The Showstone

by Glenn Cooper

  Hamid took it from Eve and looked at it. ‘This is Aramaic. I know you have an Enochian translation. Come on. Stop wasting time.’

  Cal passed Eve the sheet with her translation and she gave it to Hamid.

  A quick glance satisfied him. ‘My God, such powerful words.’ He looked around the archives. There were areas in the shadows and bright ones where windows overlooked the courtyard of the adjoining Museum of Comparative Zoology let in the sunshine. ‘Tariq, watch them closely. I want to make a test drive and I may need them, particularly her, if I have trouble with her translation.’

  ‘So, I’ll shoot him first if they make trouble,’ Barzani said.

  ‘That would be the correct order, yes.’

  Hamid took his shoulder bag and his new possessions and went in search of a perfect spot. He found it in a dark corner of the room that was bisected by a shaft of window light. There he removed his small ceremonial table and unfolded its legs, placing each one on a wooden box containing his miniature wax seals. Then he put the Sigillum Dei Aemeth onto the center of the table and covered it in red silk. The showstone had no frame or holder so he had to improvise. There were some dusty old books on a nearby shelf and he used one to prop the stone so that it caught the sun. Then he sat on the smooth floorboards cross-legged and read through the 49th Call.

  From across the room Cal began to hear the rhythmic tapping of Hamid’s index finger against a floorboard.

  Over and over, the same pattern. Seven taps. A pause. Seven taps.

  Eve heard it too and said, ‘It’s an Enochian code. Seven sevens. The 49th Call.’

  Hamid made his preliminary prayers to God in his native Arabic then steeled himself for what might come next. Eve’s transcription was in his lap. He began to give voice to the 49th Call in Enochian, his eyes riveted to the gleaming surface of the showstone.

  He read the last line of the call.

  Odo cicle qaa od ozazma pla pli Iad na mad

  And there he was, floating inside the black mirror, a dark presence on a dark throne.

  ‘I am Satanail. Why have you summoned me?’

  D’Auria and Nesserian were six floors below in the basement security office near the library. A guard was telling them that the only way she would know Professor Donovan’s location in the building was if he had used his keycard to access a locked area.

  ‘Well look, for fuck’s sake,’ Nesserian said.

  She checked the online activity logs and said, ‘The only area accessed in the last hour is the Faculty Archive on the fifth floor. It looks like the door’s open for some reason.’

  ‘Is there an elevator?’ D’Auria asked.

  ‘Down the hall on the left. Do you want me to come?’

  ‘Do you have a gun?’ D’Auria asked.

  ‘I’m not armed.’

  ‘Then stay here, sweetheart,’ Nesserian said.

  D’Auria and Nesserian had their service weapons drawn at the archive door. Nesserian pushed it open with his foot and they entered, listening hard for anything to guide them through the maze of cabinets and cases.

  D’Auria heard something faint and pointed. They crept forward but changed course when they both heard Cal’s voice.

  Eve stood near him. The room was warm but she was shivering. Cal wanted to hold her but Barzani warned him not to move.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cal said to her.

  ‘Please don’t be.’

  ‘It was a mistake from the start getting you caught up in all this crap.’

  ‘I told you, it was the one adventure in my life.’

  D’Auria peeked around a row of cases and saw Barzani and his revolver. Then they heard Hamid’s voice speaking an unintelligible language, coming from somewhere else.

  D’Auria pointed to herself first, then the direction of Barzani. Nesserian nodded and pointed at himself, then the direction of Hamid. He crept off.

  D’Auria silently counted ten seconds then stepped out and acquired her target.

  ‘You with the gun. FBI. Drop it immediately or I will shoot to kill.’

  Barzani kept his gun on Cal.

  ‘I’m not fucking around,’ D’Auria said. ‘You’re about to die.’

  Barzani put the gun onto the floorboards.

  ‘Kick it all the way to me and get your hands on top of your head,’ she ordered.

  He complied and she scooped up the revolver.

  Nesserian turned the corner and pointed his weapon at Hamid.

  ‘Hey, asshole,’ he said. ‘FBI. Hands up.’

  Hamid kept his gaze fixed on the showstone.

  In Enochian, he cried out, ‘Enter this man, my lord. Enter this man’s heart!’

  Cal didn’t think he’d ever been happier to see someone in his life.

  ‘Agent D’Auria, you are a sight for sore eyes. I’d like you to meet Eve Riley.’

  D’Auria gave her a little smile and asked Cal if he had his Glock with him.

  ‘In my bag. It was very near but very far.’

  ‘Use it to cover me while I cuff this baboon. My partner’s circling around.’

  As Cal reached into his bag there was an explosion and blood began to shoot out the side of D’Auria’s head.

  She fell to her knees and then onto her side.

  Nesserian was standing near her with the blankest of stares. When her body convulsed he fired more rounds until she stopped moving.

  Cal felt the rough grip of the Glock against his hand.

  As he fired at Nesserian, Barzani was on the move, throwing his large body onto the floor. Hamid’s revolver had dropped from D’Auria’s grip. It was closer to Barzani than her own weapon.

  The 9mm rounds ripping into Nesserian’s torso weren’t bringing him down fast enough. He staggered and began wildly spraying bullets in Cal’s direction, but he was missing the mark and Cal raised the sights for a head shot.

  He pulled the trigger again and Nesserian fell, half on D’Auria, half off. One of his thighs landed on the revolver as Barzani reached for it.

  The big man was on his belly fishing for it.

  He looked up when Cal said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  Cal was standing directly over him.

  When he saw Barzani’s hand emerge from under Nesserian’s leg, holding the revolver, Cal grunted and put a round into the back of his bald head execution-style.

  ‘That’s for Hiram Donovan.’

  He fired again.

  His shoes and pant legs were blood-splattered.

  ‘And that’s for Bess Donovan.’

  ‘Eve?’ he said, turning around quickly to the sound of a moan. ‘You okay?’

  She was sitting on the floor, her back against a cabinet.

  ‘One of the bullets …’ she said.

  She held her hands tightly against her abdomen. They were dripping in fast-flowing blood.

  He reached for his phone and dialed 911, and as he knelt beside her he screamed into the speaker that multiple people were shot on the fifth floor of the Peabody Museum.

  He added his hands to hers to put pressure on the wound, but she began to slip, her voice getting thinner.

  ‘It’s okay, Cal. It’s okay.’

  ‘It’s not okay. Stay with me.’

  She seemed to be struggling to see him. ‘Last night,’ she whispered, ‘Pothnir told me this was going to happen. Didn’t know how. Or when. But I’m ready. Really, it’s good. At least I got to know a good man.’

  As her head slumped heavily onto his shoulder, he heard quick footsteps heading toward the door. They faded as Hamid ran down the hall.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Jessica picked him up from FBI headquarters late that afternoon. Three different teams interviewed him, trying to make sense of the fact that one of their own had killed Julia D’Auria. Despite his credentials as a full Harvard professor, the first group of questioners thought they were dealing with a fantasist, until someone retrieved Nesserian’s case notes and confirmed all the business about black mirrors and angel calls.r />
  Cal could not identify the older Iraqi-American, but Nesserian and D’Auria’s files led them to a billionaire property developer and landlord named George Hamid. Hamid’s private jet had taken off from Boston less than an hour after the shootings and flown to John Wayne Airport in southern California, but from there the trail went cold. The pilots had no idea where their passenger had gone after landing and they reported that a car wasn’t waiting for him on the tarmac. Hamid’s New York company personnel, and even his wife, were unaware that he had gone to the west coast, and his cellphone was no longer pinging towers. The FBI field office in Los Angeles, coordinating with the satellite office in Orange County, began canvassing car services and taxi companies.

  When Jessica met him in the lobby, his usual spark wasn’t there. He couldn’t even muster the faintest smile.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.

  ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘How’d it go?’ she asked.

  ‘They thought I was a nut.’

  ‘You are a nut. They’re not charging you with anything, right? I can get a team of lawyers involved in a heartbeat.’

  ‘There won’t be any charges,’ he said in a monotone.

  ‘Come on, I’m taking you to my place.’

  She didn’t then, or any time later, ask him a damned thing about his relationship with Eve Riley. As far as she was concerned, the woman was dead and so was the subject.

  And Cal was Cal – take him or leave him. Right now, she was taking him.

  A parade of luxury cars and limos were pulling up to the entrance of the Ritz Carlton in Laguna Niguel, discharging men in evening wear and women in ball gowns. The hotel was perched high on the cliffs overlooking the shimmering Pacific Ocean. The evening was warm and fair. Seagulls were feeding and their cries carried on a stiff breeze.

  The guest room was not remotely to his standard. He had made a last-minute reservation from his plane. The hotel had been nearly sold out and there were no suites on offer. But the room had a balcony with an ocean view. He had the doors wide open so he could hear the waves and see the sea quenching the setting sun.

  Hamid’s only luggage was the shoulder bag filled with sacred objects.

  At the museum, he had packed them in great haste. Now he unpacked slowly and carefully, treating each item with the gravitas it deserved.

  There was no reason to wait another minute. For all he knew, his last grains of sand were falling from the hourglass.

  He took the shade off a bedside lamp and positioned it to shine onto the black showstone sitting atop Doctor Dee’s table. It would have been more perfect if he had been able to memorize the 49th Call, but he had to read from Eve Riley’s transcription again.

  Satanail sat on his throne and said, ‘It is you.’

  He replied in the angel tongue, ‘Yes, my lord, it is I.’

  ‘You summon me again.’

  ‘It is time to ask you to help me achieve what I seek.’

  ‘What is it you seek?’

  Hamid had been holding his breath. He filled his lungs hungrily, let the air out, then said, ‘I seek the destruction of the Muslim race, the race that has long persecuted me and my Christian brethren. That is what I seek.’

  ‘I can only work through men. Which man should I enter?’

  Gabe Lonergan was in another wing of the hotel, occupying the lavish Ritz-Carlton Suite with his wife and a handful of aides.

  He emerged from the bedroom with a selection of neckties and asked his campaign manager which one he should wear.

  The manager, a veteran Republican operative, one of the highest-paid in the business, said, ‘Go with the red. You can’t go wrong with a red tie.’

  ‘Red it is,’ Lonergan said.

  He asked his wife to let him use the bathroom and knotted the tie in the mirror, fiddling with it to make it just so.

  Suddenly, he felt different.

  Very different.

  His hands dropped to his side. He was spellbound by the look of his own eyes.

  He was always supremely self-assured but there was something else coursing through him now. Something powerful and incandescent.

  It was rage.

  A few minutes later, he reappeared in the living room.

  ‘You look – different, honey,’ his wife said. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Never better.’

  His campaign manager was getting up to leave. ‘I’m just going to go down to the ballroom and make sure the speech is good to go on the teleprompter.’

  Lonergan said, ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘Don’t bother?’ the man replied. ‘You’re just about to announce your run to be president of the United States in front of every cable news network in the country and you don’t think I should bother making sure your speech is teed up?’

  ‘I’m scrapping it.’

  ‘What the fuck do you mean you’re scrapping it? Gretchen, what the fuck does your husband mean?’

  ‘I have no idea, Bob,’ she said. ‘He’s right here. Ask him.’

  ‘Come on, Gabe. This isn’t funny.’

  ‘I’m going with my gut tonight. I’m going to wing it. People are angry. I’m angry. It’s time for authenticity. Trust me.’

  Cal was on the balcony of Jessica’s condo, watching in the distance as planes took off and landed at Logan. There were pleasure boats out on Boston Harbor, red and green port and starboard lights moving across the black water. It was eleven o’clock. They hadn’t had dinner yet because Cal had taken a nap and stayed down for hours. Jessica wasn’t much of a cook but she managed to pull together spaghetti with something.

  ‘It’s ready,’ she called.

  He came in. The two of them sat at her kitchen counter on bar stools. The living-room big-screen was on low but neither of them was paying much attention.

  Lonergan made his entrance into the ballroom to the strains of a patriotic-sounding rock song. The room was awash in red, white, and blue. As he swept by tables, he paused to shake hands and exchange tidings with supporters.

  He didn’t see George Hamid, who had purchased a ticket at the door and was seated at a peripheral table. Hamid didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t in the limelight. It was no longer about him.

  Lonergan ignored the stairs and used his long, tennis-player legs to leap onto the stage where he waved at the crowd and smiled exuberantly. When he settled behind the podium he splayed his arms wide and rested his hands on either side.

  ‘Will someone please take these teleprompters away,’ he shouted into the microphone, ‘because I don’t need them!’

  At that, the crowd went into overdrive.

  Jessica looked at the TV and said, ‘Who the hell is Gabe Lonergan?’

  Cal knew the name but not a lot about him. ‘Another billionaire who thinks that’s a qualification to be president.’

  ‘Should I turn it off?’

  He was about to say yes but then he saw it.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said.

  Lonergan was doing something with his right hand. He was tapping against the lectern with four fingers.

  Seven taps. A pause. Seven taps.

  Seven taps. A pause. Seven taps.

  ‘Turn up the volume,’ Cal said, alarmed. ‘Hurry.’

  Lonergan asked for quiet then began to speak. He started almost conversationally, but five minutes into his speech he was leaning into the lectern and practically shouting.

  ‘You know, my friends, you’ve got to be crazy to run to be president. You’ve got to be crazy in love with this country. You’ve got to be crazy in love with freedom. You’ve got to be crazy in love with our core American values – and yes, I’ll say it, our core Judeo-Christian values. You’ve got to want to protect American working men and women and protect their children. You’ve got to want to protect our flag, protect our right to bear arms, protect our right to worship God, and protect our right to kick the ass of anyone who would take those rights away! And here’s w
here I’m going to be the most politically incorrect son-of-a-bitch to ever run for the presidency – tonight, as I declare my candidacy, I am declaring war on those low-lifes who want to destroy everything we’ve worked so hard to build since this country was founded. You know exactly who I mean. Say it with me. Radical. Islamic. Terrorists.’ The crowd enthusiastically joined in and he repeated the phrase three times. ‘And not only the terrorists,’ he shouted, ‘but all those who actively and even passively support them in the Muslim world. So tonight, I am declaring that I will be your candidate for the presidency but also the candidate who pledges to launch a crusade. I’m calling it a New American Crusade. We are going to take the fight to the Middle East, the Far East, to Africa, the Muslim strongholds in what used to be the great European cities, and yes, even the mosques in America if they choose to be breeding grounds of anti-American hate. And, my friends and fellow Americans, we will wipe these goddamn terrorists off the face of the Earth!’

  Jessica and Cal had stopped eating during the speech.

  ‘What the hell did we just see?’ she asked when it was over.

  ‘I think I know but I don’t like it,’ he said, reaching for the remote control.

  ‘An asshole like that can’t possibly win, can he?’ she asked.

  Cal hit the power button and the screen went black. He didn’t answer her.

  Lonergan was swamped by gleeful supporters as he tried to leave the ballroom. His flushed campaign manager was telling him he had to keep moving. They had a dozen interviews lined up.

  Near the back door, a smiling Hamid stepped forward and caught Lonergan’s attention.

  ‘It’s George Hamid, Gabe.’

  ‘George, you made it!’

  ‘It’s an honor. I just wanted to be the first person to call you, Mr President.’

  ‘Well, don’t be putting that cart too far ahead of the horse, George. But I’ll appreciate your help going forward.’

  ‘You already received it.’

  Lonergan gave him a peculiar look and bounded out of the ballroom.

  Hamid was back in his hotel room, getting out of his suit. A storm front was passing overhead, and the heavy wind was blowing a fine mist of rain through the screens of his balcony doors. He was dead tired. He would sleep through the night then decide what to do next. It almost didn’t matter. He had never felt so calm. He had never felt so at peace.