by Glenn Cooper
He knelt in the empty chapel of the great church and began to pray but prayers did not come to his lips.
Suddenly he felt his face contort in a spasm of sorts, and his mind turned to the darkest thoughts he had ever had. He was a man of serenity and good cheer, fully devoted to acts of Christian charity and devotion, and now he felt only anger and hatred. His mind was filled with visions of agony and gore, and he saw, as clearly as if he were gazing directly upon it, a river running red with blood, with countless hacked and maimed bodies flowing past.
And when the Pope appeared before the assembly later in the morning, he did not present himself in the calm manner expected of him, nor did he speak on the expected subject of Church reforms.
Instead he stood before them and raged in a bellicose manner they had never heard coming from the mouth of their benign and courtly pontiff.
‘A horrible tale has gone forth,’ he shouted. ‘The Saracen, an accursed race utterly alienated from God, has invaded the lands of the Christians and depopulates them by the sword, plunder, and fire. You should shudder, brethren, you should shudder at raising a violent hand against Christians. It is the wicked Saracen you must brandish your sword against. Go now east. Go to Jerusalem to wage war against the Turk and return the Holy Land to Christian hands. All who die by the way, whether by land or by sea, or in battle against the pagans, shall have immediate remission of sins. This I grant them through the power of God with which I am invested. O what a disgrace if such a despised and base race, which worships demons, should conquer a people which has the faith of omnipotent God and is made glorious with the name of Christ! Set out on the way with God as your guide. Tear that land from the wicked race and subject it to yourselves in this righteous crusade!’
There was a hush in the cathedral then one nobleman rose from his seat and shouted, ‘Deus vult!’ God wills it, and then the entire congregation, hundreds of men, rose as one with fists pumping the air shouting, ‘Deus vult! Deus vult!’ and that phrase would become the rallying call for the First Crusade to the Holy Lands.
In the months and years to come, one hundred thousand men at arms responded to Urban’s call to march on Jerusalem. Most of them were poorly trained peasants, led by nobles fueled not only by piety but by the prospect of looting and riches. They killed scores of innocents on the way to and in Jerusalem, absorbing the estates of the vanquished. The Christians were initially beaten back by the better-trained Muslim armies, but through sheer force of numbers they eventually triumphed.
Urban died in 1099 shortly after Jerusalem fell to the Crusaders, but before news of the Christian victory made it back to Europe. But the dark legacy of his fiery speech at Clermont lived on. Six more Crusades were fought over the following two hundred years. Two million people died in conflict and the bloody repercussions rippled through the centuries.
Thaddeus stayed in Constantinople, a guest of the Emperor, until news came from France that a liberation force was massing to defeat the Saracens. While he waited, he had little to do but ponder his life and his fate. He never used the showstone again. A wave of nausea washed over him every time he looked upon it and the papyrus, the last thing written by Daniel’s hand. Now that his thirst for revenge against the hated Saracens had been sated, he reverted to the Thaddeus of old. He could hardly fathom that he had murdered his friend. His guilt overwhelmed him. When the news of the liberating army arrived to great fanfare and exult among the Christians in Constantinople, he decided it was time for him to leave. One night, without informing his host, he slung Daniel’s red bag over his shoulder and began the long trek back to Al-Iraq.
As before, the journey was a lonely one and arduous, but he managed to arrive one dawn to his beloved Rabban Hurmizd Monastery. Emaciated and dragging, he presented himself at the gate where the keeper recognized him and remonstrated him for his deed.
‘You return! You, who did kill our Daniel? May the Lord curse you for what you have done.’
Thaddeus dropped his head in shame and asked to be taken to the bishop. The bishop took one look at him, and guided by charity and decency, had him taken away for food, drink, and a bath before giving him a hearing.
Dressed in a clean robe and fresh sandals, Thaddeus prostrated himself before the bishop, admitted his crime, and begged for absolution and the dispensation to return to the cloisters of the monastery.
‘You have not told me why you smote young Daniel,’ the bishop said.
‘I was angry.’
‘About what?’
‘He would not give me what I wanted.’
‘And what did you want?’
‘The means to punish the Saracens for what they did to my family.’
‘And by smiting Daniel did you get what you wanted?’
‘Yes, father. The angels answered my prayers and the Pope is sending an army.’
‘And you believe that happened because of your prayers.’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. Well, Thaddeus, it is not for me to say whether the angels or God Almighty answered your prayers. If an army is coming, I pray that innocent souls will not suffer, but that is but a hope. Innocents always suffer, do they not? It is within my power to give you absolution for your great sin. This is in keeping with the teachings of our Master, Jesus Christ. But it is also in my power to deny your request to return to your brethren here. Daniel Basidi was greatly loved and admired and I fear it would create sorrowful wounds and divisions to our household if you were to resume your vocation. No, Thaddeus, your penance for your sin is to leave here in the morrow and wander the countryside for the rest of your days, stripped of holy orders, and forever contemplating your evil deed.’
Thaddeus was given a thin mattress, a blanket, food, and beer and allowed to camp on a flat piece of ground near the scriptorium, a fair distance from the dormitory. The copyists who labored there were great friends of Daniel and they looked upon the stonecutter with contempt when they saw him upon leaving work for the day.
When dusk came, Thaddeus began to shed tears with the realization he was about to put his broodings of these past hours into action.
He found a flat stone and began digging with it. The dry, packed soil yielded slowly to his poundings and scrapings. By the time he had dug four shallow holes several paces from one another, each one large enough to hold a melon, his hands were bleeding.
In the first hole he returned to the soil the black obsidian that he himself had flaked and polished into a sacred mirror. As he was about to cover it up with dirt, he thought he saw an image in its surface of a yellow-toothed smile, but then again, it could have been his imagination. A fistful of brown soil put an end to whatever it might have been.
Then, the papyrus. He could not bear to look at the 49th Call again. Yes, he had used it willingly and many Saracens would die. To his mind, that was well and good. But in the hands of another, might not destruction be turned against faithful Christians? He folded the papyrus once then twice and began ripping it into small pieces, divided the torn fragments into three handfuls, and dropped them into three holes. The power of the Holy Trinity would defeat the evil the papyrus bore. He filled in the holes and labored until the ground was smooth and trodden over.
No one would ever again have the power to summon Satanail.
He unlatched the door to the scriptorium and looked for the jar of lamp oil he knew to be kept on a storage shelf. When he had wetted multiple sheets of parchment with the oil, he placed Daniel’s red bag on an oil-soaked scribe’s table and grabbed a flint and a striking stone. He cupped the flint in his palm. He loved the feel of the cool stone against his warm skin. It was one of the reasons he had become a stonecutter. With a single, expert strike, a spark caught the parchment, setting it ablaze.
He watched in fascination as melting wax from the Sigillum Dei Aemeth and other seals leaked onto the table before the bag itself was a ball of orange light and heat.
And he watched without uttering a sound as the flames crept up his robe and reach
ed his face. His flesh was melted before the entire scriptorium collapsed around him, burying his bones for a thousand years.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Julia D’Auria was sitting in Dick Nesserian’s office at the FBI Boston headquarters in Chelsea when he got a call. She could only hear his side of the conversation and it consisted of loud cursing and things like, ‘You’ve got to be shitting me.’
‘What?’ she said when he hung up.
‘That was Homeland Security. You know that alert we have on Barzani?’
She leaned forward, ‘Yeah?’
‘Well, after the fact, a fucking half a day after the fact, they found out he passed through customs at Logan.’
‘How the hell did they miss him?’
‘Because he arrived on a chartered jet and went through a customs check at the private aviation terminal where the officer on duty cleared him on the plane rather than the counter. He used a tablet that hadn’t been synched with the server for several hours.’
‘So, he’s in Boston.’
‘Looks like.’
‘Fuck.’
They had been checking for a signal from Barzani’s cellphone but it had been stone-cold dead.
D’Auria searched for a number on her cell.
‘What are you doing?’ Nesserian asked.
‘Seeing if Barzani phoned home.’
Hamid’s assistant answered and told the agent that Mr Hamid was not at the office. She claimed she had no idea where he was.
‘Is that unusual?’ D’Auria asked.
She said frostily, ‘Not at all. He comes and goes.’
D’Auria smiled when she asked if she could have his cellphone number.
Then the assistant turned colder. ‘I’m afraid I’m not authorized to give that out.’
D’Auria ended the call and mumbled, ‘I don’t need it from you, bitch.’
The night before, she had applied to a federal judge in New York for a warrant to perform surveillance on Barzani’s and Hamid’s phones. The judge had ruled there was probable cause to grant the warrant to both listen to and track Barzani’s phone but she limited the scope of the warrant against Hamid, ruling that his association to the murders was tenuous at best. The FBI was only granted a location-tracking warrant for Hamid’s phone.
This was a good time to put Hamid’s warrant into effect. They logged onto a central FBI server to activate a StingRay device in New York City but there were no hits from metropolitan-area cellphone towers.
‘You don’t think …?’ Nesserian said.
‘Yeah, I do think,’ D’Auria replied.
They switched the search parameters to the greater Boston area and before long, the scan produced a red dot on a map of Cambridge.
Nesserian spat out, ‘Divinity Avenue. Motherfucker. Didn’t you say Donovan was going to the Peabody Museum?’
She was already calling Cal’s phone.
It was a Saturday and the Peabody Museum was thick with tourists, coming and going. Barzani and Hamid had been lurking behind a stand of trees across the street from the entrance, from where they saw Cal and Eve walking up Divinity Avenue and entering the museum. Cal used his faculty ID to pass through the lobby quickly but Hamid and Barzani got hung up at the ticket counter.
The ticket lady said sweetly, ‘It’s twelve dollars each but if you’re over sixty-five, sir, it’s only ten dollars. And I can check your bag if you don’t want to carry it.’
Hamid told her he’d keep his shoulder bag, pulled out a couple of twenties, and told her to keep the change as a donation. With a shrill thank-you ringing in his ears, Hamid watched Cal and Eve entering the small elevator.
He stared at the old-fashioned arrow above the elevator door that pointed to the stopped floors. The arrow pegged the fifth floor. They decided to take the stairs rather than wait for the elevator to return. Barzani took the bag from his boss and attacked the stairs by twos and threes but Hamid chugged along, one at a time. When he got to the fifth floor Barzani was already there, looking around the empty hall.
It was a faculty and research area with no public exhibits.
‘Take this too, Tariq,’ Hamid said, wheezing and sputtering at the exertion. He passed him the pistol he’d brought from New York, courtesy of flying on his own plane. ‘I haven’t climbed five flights since I was a slum landlord.’
They began walking down halls, looking at the plaques on office doors and the laboratories. Every door they tried was locked.
One room had a sign that said, Faculty Archives. The door was ajar.
Barzani slowly pushed it open.
The room was larger than they anticipated, much larger. There were rows and rows of file cabinets that prevented them from getting a line of sight to the voices they could hear.
They walked as quietly as they could toward the voices. When they were only one row away they heard Cal say, ‘Here it is.’
Barzani came around the row of cabinets with Hamid at his heels. Cal heard the footfalls and wheeled around to see Barzani pointing a gun.
‘Oh my God,’ Eve said, her face going slack.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ Cal said without a ton of conviction.
His phone rang.
‘Take it out of your pocket,’ Barzani said, ‘and throw it to me.’
Cal tossed it over and Barzani gave it to Hamid.
It showed Julia D’Auria on the caller ID.
‘She’s a nuisance,’ Hamid said.
Cal pointed at Barzani. ‘I know who the big fuck is,’ Cal said. ‘He’s been stuck to us like dog shit on a shoe. Who are you?’
‘There’s no need to know my name, Professor Donovan, but it is nice to finally meet you.’
The accent was similar to Barzani’s. Cal remembered what Eve’s angel, Pothnir, had told her, the night they scryed in Arizona. There was a powerful man, a magician who controlled Barzani. This was that man. ‘You’re from Iraq too,’ Cal said.
‘True, but I consider myself a patriotic American first.’
Cal looked at his fleshy, sweaty face and fancy suit. Thirty years ago he would have been in his forties. The big man would have been in his twenties.
‘Why did you do it?’ Cal said.
‘Do what?’ Hamid answered.
Cal spit venom. ‘You know what you did. You murdered my father. You murdered my mother.’
‘Have you ever lived through a war?’ Hamid said. ‘Not on TV. I mean lived through it for real. I’ll bet you haven’t. I did when the Americans invaded Iraq. Many people were killed. My son was killed. You accept that people die in wars and I’ll tell you something. That was a just war. Saddam was a monster. Your parents died in a war too.’
Cal scoffed at him. ‘What war is that?’
‘The war of good versus evil, Professor. An eternal war. Your father and your mother were not – what’s the term – enemy combatants. They were collateral damage. They had what I needed to fulfill my own destiny. They had the showstone and the keys to the 49th Call. Do you know how long men like me have looked for the call? Do you know how long men like me have looked for a stone as powerful as the black mirror? Let me tell you something. I used to visit the British Museum and look through the glass case at Doctor Dee’s black mirror and wonder if it was possible to steal it.’ He laughed at the memory. ‘You know, drop down from the ceiling like in Mission Impossible. This was my Mission Impossible and you, Professor, have made it possible. You did all the work and all we had to do was follow you.’
‘How did you find out my mother had the showstone?’
‘It was an old Iraqi man who was with your father. A deathbed confession, if you will. And now I want the stone and the papyrus.’
‘What do you want them for?’
Hamid shook his head, unsmiling. ‘That’s another thing you don’t need to know. Now give them to me.’
Cal stared at the gun in Barzani’s hand. It was a large-caliber revolver with a six-shot capacity. It could do more damage than he wanted to think about
.
‘They’re not here.’
‘But they are. I know you came here to retrieve the stone.’
Cal was confused. How the hell could he know that? Unless.
‘You bugged my house.’
‘The sound was very clear when you were in your front room. Not so clear in others. We heard the girl give voice to the call last night but not clearly enough to understand the words. So, please, Professor, or she will be the next collateral damage, which would be a shame. I admire a fellow scryer. Tell me, Miss Riley, what Aethyr can you attain?’
Her throat was dry. ‘The fourth.’
‘My goodness. You are quite a powerful magician. Not as powerful as me. I can reach the second. But with the stone and the 49th Call I will explore the realm that others can only dream about.’
‘The Aethyr of the fallen,’ Eve said.
Hamid’s plump lips twitched at that. ‘Let’s have no more talk. Give me the stone now or she’ll die.’
Cal glanced at his bag but it was on the floor, too far away.
He simply said, ‘I’ll get it.’
Cal stooped at the file cabinet that had his father’s papers and pulled out the padded envelope.
‘Put it on the floor and slide it to me with your foot,’ Hamid said.
Hamid bent to pick it up and stuck his hand inside. The washcloth that padded the stone had a smell evocative of his homeland. He sniffed at it and briefly closed his eyes. He partially unwrapped it and touched the smooth black surface with two fingers. His white teeth showed.
‘Now the papyrus. It’s in one of your bags, I suppose. Yours, Miss Riley?’
‘I don’t have it,’ she said.
‘Then yours, Professor.’
Cal raced through his options. If he gave him the bag they’d find his gun. If he drew it, he’d probably take a round to the chest before he could put it to work.
‘I’ll give it to you.’
He got his bag and pulled out the glued papyrus.
‘Tariq tells me you’re quite the fighting man, Professor. I don’t want you near me. Hand it to her to give to me.’