Kardina

by Thomas Emson

  He thought about killing Fuad.

  The fire in him died. In its place came an icy determination.

  CHAPTER 40. JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH.

  Hillah, Iraq – 11.35pm (GMT + 3 hours), 19/20 May, 2011

  “ENOUGH,” said a man’s voice as Aaliyah dangled over the pit. “Let her go, Laxman.”

  The scarred colonel called Laxman tossed her aside. She hit the ground hard.

  “She kneed me in the balls,” said Laxman.

  “I’m paying you top whack, and you let a bird get the better of you?” said the newcomer. “I might have to cut your salary, Laxman. Bring them down.”

  The speaker, who was in his sixties and wore his dark hair in a ponytail, was Alfred Fuad. Aaliyah recognized him. She glared at Fuad, feeling the hate for him and his brother well up in her breast.

  Fuad went to the elevator and opened the scissor-door.

  Laxman pulled Aaliyah to her feet and shoved her towards the lift. The other two men ushered Goga into the elevator.

  A clanking noise indicated the lift had fired up, and soon it started to descend. Aaliyah’s legs were shaking. The elevator dropped quickly. No one said anything. Aaliyah looked at Goga. He seemed groggy. He was still bleeding. She was about to say something, but he caught her eye and shook his head.

  After a few minutes, the elevator came to a stop, and they stepped out into a cavern.

  Aaliyah craned her neck and stared upwards. They were a long way down.

  Equipment filled the cavern. Drills. Spades. Trowels. A monitor perched on a table. It looked to Aaliyah like a radar machine, and it bleeped now and again. Computers lined the far wall, and staring at the screens were young Middle Eastern men. At the far end of the cavern was the entrance to a tunnel. A Jeep was parked there.

  How did they get a Jeep down here? thought Aaliyah, and she looked up again.

  She and Goga were shepherded towards the vehicle and told to get in. She sat in the back, between Laxman and Fuad. Goga got in the front, lodged between the two black-clad men, one of whom started the engine.

  The tunnel was illuminated by the same neon strip lights attached to the sides of the pit.

  Finally, Aaliyah asked, “What is this place?”

  “First, introductions, darling,” said Fuad.

  “I know who you are,” she said.

  “I know you, too. But who’s this fellow?” said Fuad, nudging Goga.

  “I am Apostol Goga, ally of Jake Lawton and Aaliyah Sinclair,” said the Romanian.

  “The now-in-custody Jake Lawton,” said Fuad.

  Laxman laughed. “Your boyfriend’s been taken by Iraqi security, is what we heard. They’ll probably take him out into the desert, put a bullet in the back of his head.”

  Aaliyah nearly passed out. Her blood ran cold. Keep it together, she told herself. They want you to faint or cry.

  “We’re approaching the underworld city of Irkalla,” said Fuad. “The city of Nimrod.”

  Had they found the vampire god? Aaliyah wondered. Had Fuad resurrected the monster? Were they too late? If this were true, and if Jake had also been captured, they really didn’t have much hope.

  “You are a fool to awaken Nimrod, Fuad,” said Goga.

  “You’re a fool to stop me, Goga.”

  “I will stop you – or kill the beast.”

  Laxman laughed again. Aaliyah glanced at him. She wondered if Jake could deal with him. She’d seen Jake deal with bigger men. She’d seen him deal with monsters. But he wasn’t here. He was holed up in a prison cell in Baghdad, if these men were to be believed. He’d been arrested. Her heart thundered. She sweated, fear coursing through her.

  Goga said to Fuad, “You are mad to think you can control Nimrod. You and your crazy brother.”

  “Don’t you fucking call my brother mad – George is a genius. Smack him, Laxman.”

  “He’s had enough smacks,” said Laxman.

  “You fucking smack him,” said Fuad.

  The Colonel sighed, reached over, and swatted Goga across the back of his head. It wasn’t hard. It was just a gesture to appease Fuad. But it didn’t mollify him. It made him madder. He glared at Laxman, and Aaliyah thought he was going to berate the man with the scar on his forehead. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned away and said, “My brother’s going to lead Britain into a golden age.”

  “He will destroy it,” said Goga. “And the world with it.”

  “The age of monsters is here, and to control them, we’ll be monsters too,” said Fuad.

  “And there is no more vile a monster than your brother, that is quite clear,” Goga said.

  Fuad said nothing.

  They drove on.

  The route sloped downwards.

  Journey to the centre of the earth, thought Aaliyah, remembering a film she’d seen as a child with one of her mother’s boyfriends. He had loved monster movies. He’d love this, then, she thought. Real monsters. She wondered what had happened to him. Her memories spooled. They made her sad, and she felt tears well. She fended them off, not wanting to cry in Fuad’s presence.

  The Jeep stopped in a tunnel that was nearly thirty feet high and fifty across. It was lit with floodlights. Bulldozers and JCBs were parked up along the wall. Men with hardhats were checking plans. Tents had been erected. It was an underground camp.

  Goga and Aaliyah were taken into one of the tents.

  “Get back on duty up top,” Laxman told the two black-shirts, “and if I hear of a man with a stick getting the better of you again, I’ll fucking do you both.”

  “Fucking girl got the better of you, mate,” said one of them and smirked. He was still smirking when Laxman slid a knife from his belt and sliced open the man’s throat.

  Blood spurted.

  The smirk turned into a look of horror.

  The man’s legs buckled.

  He hit the ground.

  Blood was a fountain coming from his throat.

  He twitched.

  His back arched.

  He gurgled.

  He coughed blood.

  He died.

  Laxman wiped the knife on his sleeve.

  He told the other man, who gawped in horror at his pal, “I’ll do you as well, if you have anything to add.”

  The man shook his head.

  Fuad told the bloke, “Take him to Malik and tell him to get rid of the body in a shaft.”

  For a moment, the man hesitated.

  Fuad repeated the order in a louder voice.

  The black-shirt dragged the body out of the tent.

  Aaliyah gathered herself.

  She’d seen death before. Lots of it. She’d seen how cruel men and women could be. But there was a brutal coolness, a vicious matter-of-factness, to the way Laxman had butchered the man. She caught his eye. He held her gaze for a second, a blank stare that said nothing, and then he put Goga’s sunglasses on to hide his eyes.

  Fuad spoke as if nothing had happened. “Come to the table; I want to show you something that’ll cheer you up.”

  Aaliyah and Goga were made to stand at the desk while Laxman fired up a laptop. He clicked on a Windows Media icon, and a video player popped up.

  And then the footage played.

  Aaliyah nearly fainted.

  The recording was grainy. It came from a security camera. It showed the white, sandstone steps of a building, and beyond it a street. People wearing Arab clothing walked by. A dark Range Rover came to a sharp stop at the bottom of the steps. Three men in suits leapt out of the vehicle. Big men. Moustaches and dark glasses. Guns at their belts.

  They dragged someone out of the car.

  The man was stripped to the waist.

  He was pale. He was lean and strong. His black hair shoulder length. There was something wrong with his left eye. It seemed swollen, and his head was canted to the left.

  His hands were tied behind his back, and the three men led him up the stone steps, and then he was gone from view.

  Aaliyah co
uldn’t stop herself from crying.

  “What have you done to him?”

  “I ain’t done nothing to him, darling, more’s the pity,” said Fuad. “The Iraqis picked him up a few days ago. Somewhere in the north. They brought him to Baghdad for questioning, according to our sources. Any luck, they’ll torture him.”

  “You bastard,” said Aaliyah.

  “I know, doll,” said Fuad, “but having Lawton tortured is number one on my bucket list, see. Likely they won’t do that, of course. Seems they’re not into that kind of stuff anymore, at least with Westerners. They’re a bit more civilized since Saddam and his Ba’ath thugs were ousted. He wanted to rebuild Babylon, you know. Saddam. The fella had vision. He knew about Nimrod, too. He tried to do what we’re doing. If he’d got this far, if he’d found Nimrod and Irkalla, he might well have been running the Middle East by now. Destroyed the fucking Jews. Smashed the fucking oil states. Sadly, he got a bit carried away. Bit too arrogant. We’ll just finish the job for him, eh?”

  Aaliyah lunged at him, but Laxman slapped her across the face. She saw stars again and fell to the ground. Her cheek smarted.

  Fuad kicked her in the leg, and the sharp pain made her wince. Goga leapt to her aid, but Laxman punched him, decking the Romanian.

  Fuad said, “It’s all over, Miss Sinclair. For Jake Lawton. For you, and Mr Goga, too. Your fates are sealed. Colonel Laxman here will travel to Baghdad to finish the job on Lawton. His death will symbolize the end of men and the rise of monsters. Tomorrow, you’ll witness the resurrection of a god. You’ll have front-row seats. And you’ll also have the privilege of being its first sacrifice.”

  PART FIVE. FAITH.

  CHAPTER 41. THE LAST RESORT AND OTHER OPTIONS.

  Baghdad – 1.07am (GMT + 3 hours), 20 May, 2011

  LAWTON was in his cell. Thinking all the time.

  Never stop thinking. Keep your brain fired up. Like an engine. If it stalls, you might not get it going again. Be aware all the time. Aware of everything. Of the hum of electricity. Of the insect on the windscreen. Of the beads of sweat on the driver’s neck. Of the hint of a woman’s perfume layered beneath the stench of BO in the all-male team of security officers. Try to work out an escape route. Even if there isn’t one, make one up. Craft something. Anything. Look at every possibility.

  Even suicide as a last resort.

  That’s what they taught you.

  But Lawton wasn’t at the last resort just yet.

  When he was taken by the soldiers, they brought him to the town of Tel Isqof. His captors treated him decently enough. Gave him water, gave him food, didn’t beat him. They made him take his shirt and his belt off. They didn’t want a foreigner killing himself in their cells.

  The last resort, he thought.

  After a couple of hours left stewing in a grubby cell, they led him out and drove him to Mosul.

  All the while, he was thinking.

  Keep thinking.

  Keep planning.

  Keep surviving.

  He had faith in his abilities. Faith in his strength. Faith in himself.

  In Mosul, they swapped vehicles.

  They got into a Range Rover. Four men with him. Three to watch him, one to drive. All in black suits. All wearing sunglasses. All scowling and silent.

  They drove south. He guessed they were taking him to Baghdad. The capital. They’d know what to do with a foreigner found wandering in the desert. They could decide.

  Lawton thinking.

  Lawton planning.

  Lawton surviving.

  It was nearly 250 miles from Mosul to Baghdad. Plenty of time to guess what they had planned for him.

  Anyone in his position would think the best-case scenario would be to be handed over to his country’s representatives in Iraq. The British consul, in Lawton’s case. But he thought that was the worst-case scenario. He would be on the next plane home. Flown straight into Fuad’s hands.

  Other options: He might be charged with illegally entering Iraq. That could mean a trial. Lots of publicity. Time in a Baghdad prison. For most people, that would be the worst thing that could happen. For Lawton, it was an opportunity to come up with an escape plan – and he would not be handed over to Fuad.

  Staying in Iraq was the first plan. No vampires. No Nebuchadnezzars. Only Nimrod. And Nimrod had to die. He thought about Ereshkigal. He hoped they hadn’t found her. They’d not mentioned anything about a woman. Or a vampire.

  No one said a thing on the journey.

  They had travelled through Kirkuk. Then they drove south through Tikrit. Saddam country. Then on to Samarra, and finally into Baghdad.

  Long, wide highways hemmed in by skyscrapers and sandstone buildings welcomed them. They passed abandoned compounds, the fencing rusted, the walls scrawled with graffiti. They weaved around craters and passed ruins, evidence of Allied bombs.

  They had come to a busy metropolitan area. Lots of bustle. Plenty of people. Men in suits and men in kurtas, the loose fitting shirts worn in Middle Eastern countries. Women in skirts and women in burkhas, the oppressive garment forced on females by the Taliban in Afghanistan.

  Traffic raced through the streets. Horns blared. Drivers shouted at each other.

  The Range Rover had stopped outside a white building, steps leading up to it. When he got out of the car, Lawton clocked the sign that said he’d been brought to the Ministry of the Interior.

  They took him inside. Led him into the bowels on the building. Eyes watching him. No one saying a word. Along a corridor, his feet cold on the tiles.

  Just before they shoved him through a door and locked it behind him, one of the men said, “You will tell us everything.”

  And at last…

  In his cell.

  Thinking.

  Escape strategies.

  There had been the threat of interrogation.

  A noise outside in the corridor made him step out of his thoughts.

  Footsteps. Someone approaching. The cell door being unlocked. He stiffened, waiting for whatever was to come. Expecting the worse.

  He knew that in Saddam’s day, he’d either be dead now, which would have been lucky, or he’d be being tortured.

  The cell door opened. Two men in army fatigues entered. One was in his twenties. Clean shaven. Brown eyes that gawped at Lawton. He appeared to outrank the other man, who was short and squat and in his fifties.

  The young man said, “You will come with us, now.”

  “Where to?” asked Lawton.

  “You will come with us to answer questions.”

  “Ask me here,” said Lawton, delaying as far as he could.

  Thinking. Planning. Surviving.

  The young man frowned. “Please do not make this a hard job for us.”

  Lawton got up off his bunk. The short guard handed him a kurta and nodded. Lawton put on the shirt and creased his brow, confused. He was sure he’d seen respect in the older man’s expression.

  Lawton was led along the corridor. His kept his breathing and his heartbeat under control. He was cool. He was calm. He was controlled. He was getting ready for what was to come. He was preparing for the worst.

  CHAPTER 42. THE STAIN.

  SHE carried the spear made from her husband’s bones. She carried the only weapon that could kill him.

  The desert was cold at night. But she felt nothing of its icy fingers. Nothing apart from the burning need for blood.

  Ereshkigal walked south. Strapped to her back was the sack the man Lawton had brought with him. It contained the spear of Abraham. Her husband’s bones. Her husband’s doom.

  The men who had taken Lawton had not searched the truck. And she had remained huddled inside until night came. She knew that Lawton had protected her as any faithful servant would have done, as any Nebuchadnezzar would have done.

  Only he wasn’t a Nebuchadnezzar. He was their enemy. He was a vampire killer. And he was hunting her Lord Husband. He was going to kill the Great Hunter.

  But still,
he’d kept her safe when the soldiers came by day.

  This played on her mind.

  Her enemy protecting her.

  It stayed with her while she buried herself under rocks during the day. It stayed with her when she crawled out at sunset to keep walking, keep moving. It tapped into something that she had once been.

  Human.

  There was no human left, of course. Nothing tangible. But maybe there was a stain of it. A trace left somewhere of what she had been.

  She felt none of what a human felt. No love, no hate, no jealousy. She believed only in blood. Only hunger and the raw, brutal need to survive compelled her to go on. And survival meant being in Irkalla with Nimrod. It meant stalking Babylon at night and feeding off her citizens.

  The desert became pasture.

  Trees flourished. Rivers flowed. Cities passed.

  She walked.

  Did she know where she was going? Something told her she was headed in the right direction. Not for Irkalla. But for Lawton. She would go to him. It was that unquantifiable thing ticking inside her, insisting she go to him.

  She dismissed any hints of emotion she felt.

  It was impossible, anyway.

  She only thought of Lawton as useful, that had to be it. He was human, and humans were always beneficial. Simeon had been valuable until his death as a ninety-seven year old. Vlad had been useful with his power, his greed, and his eventual madness and murderous lusts. King Richard of England, the one they called Lion-heart or Melek-Ric, had been a mighty lover and a cowering servant.

  Like Vlad, he had come to fight the vampire plague. To crush the Nebuchadnezzars’ plans. But her flesh had weakened their resolve. It had made them mad. They had fucked her cold dead body that felt so young and warm as they writhed with her. They hated themselves for loving her. But she was irresistible. She was their weakness. And because of it, she was able to destroy them both. Stop them from wiping out the vampire race.

  Both Richard and Vlad had similar strategies in their wars against the undead and their human allies.

  They were secret campaigns. They had both pretended to be fighting a religious enemy – the Saracens and the Ottomans.