Ashley glanced at her watch, saw the “11” in the date window. She was swearing under her breath as Peters found Morris’s number and called it.
“Quincey? It’s Peters. Yeah – we’re in a plane, but should be in the terminal building within ten minutes.”
Peters listened, then said, “Yeah, I’ve got what you need at the apartment.” He looked at his own watch then said, “It’s gonna be tight, but I might make it if we get lucky with the traffic. Where you gonna be?”
Peters listened a few seconds longer, then said “I’ll do my best, buddy,” and ended the call.
He turned to Ashley. “Four World Trade Center. On the roof. He needs a rifle.”
“You’ve gotta be a much better shot than he is, especially with your own gun.”
“Yeah, I know. I was planning to volunteer my services – assuming I get there in time to do anything useful.”
“Why didn’t you tell him about the Seal?”
“You said not to.”
“Idiot – that was before I knew the shit was gonna hit the fan today.”
“Want me to call him back?”
“No – if I don’t get it to Libby in time, it doesn’t matter whether he knows or not.”
A line of concentration appeared on Ashley’s forehead.
“All right. Fuck the other baggage for now – we’ve got what we need right here.” She rested a hand on the briefcase. “So we take separate cabs – you go home, get what Morris needs, and haul ass for the building. I’ll head there directly with our little artifact and try to get it to Libby.”
“Hopefully one of us will get there in time to do something useful.”
“A consummation devoutly to be fucking wished.”
They still had not reached the gate, but a glance out the window showed they were close now. Ashley let her eyes drift around the cabin. “I’m glad we always fly first class,” she said.
“How come?”
“Fewer people between us and the door to knock over.”
Fifty-Five
THE SKYSCRAPER KNOWN as Four World Trade Center stands seventy-two stories over the city of Manhattan. Its roof is not supposed to be accessible to the public – that’s why the stairs leading up there are behind a locked steel door that reads, “Authorized Personnel Only.” But the lock has not been invented that could withstand Libby Chastain’s magic.
Normally anyone walking into the building carrying a rifle case, as Morris was, would be challenged by building security before he could even reach the elevators. But Libby had a solution to that problem, too. She cast a spell that temporarily conferred on Morris the Tarnhelm Effect, which meant he was not noticed as they hustled from their taxi into the building and across the lobby. Morris was not invisible, as such, but nobody’s eye would be drawn to him – which was the next best thing.
So Morris and Libby reached the roof without interference, closed the steel door behind them, and took a look around. They were not made happy by what they saw.
One problem was the distance between the tower buildings. Seven were planned for the complex, but so far only WTC buildings One (the “Freedom Tower”), Three, Four, and Seven were open for business, with the other three still in various stages of construction.
Morris estimated that the Freedom Tower was about eight hundred feet from where he and Libby now stood. The building next door, WTC 3 (which, Libby said, was fifty-eight stories tall) was closer, but only by three hundred feet or so. Five hundred feet was just too damn far for either the air rifle or Libby’s slingshot to have any hope of hitting something – and that was for the closest building.
The other perturbing factor was the wind. At street level, they had encountered nothing more than a gentle breeze. But seventy-two stories up in the sky was a different matter. Morris was no expert at measuring these things, but he would have wagered a great deal of money that the wind atop WTC 3 was blowing at least twenty-five miles an hour.
Using a powerful, sighted-in rifle with a good telescopic sight, Morris figured he’d have a good chance of hitting anything man-sized on the roof of the adjoining building, and might even have a chance of hitting someone on one of the other buildings, at least twelve hundred feet away. The wind would still be a problem, but you can compensate for it – maybe.
However, Morris had no rifle – at the moment, anyway. Peters had promised to bring one as soon as he could, but the time/distance equation was not promising. Moving quickly through the city was hard to do without access to flashing red lights and a siren, and Peters had neither.
Morris stood with his hands resting on the brick ledge surrounding the roof area, staring at the Freedom Tower. When Libby joined him, he said, “Unless Peters gets here in time with a long gun for us, we are pretty much screwed.”
“Yes,” she said. “I was just thinking that myself.”
“The distances between buildings are just too damn far – even without the fucking wind.”
“I know.” Libby ran a hand nervously through her hair and said, “I’ve got kind of an idea about that, actually. But I’m reluctant even to suggest it.”
Morris looked at her. “How come?”
“Because it might get us killed.”
“Oh, hell, is that all?” Morris snorted. “Let’s hear it.”
“I could put together a summoning spell – I’ve got the gear with me to do it, I already checked. If they turn that afreet loose, the spell might get his attention and prompt him to head over here. That way, we might have a chance with our pit-propellers.”
“Pit-propellers,” Morris said with a weak grin. “That’s pretty good. But I thought your magic was useless against any species of djinn.”
“It is, in the sense that I can’t compel it to do anything – not without a piece of Solomon’s Seal, anyway, and we know how that worked out. But I can put something out there which the afreet will almost certainly notice. Whether it chooses to do anything about it is anybody’s guess.”
“So you magically ask the afreet to come over and say, ‘Hi.’ And if it does, we let fly with our weapons, such as they are.”
“Something like that, yes,” she said.
“And if the pits don’t work, the afreet might decide to burn us to cinders, just because we pissed it off.”
“I did say we could die, Quincey.”
“But you’re willing to try the spell anyway?”
It took her a few seconds to answer. “Yes, I am. I’ve been thinking about all the people who work in the Freedom Tower, and what’s going to happen to them when the afreet’s turned loose on the building. If I didn’t do everything in my power to stop it, I’m pretty sure their dying screams would haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“Yeah, I hear you.” Morris looked over at the Freedom Tower a little longer, then said, “Well, shit, Libby – if you’re willing to invite the damn thing over, the least I can do is shoot some cherry pits at him by way of welcome.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Well, I’d best get started on the spell.”
Morris had a pair of binoculars slung around his neck, which Libby had dug out of a closet in her condo. “You gonna take a look around with those?” She asked.
“Might as well.”
“Sing out if you see anything interesting.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” he said.
Fifty-Six
THE TAXI FARE from JFK to Peters’s apartment building was $38.50. He gave the driver a fifty and said, “Keep the change – and wait for me. I won’t be more than ten minutes.”
Not long afterward, he was unlocking the apartment that he shared with Ashley. He walked swiftly to the spare bedroom, opened a closet, and surveyed the four rifle cases stacked on the floor. They were different colors for easy identification, and Peters grabbed the black one without hesitation. He opened it to reveal a Remington XM 2010, the standard sniper rifle of the U.S. Army, with an attached Leupold Mark 4 telescopic sight. He unlocked a nearby file cabinet an
d found a box of .300 Winchester Magnum ammunition, which he placed inside the rifle case before relocking it.
Minutes later, he walked rapidly out of his building – to find no cab waiting in front. The bastard must have taken off, despite the promise of another good tip from Peters. Muttering speculations about the cab driver’s probable lineage, physical endowment, and relationships with female family members, Peters jogged to the curb and began looking for another cab to flag down.
Not only were taxis sparse in this neighborhood during mid-day, but quite a few cab drivers are reluctant to stop for a large, clearly pissed-off man carrying a gun case. By the time Peters finally got somebody to pick him up, it was 11:48.
The deadline was noon, and he already knew he wasn’t going to make it – but he tried, anyway. Waving two fifties near the cabbie’s face, he said, “These are for you if you can get me to the World Trade Center Plaza before noon.”
The driver stared at the bills, then at Peters. “You pay for any tickets I get?”
“Yeah,” Peters said. “I’ll take care of ’em.”
“Then I suggest you find something to hang on to.”
Fifty-Seven
MORRIS KEPT BUSY with the binoculars, scanning the nearby roofs and the streets below for anything suspicious. It was 11:53 when he said to Libby, “Looks like we’ve got company.”
“Where?” Libby was on her knees ten feet behind him, still busy conjuring the spell that might or might not attract an afreet to their rooftop. Morris wasn’t sure whether he hoped she would succeed or fail.
“Right next door – Building Three.” Four World Trade Center, where Morris and Libby were, stood fourteen stories taller than the adjoining skyscraper, some five hundred feet away.
“What have we got?” Libby asked.
“Four guys. I’d say they look Arab to me. One of them’s got some kind of big carpet bag with him.”
“Let me know if they do anything interesting,” she said. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”
“Right.” Morris brought the binoculars back up to his eyes. “Where the hell is fucking Peters?”
Fifty-Eight
NASIRI STARED WITH loathing at the immense building the Americans had put up – so big and new and shiny. It was as if the great act of vengeance had never happened, on this date those years ago. They thought they could forget what the Sheik had done.
Nasiri was about to remind them.
He posted Tamwar on the roof door, with instructions to kill anyone who tried to interfere. Tamwar carried the big automatic that Nasiri had got for him, and he knew how to use it. He was the only one of the group who was armed.
Then Nasiri saw what Uthman was bringing out of his bag, and could not suppress a face-splitting grin. He had been wrong; Tamwar was not the only one of them who was armed, and the weapon that Uthman had brought was more deadly than any gun ever invented.
Fifty-Nine
“LIBBY?” MORRIS DID not lower the binoculars as he spoke.
“Almost there.”
“You won’t believe what this old dude just brought out of the bag.”
“Try me.”
“It’s a lamp – one of those old fucking oil lamps that looks kinda like a flattened teapot. I swear, it’s straight out of the Arabian Nights.”
“Nice to hear that somebody’s keeping up the traditions,” she said. “Okay, I’m set. Let me know when the afreet appears.”
“What’s it gonna look like?”
“Trust me, Quincey – you’ll know it when you see it.”
Sixty
NASIRI WATCHED WITH fascination as Uthman waved his hands slowly over the lamp and began to chant. He had never seen the afreet, only heard Uthman’s description of the creature. He was beside himself with eagerness.
“What would you have me do to assist, my brother?” Rahim asked him. With no throats to cut or lions to butcher, he seemed at a loss.”
“Pray to Allah for our success!”
Nasiri’s eyes widened as red smoke began to issue from the spout of the lamp.
“Come forth, great Rashid,” Uthman called, in ancient Arabic. Nasiri had studied enough of the dialect to follow what was being said. “The great day is at hand!” Uthman held in his right hand an irregularly-shaped piece of metal the approximate size of a silver dollar.
The scarlet smoke continued to billow, and now it began to take coherent shape. It looked vaguely humanoid, with identifiable arms, legs, and head. As Nasiri watched, it slowly grew to a height of twenty feet, and now more detailed features could be seen.
The afreet, red as the smoke coming from the lamp, had horns like a bull and hands that ended in long, vicious-looking claws. Unlike some of the old illustrations, which Nasiri now realized had been modified for the sake of decency, the creature was not clothed – and its gender was obviously, emphatically male.
When the creature spoke, its voice was so loud that Nasiri had to fight the urge to cover his ears.
“Rashid is here, o wizard!” the afreet thundered. “I have come forth, as bidden by the ancient words. What dost thou want of me?”
Uthman pointed. “Behold the great tower of the infidels! There it stands, a testament to the vanity of man, and an affront to Allah, whom all men must obey. I bid you, mighty Rashid, destroy it with your fire! Show the infidels thy power, and let them know thy wrath!”
The creature was silent long enough for Uthman to wonder whether he had made a huge mistake. Then the voice shook the air again. “I hear, and obey.”
As the men on the rooftop watched, it began to grow.
Sixty-One
“LIBBY!” MORRIS CALLED, without turning away from the awful spectacle unfolding just five hundred feet away. “It’s show time!”
Morris let go of the binoculars, letting them dangle from the lanyard around his neck. He didn’t think he would need the glasses from this point to see what was going on. He watched the human-looking red cloud from the archaic lamp enlarge, as it began to drift in the direction of the Freedom Tower.
Behind him, Libby was chanting in ancient Aramaic – a language that Morris recognized, although he did not speak it. Her voice grew louder, and Morris told himself that he did not hear a note of desperation in it.
He bent down and picked up the air rifle. He had three shots, and no more. Even if bringing the scuba tank they’d bought had been practical, he knew from experience that the rifle took twelve minutes to charge. He was pretty sure that, once he began to fire his pathetic cherry pits at this terrifying creature – even assuming he got the chance – he would not be given twelve minutes’ grace to reload. Twelve seconds would be optimistic.
Sixty-Two
ON THE ROOFTOP of Three World Trade Center, Nasiri was ecstatic. He began to clap his hands together rapidly in excitement, his dignity temporarily forgotten. He, Abdul Nasiri, had made this wondrous thing happen. His leadership, and his alone, was responsible for bringing this great act of jihad into being.
Then he noticed a strange voice.
Unlike the reedy tone of Uthman, or the afreet’s earth-shaking bass, this was the voice of a woman. Going from his expression, Uthman had heard it, too.
“What is that?” Nasiri demanded. “Who is that?”
The wizard’s voice was a study in confusion. “Truly, brother, I do not –”
“There!” Rahim’s voice came like a whipcrack. He was pointing at the nearest building, which towered over Building Three by perhaps two hundred feet. There was a dark-haired man standing there, looking down at them. Clearly the voice did not belong to him, but it seemed to be coming from the same direction.
Nasiri snorted dismissively. If the man had a weapon, he would have used it by now. Some infidel from Building Four had simply been on the roof when the great event began, and he had a woman with him, who was already keening over the loss of life that was imminent in the main tower. Then he heard Uthman say, “Brother, something... something is amiss!”
He turned. The wiz
ard was pointing toward the afreet, which was already halfway to the so-called Freedom Tower.
But now the creature had changed direction, and was moving slowly toward the other building – the one where the woman’s voice was coming from.
“Why is this happening?” he screamed at the wizard.
Uthman shook his head helplessly. “I do not know what transpires.”
“Then fix it! Get the afreet back on course – now!”
Uthman nodded humbly. Then, facing in the direction the afreet had gone, he began to chant anew.
Sixty-Three
QUINCEY MORRIS TRIED to control the panic that wanted to overtake him at the sight of the great humanoid cloud, now over a hundred feet tall, heading in their direction. Libby was by his side now, and she had brought the slingshot and a pocket full of artichoke pits, ready to fire.
“Nice work,” Morris said, unable to take his eyes off the approaching monstrosity. “I think.”
“Thanks,” she said, flexing the elastic of the slingshot nervously. “I think.”
“Remember the wind,” Morris told her. “It’s blowing left to right, so if you fire directly at our friend over there, the breeze is gonna carry your pit way to the right before it gets to him. Our point of aim has got to be to his left.”
“I understand,” Libby said. “But how much to the left?”
“That,” Morris said, “is something of a crapshoot. Figure twenty feet for a start. If your first shot misses, you can readjust your aiming point. I’ll do the same.”
“Assuming either of us gets a second shot.”
“Well, yeah, there’s always that.”
When it was perhaps a hundred and fifty feet away, the creature spoke. Morris had heard its voice from a greater distance, and knew that it was loud. But even he was not prepared for the assault on his eardrums that followed.
Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis Page 39