writing, ordered that I be taken not as a prisoner, but as an honored guest, to his palace. It is here that I write these last words, tomorrow to become but blood sport in the garden of this dread ruler, once my patron and now my executioner, the Sultan Kilij al-Kalli.
Even though she might have expected it, Beth was still stunned at seeing the al-Kalli name. Mohammed had not been mistaken; The Beasts of Eden had indeed been created, nearly a thousand years before, for one of his direct ancestors. Despite the remarkable odds against it, it had been successfully passed down for countless generations within the family, and preserved in miraculous condition—though only now, and to her, had it yielded these terrible secrets.
“Which tie should I wear?” Carter said, coming out of the closet with two different ones draped around his neck, and laughed when he saw Beth, still sitting on the edge of the bed in her underwear, utterly absorbed in the pages. “You’re worse than I am,” he said. “You’ve got to get dressed or we’ll be late.”
She heard him, but she just couldn’t change her focus quite yet.
“Beth?” he said. “Earth to Beth? It’s six forty-five.”
“You won’t believe what I just read,” she said, and then she told him about the mention of the Sultan Kilij al-Kalli’s name.
“Mohammed will be glad to hear about it,” Carter said, “if we ever get there.”
She laid the printouts on the bed.
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“Tie?” he reminded her.
“Oh—the one with the blue stripes.”
“Of course, that all depends,” he called out from the bathroom where he’d gone to put on the striped tie, “on whether or not you decide to tell him about your little discovery.”
That very question had been tormenting Beth; on the one hand, she hadn’t yet been able to get the whole thing translated, and she didn’t want to share what she had found until she absolutely knew what she had found. On the other hand, The Beasts of Eden did not belong to her; it belonged to Mohammed al-Kalli, and he had the right to know everything there was to know about it.
She could not put off telling him for very much longer.
She quickly finished dressing—a simple black dress, heels, a strand of pearls her aunt had bequeathed to her—and left Robin with all her final babysitting instructions. Joey was in his playpen, absorbed in his toys. Although they drove to Bel-Air in Beth’s car, a white Volvo that was a little newer (and a lot cleaner) than Carter’s Jeep, Carter took the wheel and Beth navigated. Once or twice they had to stop and consult their Thomas Guide.
“Dark up here, isn’t it?” Carter said, as Beth confirmed that they were to bear to the left, and not the right.
Beth was surprised at it, too. They’d only been in L.A. for less than a year, and nothing so far had taken them into the heady precincts of upper Bel-Air. She felt as if they’d been driving up and away from the rest of the city, from all the ordinary people, like themselves, who led ordinary lives, and she imagined a celebrity or studio head or tycoon of one kind or another behind every towering hedge or shuttered pair of gates.
The houses up here were getting fewer and farther between, and most of the time all you could really see was the tip of a gable, the hint of a roofline, or, now and again, the back fence of a tennis court.
“Al-Kalli’s should be at the very crest,” Beth said, putting down the map. For the distance of several blocks already, the street had felt more like a private drive, and straight ahead they could now see a lighted gatehouse. As they pulled up, a squat Asian man in a blue uniform checked their name off the invitation list and told them to follow the drive—but slowly. “The peacocks sometimes stand in the road,” he said.
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