by Vince Milam
“Folks, let me start off with some tactical considerations,” said Cole. He thought it best to avoid the initial conversation devolving into spiritual definitions and arguments between Nadine and Francois. Cole had very real concerns about geography. Syria created a different and gnarly dimension.
“He’s in Syria,” Cole continued. “Before we talk about him and the options for addressing him, let’s focus on his location.”
Francois and Nadine nodded in agreement. Francois lit a smoke and crossed his legs. Muffled kitchen sounds floated across the room as their drinks arrived. The fresh herb-laced smells of an Italian cucina filled the place.
“Now, Nadine, you can expand on this with more detail, but from what I know, Syria is messed up beyond imagination. It’s about as dangerous as it gets for hardened operatives, which we aren’t,” said Cole, pausing to take a sip. “So just as a reality check, what will we be able to do down there? As far as moving around without getting killed.” He stopped at this point, wanting to talk through the first stumbling block to their progress.
“Syria is a horrible mess,” said Nadine. “Constant civil war. Tribe against tribe, clan against clan, religious sect against religious sect. Now it’s spread into other countries. This ISIS group wants to establish a caliphate in the region. There isn’t a more dangerous place on the earth.”
They remained silent while the appetizers of various antipasti arrived. Francois then had his say on the subject. “We may wish to consider it a test. A test of our resolve. Our commitment.”
“Okay, let’s put a pin in Syria for the moment and talk about commitment,” said Nadine. “What exactly do we commit to? Moloch’s physical makeup aside, what do we hope to accomplish. Let’s pretend Moloch lands in downtown Houston. So what? What’s the end game?”
“Ah,” said Francois. He smiled, eyes closed, chewing on a mouthful of tapenade. The man clearly enjoyed his food. “Again so quickly to the heart of the matter. I must become more comfortable with this from Americans. Perhaps there is no end. Perhaps each time should be viewed as an experience to build upon. And from these experiences we can develop a way to destroy such evil when encountered.”
That had no end game, for damn sure. Cole shook his head, saying, “Yesterday was a pretty big experience. I don’t want any more of those.”
“It is quite personal,” said Francois. “Each of us has reasons to pursue or go home. For myself, I must continue. It is my path. Is this creature the only one? Of course not. But this creature is the one I know. Can I defeat him? This, I still do not know. But I do not fear him. I do know Moloch fears God. I do know he cannot stand against the power of God.” Francois paused to wipe his mouth, took a deep drag and stubbed out his smoke, and finished with a sip of Pernod. “We all stand at a point, a crossroads, where each of us must decide. If I may suggest, look in your heart.”
Cole appreciated this approach. It would help to talk it out.
“And what does your heart tell you, Francois?” asked Nadine.
Cole was impressed. Her tone and expression had changed. Gone was her usual sardonic approach toward the Frenchman, replaced by a respectful and sincere enquiry.
Francois cleared his throat, nodded with a grave expression, and addressed Nadine. “My heart now has a sense of validation. My purpose … my belief, is no longer shadowed by doubt.”
Cole had seen dang little of that doubt, and appreciated the priest’s admission of its existence.
“How about your perspective on how to take on Moloch?” asked Nadine. “Has that changed?”
More patrons entered the small restaurant and waiters moved about, taking orders. The background noise increased, filled with good-natured chatter from the people sitting down to lunch.
Francois gazed at the tabletop, apparently considering the question. “I now have a sense of power. Of righteousness. And yet, it does not originate from me. It is not of my doing.” He lifted his head and locked eyes with Cole. “I accept this, of course. But do understand, I have only chased him away. My capabilities to channel such power to destroy him raise a new doubt. A new concern.”
Cole tilted back on his chair, holding the position with a hand on the table. He gave Francois a nod of acknowledgement. “Hell, we all have concerns, Francois. At least your conviction hasn’t wavered. And I appreciate you fessing up to any doubts and concerns you might have.”
Nadine reached across the table and squeezed Francois’s arm. “Concerns aren’t fear. You’re about as fearless as they come. Concerns we can manage.”
Francois returned a sad smile. “I have yet to reveal my fear, cher.” He placed a hand over hers still resting on his arm. “I fear for you both in traveling with me to Syria. It will prove to be a very dangerous place, of this I am sure.”
And I fear for Nadine, thought Cole. You and I are dang near expendable, pard. She isn’t. She’s special.
“Thank you, Francois,” said Nadine. “Good stuff. Now it’s my turn.” She released Francois’s arm and dug in one of the shopping bags, pulled out a sweater, and draped it around her shoulders. One of the waiters had propped open the front door and the cool salt breeze drifted in. She started with something about God and a power curve inside a probabilistic formula, then looked to Cole and Francois for affirmation. Cole didn’t have the foggiest notion of what she was talking about, but nodded seriously as if he did.
“So as for Moloch,” she said. “He scares the bejeesus out of me. Is that a cuss word?” Francois shrugged in response. “Anyway, I have the same fear as Francois. You two guys are over your head down there.”
“I don’t doubt that one little bit,” said Cole. “But that isn’t the point.”
Nadine held up a flat hand, palm toward Cole in a universal “stop” sign. “So let me finish by going straight to the point,” she said. Focusing on Francois, she stated, “You might be a tough little round guy but going it alone in Syria is nuts, especially if you think dressing like one of the Village People is going to pass muster. You need help down there. Professional help.”
Apparently the priest got the Village People reference, indicated by a roll of the eyes and waft of the hand.
She then grabbed Cole’s hand and pulled it toward her. “I’ve fallen for you, big time. I need to process my way through that. But I can tell you right now that I won’t have you getting killed in Syria. Sabe?”
Cole felt his face flush red and was greatly relieved when she released his hand. She must have seen or sensed his discomfort, and rolled her eyes prior to addressing both of them.
“Neither of you has enough situational awareness to navigate in such a dangerous place. Plus, I love both of you and simply won’t tolerate either of you dying on this little foray into hell.”
Cole extended a hand to order a Coke, buying time. The other two stared at him, both extending identical arched eyebrows. “Tag, you’re it, Cole,” said Nadine. “So what’s in your heart?”
“Okay. First, why can’t I just shoot the sumbitch and be done with it?” asked Cole. “You’re a badass, Francois. I’ll be the first to admit it. But if we go down there, why not try the sure and quick way?”
Nadine rocked her drink glass side to side, pausing after each count of three. “That’s your idea of opening up? Of telling us what’s in your heart? Just shoot him?” Her volume had risen well above that of her earlier heartfelt statements.
“I’m just being practical. And thinking safety and risk. Right, Francois?”
The priest would not deign to look at him, having shifted position to gaze toward the kitchen and light a smoke. Nadine’s glass continued to rock from side to side, tapping triplets.
Silence ensued for a few uncomfortable seconds. “Alright. This isn’t easy, so cut me some slack.” He put a hand on Nadine’s glass to prevent it from rocking back and forth. “If I head back to Rockport, it would feel like a half-assed mission accomplished. Besides, the kids are grown. While I don’t have a death wish, if I get whacked in Syria both
kids would get by without me.”
“Please shitcan the getting whacked talk,” said Nadine. She conceded her drink glass to Cole, crossed her legs, and began moving a suspended foot in sets-of-three air taps. “The goal is to not get whacked. What else you got, cowboy?”
He knew Nadine had a point on the whole open-your-heart thing and was prepared to go that route, thinking it was like pulling a mesquite thorn out of your finger: don’t fiddle-fart around, just do it. “So here’s the deal. There’s some connectivity to Martha in all this that I don’t get. Moloch isn’t likely going to provide any answers in that regard, even though it might be worth a try. But I guess the main thing is justice. I’m certain Moloch drove the mass murders. I want justice. Plain and simple.”
Nadine’s look had softened a bit, but not enough to put him at ease. Clearly something was still stuck in her craw. Francois continued to smoke and look toward the kitchen, insouciant as ever. Mercy, he could be irritating at times.
“And?” asked Nadine.
Fine, he thought. The whole nine yards. “Francois is an easy target down there. You are even more so, Nadine. I have dark skin and could potentially blend in. Both of you are going to stand out like diamonds in a goat’s ass. I probably have the best shot at pulling this off.”
He knew it was true. If Moloch could be taken out with a bullet, he was the guy to carry it out. “And, yes, I have a deep affection for both of you, and special feelings toward you, Nadine, but any kind of romance will have to wait. This isn’t the time to wrap my head around that.”
Nadine stopped her foot tapping and Francois looked over a dismissive shoulder to give him pursed lips. Cole had no clue what that meant.
As if on cue, food began to arrive.
“Bon, bon, bon,” said Francois, clapping his hands once and investigating the dishes. The Italian food smelled delicious. They began to scoop food on each other’s plates, while Nadine responded positively to the waiter’s question of wine.
“Something French,” she told the waiter.
They ate in silence, except for an occasional grunt of satisfaction from Francois, until Nadine broke the ice. “So, at the crossroads. Everyone has expressed their feelings. Which way is everyone heading?”
Francois chewed, breathed heavily through his nose, nodded, and washed it down with a drink of Burgundy. “I shall continue to Syria. This of course you would already know.”
“Yep. Me, too,” said Cole. Over the course of the day, quitting the chase had fallen off the option table for him. Besides, Francois would sure as hell be toast down there without him to help. The decision to pursue and get answers had a comfortable finality.
Francois quickly said, “Bon. I shall relish the opportunity to hunt with you, mon ami.” He raised his wineglass in a brief salute to Cole, saying, “It is a formidable team. And I must say, Nadine, mon amour, your assistance has been invaluable. We shall both miss you most terribly.”
“Amen,” said Cole. “You’ve been great, as always.”
She sat ramrod straight and looked back and forth at the two men, clearly locked and loaded. “I will join you,” she said in a level, matter-of-fact tone. “You two are hosed without me. I have physical contact on the ground there. An old friend. I’m the only one who can backdoor the intelligence streams there. I’m the only one who can ascertain and utilize both hard and soft assets there. I’m going with you. Let’s not ruin this lovely meal by making me upset. Pass the wine, Francois. Have I left any gray areas for either of you?”
Cole fought the urge to argue. He had a real and realistic concern for her safety. Yes, she could be of immense help, but this would entail travel to a nasty, dangerous place. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her. On the other hand, he knew Nadine had made up her mind, and there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he and Francois could do to change it.
“I would ask that you reconsider,” said Francois, leaning across the table to make his point. “Perhaps pray on such a perilous decision. Converse with the Almighty.”
“I did. And I asked God if it was wrong to tell you both to kiss my butt if y’all tried to leave me behind. He said it was perfectly okay. Pass the bread, please.”
Francois threw both hands in the air. Cole took it to mean some sort of universal frustration with such hard-headedness. Nadine apparently tired of waiting for the bread to be passed, and reached across Francois’s plate to retrieve a slice.
Francois then displayed his amazing ability to move on. He pulled himself straight and raised his wineglass again. “And so. Perhaps it is God’s will. Our team becomes even more formidable. De notre succès. To our success.” He extended his glass to a now smiling Nadine and they clinked glasses. Both turned to Cole, who had yet to raise his glass.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said to Nadine. “I really do.”
“It will be alright, Cole,” said Nadine. “Everything will be fine.”
With resignation and a touch of sadness he picked up his wineglass. “I doubt it, but I know I’m not going to make you change your mind,” he said, touching their glasses with his. “Alright then, compadres. Let’s saddle up.”
Chapter 27
The Dead Cities lay scattered across the limestone massif of northwest Syria, built between the first and seventh centuries. Many of them had been Christian communities. Abandoned by the tenth century, only the remnants of stone buildings, churches, pagan temples, and houses remained. Lost to history, there exist no definitive reasons for their construction, although some suspect ancient trade routes drove their development. Strife both religious and geopolitical led to their decline and abandonment, a common theme in that part of the world, and carried on to this day. Few of the Dead Cities have any archaeological activity and all stand ignored by the villages nearby, except when they herd their goats through the stone remnants.
The ruins of the Church of St. Ageranus rest in one of these abandoned settlements, surrounded by the crumbled stone remains of houses and granaries. Here, Moloch established a base of operations for al Garal.
Moloch took succor and nourishment from the location. An elaborate tent on the grounds of the ancient church made for a fine personal residence. Al Garal soldiers camped among the other white stone ruins. For a radius of seventy miles, factions in the Syrian civil war attacked, murdered, raped, beheaded, burned, and summarily executed any perceived enemy. Horrific chaos ruled, and Moloch relished it. It created his personal version of heaven.
He had fifty al Garal fighters, a small contingent compared to many of the other insurgent armies, but of a size that fit the needs of the time. They moved with speed, remained easy to maintain, and would strike without mercy when told to do so. For scum, they lived a malleably vicious existence and killed anyone and everyone once directed.
“We have the four from yesterday, Sayyid,” said one of the fighters. “What is your will?”
The al Garal fighters addressed him as Sayyid, or Master. He represented an example of purity to them. Muslim, Christian, Jew—it did not matter to Sayyid. They all fouled his land as apostates. They would be cleansed.
Moloch spoke Arabic, albeit an ancient dialect with hints of Aramaic. There still existed one town in the entire world, a hundred miles south of them, where Aramaic—the language of Christ—could still be heard. His fighters assumed he came from that region.
The four apostates captured the day before had attempted to establish a clinic at a nearby village. They comprised a party of one of the numerous nongovernmental organizations who tried and failed to deliver humanitarian relief to this war-torn part of the world. Their NGO focused on the relief of pain and suffering for those wounded during the constant battles across northern Syria. The four consisted of a Syrian guide, a Lebanese doctor, and two French male nurses.
“Bring them,” said Moloch, adjusting his position in a chair constructed of wood and human skin leather. He lifted his head into the breeze and smelled for scent. Numerous crows cawed among the ruins
.
The four were dragged before him, hands and feet bound, and made to kneel in his presence. The Syrian begged for release, the Lebanese doctor bowed his head, and the two French nurses looked about with wild eyes. They spoke French at a frantic pace and explained their mission to help others. A dozen al Garal fighters surrounded them. The fighters laughed and delivered occasional kicks to the ribs of the four. This activity produced small clouds of flour-like sand, which rose and drifted off.
“Add them to the collection,” said Moloch. “The Syrian dog first.”
Hundreds of severed heads placed on the tops of the ancient walls of these ruins made up the collection. The heads perched in various states of decay, some no more than skulls, picked clean by crows and insects, some still fresh and baked by the sun.
The Syrian guide cried for a pardon, a release. Laughter met his cries. One of the fighters grabbed his hair and wielded a twelve-inch blade. Death did not come quickly as the executioner sawed through the man’s throat. With the severed head held high, cries of exultation erupted from the al Garal members.
Other fighters jerked back the heads of the three that remained bound and kneeling, and began their bloody work, accompanied by the screams of the victims and victorious yells of the killers. Moloch smiled with benevolence, his head rested on one hand.
Moloch instructed them to remove the bodies and place the heads. He signaled one of his key lieutenants to approach him.
“Yes, Sayyid?”
“We have a mission soon. A nest of transgressors, apostates. There will be many heads.”
“Most excellent, Sayyid. As you wish.”
Moloch dismissed him and exalted at the sight of the old church’s walls around his large tent. The executed victims’ blood pooled on the dusty sand, congealed, and with finality was absorbed to join blood from centuries past. Ruined churches, the spilled blood of scum, minions that did his bidding—his own master would be pleased.