Nightwatch: The Sin Watcher
By jaimie l. elliott
Nightwatch created by Jeff Williams
Developed by Jeff Williams and Robert Moriyama
“Allow what
is done for you to be done for you. Do
for yourself that which you have to do for yourself.”
- Ibrahim Khawwas
(The Palm Weaver)
“New organs
of perception come into being as a result of necessity.
Therefore,
O man, increase your necessity, so that you may increase your perception.”
- Jalaludin
Rumi
Part 1 - The Dust of
The dust of
Another downward mist materialized even as shafts of sunlight taunted through ragged holes torn within the clouds. His fiery blood chilled. He desired to escape the diesel smell of passing lorries and the clamor of autos, to avoid the crowded, pale faces that eyed him suspiciously. Around him he saw a different type of grime than the dust of Afghanistan. Not worse, not better, but different, and it unnerved him even though he had spent most of his long existence staring down the barrels of muskets and rifles. He stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk, fellow pedestrians eyeing him curiously as they proceeded around him. “I think that Zahoor can wait a bit longer,” he muttered to himself and ducked into a nearby tavern.
The smell of cigarette smoke washed over him, soothing him. He inhaled deeply the beautiful scent as he scanned the dark establishment, not much more than a single, claustrophobic room. A few men sat around at the bar, huddled in their own obscurity. A football game played silently on a small telly hanging from the ceiling in the corner.
He ambled up to the bar and settled down upon a worn stool. The bartender, a squat fellow with thick, dark brows perched over watery eyes, walked over to him. “What can I get you, old fella?” he asked gruffly.
A Jinn and Sin?, Massoud thought wryly. “Scotch,” he said aloud. “Uhm, as you say, straight up?”
The man nodded. “Right.” He poured the viscous liquor into a tumbler on a napkin in front of him. “Cheers,” he said cheerlessly.
Massoud sipped his single malt scotch, savoring its smoky flavor. It kindled the warmth in his gullet. He grimaced at all the dusty, cold days roaming the rugged mountains of Afghanistan, denied the simple comfort of alcohol. “Foolish Muslims,” he mumbled in Urdu. “Foolish humanity.”
“Want another one?” asked the bartender.
Massoud looked up from his glass. He smiled appreciatively, gesturing his right hand in a flowery manner. “Please,” he said pleasantly.
“No ice, right?”
“That is correct.”
The bartender pointed at him to acknowledge his order. Massoud immediately quelled the anger rising within him at the impolite gesture, realizing he now roamed the land of Westerners. Still, it remained difficult to reconcile the cultural differences. He chided himself for even caring about these human customs, so contradictory.
“Where’re you from, mate?” asked the bartender as he placed another glass in front of Massoud. He wiped his thick fingers on his stained, white polo shirt.
The grizzled
Afghanistani picked through the endless countries from his past. “
“Right. Didn’t think you’re from ‘round here. Most of the Muslims keep to Manningham.”
Massoud grinned. “Yes, I plan on heading over there myself.” A pang of guilt soured the scotch in his stomach.
“Brilliant,” said the bartender, faking interest. “Well, welcome to merry old England.”
Massoud nodded and made another showy gesture. He glumly stared at his drink, his finger gliding around the rim. He felt so tired. He expected to feel elation at finally unearthing the lost artifact. It had been so long, searching for the Key of Solomon, passing from one generation to the next, easing in and out of his latest identity. He had long lost count of all the dead. The Persians. The Taliban. The British and the Russians. The weight of all their blood, both foe and friend, hung heavily on his soul. After all that, he had entrusted Simon and Nightwatch to place the Key beyond humanity’s reach.
Only to watch as the world unraveled around him, the Key abused by those same ignorant hands he had trusted. He shook his head at his stupidity.
“Oy, who let the old Paki in?”
Massoud glanced up to see a heavyset man in a blue workman shirt glaring at him from down the bar.
“For fuck’s sake, Charlie, leave him alone,” warned the bartender.
“Oh, get off it, Pete,” slurred the big man. “What’s that shite doing here? Why isn’t he mingling with his own kind o’er in Hanover Square? Or do they think they can breed us out of the rest of Bradford?”
Massoud studied the man intensely and hissed at what he discerned. Please don’t talk to me, he thought with distaste, cringing noticeably. He debated leaving and saw his drink untouched, the brown liquid inviting. The dogs bark but the caravan moves on.
As Massoud reached for money in his jacket, the man spoke loudly, “Fucking get lost, you Paki trash.” His fellow patrons chuckled darkly.
The Afghanistani gritted his teeth. He knew he should indeed ‘get lost’ and leave this piece of camel dung to his miserable existence. He felt his malevolence rising. Calmly, he removed his hand from his jacket and instead took out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He tapped one out gingerly. He placed the cigarette to his lips and puffed deeply, exhaling out a great plume of smoke. Smiling coldly, he asked the stranger, “Have you visited your nephew of late? The one you call Robbie?”
The man named Charlie nearly fell from his stool, the steadying hand of a companion keeping him from tipping over. “Oy, how’d you know of him?” he demanded. “Who in the bloody hell are you?” He rose from his seat unsteadily, his face apoplectic. His clenched fists shook angrily.
“Who am I?” replied Massoud, arching his eyebrow. “That is a good question. I know what I am not. I am not a man that molests children.”
Charlie’s crimson face turned suddenly pallid. “Bollocks,” he stammered, glancing around nervously. “You’re a bloody fucking liar, you are!”
“Tell me,” continued the Afghanistani. “How do you sleep knowing that little boy cries for the deliverance of God, shivering in the darkness he now so greatly fears?”
A strangled gurgle escaped from the Englishman as he gripped tight the edge of the bar. Massoud walked up to him, the pinpoints of fire dancing in his pupils. He blew smoke into the man’s round, pudgy face. Charlie’s companions, who had laughed with him just moments before, edged away. “If I could bless you the way we did to our Russians captives, my dear friend, it would only be the beginning of the hell reserved for your kind.”
“Right, then!” shouted the bartender, pointing at Massoud. “Out you go!”
Massoud glared and threw some bills down upon the beaten countertop. “I beg your forgiveness. I was about to make my leave anyway.” He took the cigarette from his mouth and carefully laid it atop the bar. Smiling tightly, he touched his head in farewell. On his way out, he noticed the disgusted bartender pick up the discarded butt only to find it whole and unlit.
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed the astonished bartender, momentarily oblivious to the weeping Charlie slumped over with his plump hands clutching his chest.
Massoud staggered out into the drizzle, his smile twisting into a grimace. He bent over, hands on knees, the sick taste lingering in his mouth. It is only what I deserve. After a brief moment, he straightened and adjusted his jacket. Face determined, he continued onward to Manningham, to another world, a piece of Muslim Asia wedged within the fabric of the great British tapestry. “On to Little Islamabad,” he mused to himself.
Something flickered at the corner of his eye. He glanced sharply down an alleyway and glimpsed a shadow lurking momentarily in the darkness. He sneered, his rage taking hold once more. “Simon Litchfield, what have you done?”
Part 2 - Back to the Land of the Living
“Simon
Litchfield, what you have done this time?”
asked Stephanie exasperated.
“That’s Dr. Simon Litchfield,” he replied smoothly, his attention focused on the Arts & Living section of the Washington Post. “And I have no idea what I’ve done this time.” He sipped his coffee without peering up.
Stephanie fumed impotently. “Aargh. You’re so damn obstinate.”
“Obstinate: Sticking with an opinion or position despite reason or logic to the contrary.”
“Simon!”
This time he looked up. He carefully folded the paper and placed it on the table. “Sorry,” he said. “What’s wrong, Mizz Keel?”
She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. She sensed the migraine coming on, the slow but inevitable thunderhead. Her eyes still closed, she replied in measured tones, “You know I don’t like being addressed as ‘Mizz’.”
“Right,” he nodded curtly. “Won’t happen again.” He reached down for his paper.
“That’s not the crux of the issue, mister.”
His hand paused a couple inches from the article he so keenly wanted to read. Sighing, he withdrew his hand. “Okay, I’m sorry. What exactly is the issue then?”
“You need to stop angering Callow,” she said simply.
Simon rolled his eyes. “I need to stop angering Callow?” he said indignantly. “He’s the evil one! Spawn of Satan? Son of Demogorgon? Have you forgotten that?”
“I agree,” she mollified, motioning for calm. “But it’s gotten out of hand recently. It’s almost like you two are at war. You can’t start a fight with him over every single thing that crops up.”
“We don’t disagree on everything,” he grumbled. “For example, we both acknowledge that the world is round.” He waggled his finger, “Although I would bet good money he thinks it more oval-shaped.”
Stephanie laughed despite herself. “Just pick your battles to fight, okay? You have to work with this guy. I have to work with this guy. We have to work with this guy. See the theme here?”
“Alright, alright, I get it,” he said. “Kumbaya and all that.” He bestowed upon her his puppy dog look. “Now can I please finish reading the paper?”
She dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “You have my permission,” she deadpanned, rising from her seat.
He harrumphed a reply.
Stephanie exited the lounge and headed to her desk, navigating the narrow, fluorescent-guided hallways of building F of the Nightwatch Institute. She missed Tom. He seemed to be the one to nudge them back on track, his gentleness and patience a balm to Simon’s curmudgeonly nature and her introspective shell. Lately, she and Simon argued a lot, the good-natured quips edging toward unpleasantness. A bit guiltily, she realized that deep inside, she still carried some resentment going back to the Cardenio incident. “Come back soon, Tom,” she said quietly, glancing through the tiles into the imagined depths of outer space. “And safely,” she added.
She arrived at her office and plopped down heavily in her chair. Simon vexed her lately. He seemed to bristle at the mere mentioning of Callow’s name. It started to affect his work. Unfortunately for them all, the progeny of demons loomed as an unwanted step in many of their activities. He could not be dismissed as an inconvenience.
“Heya Steph,” said a familiar voice.
She looked up from her reverie to see Kevin’s infectious grin in the doorway.
She smiled back. “Hey!” The tide of her migraine abated for the moment. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to see if you’re still up for that movie tonight.”
“Sure,” she said, hesitating.
“Great,” he purred. “I’ll stop by your place at seven?”
“Uhm, no, I might be working late. I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay,” he said affably. He winked. “See you then.”
“Okay,” she smiled back. She giggled as Kevin bumped into a filing cabinet. He shrugged sheepishly.
Stephanie leaned back into her chair and exhaled nervously. She liked Kevin. He understood her need to take things slowly, the wounds of the past still too fresh. Regardless, she was a long way off from having a significant other. “Back to the land of the living,” she murmured. She glanced up toward Tom. Well, at least I’m trying, she argued in vain to the ceiling.
A sudden pang of the inevitable migraine caused her to wince. She had experienced the headaches since last year, around the time they had discovered the Dragon’s Egg. They seemed to have gotten worse recently.
Through the throbbing, she noticed Alice, the current administrative assistant, cautiously hovering near the doorway, nervously fingering the lapel of her stylish pale blue business suit. “Hi Ms. Keel,” said Alice in a thin, wavering voice.
“Yes?” asked Stephanie irritably and immediately regretted her harshness. For some reason, she intimidated the poor woman, today being no exception.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” stammered Alice, taking a step back.
Oh for God’s sakes. “No, no, that’s okay.” Stephanie rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry, I just have a headache is all. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Dr. Litchfield. He has an urgent message from England.”
A looming apprehension took hold. “He’s in the lounge,” Stephanie said slowly. “I would be careful though. He’ll tear your head off if you disturb him while he’s reading his paper.”
The administrative assistant blanched noticeably.
Stephanie sighed. “I’m joking, Alice.”
The skittish woman nodded abruptly, hurrying off to secure Simon.
“Our next secretary definitely needs to have a sense of humor,” she groused to herself and then flinched as another stab of pain jolted her brain. She looked over at the poster of the world map tacked up on the wall, her eyes locating the island nation of England. She had never been there before, much to her surprise. Then again, she was not as worldly as Simon. Few people were. Involuntarily, she glanced down the hallway, expecting him to appear at any moment.
As if on cue, he appeared from around a corner, face troubled yet again, his gray hair neatly combed, his khaki clothes slightly frumpy as always. Dear lord, I’m starting to guess his every move. She glumly glanced over at the phone, wondering if she should call Kevin now to let him know she would be unavailable tonight.
Part 3 - The Wrong Side is the Right Side
Crossing a road in England proved to be a harrowing experience, her eyes glancing left instead of right, as she barely avoided a miniature version of a car whining past, the horn eee-eee’ing feebly. Stephanie ignored Simon’s smirk as they made their way through the noisy bustle of airport dissonance, their rental car awaiting them outside Leeds Bradford’s International terminal. She left her life in Simon’s capable hands as he navigated the unfamiliar streets, trusting in him to understand that the wrong side is the right side over here.
“How did you get that to work without the Nightbird’s communication array?” asked Simon, referring to her PDA / mobile phone. They entered a roundabout, taking the first exit to Victoria Avenue.
Stephanie frowned as she scrolled through her email on the device. “I’m Wile E. Coyote, super-genius.” She glanced up from the display and smiled endearingly. “You’re thinking of the satellite phone, silly. This is the cell phone model.”
“Isn’t that a tad unsecured?”
“It’s still encrypted,” she assured him.
“Huh, looks just like the one I used over in Afghanistan.”
“Well,” she said slowly as she turned her attention back to the PDA, “they don’t have much of an infrastructure over there to support a mobile network. Hence you used the model with the satellite phone.”
“I should know better than argue with a cartoon character,” he quipped. He clenched his fingers repeatedly, the arthritis acting up in the damp weather. “Did Kevin manage to find anything on Zahoor?”
“Sifting through his emails now,” she replied. “He didn’t find much. Just a reference to him in Trends magazine, some British Muslim publication He’s a Sufi according to the article. Government files indicate he emigrated from Pakistan but he hasn’t caused any trouble. He’s not on any watch lists.”
“I wonder what his relationship is with Massoud,” mused Simon. “What could he want with an Islamic mystic?”
“Hopefully not to spread further intolerance and ignorance in the world,” she said darkly.
Simon eyed her sideways. “I didn’t know you had a problem with religion.”
Stephanie looked up from her PDA / mobile phone and stared outside at the old buildings whirling by, everything seeming more compact, the cars smaller, the houses narrower. “I’m not a big proponent of organized religion,” she admitted. “But I have real issues with Islam. They seem to have a certain disregard when it comes to women.”
“Well, Christianity has some real sexist overtones,” argued Simon. “I wouldn’t say it’s only Islam. The whole blaming Eve thing, for example.”
“You won’t hear an argument from me. But at least in the modern age, the majority believes in equal rights. That’s not true with a lot of Muslims.”
“Maybe they just need more time.”
“They need something,” mumbled Stephanie. She gave Simon a discerning glance. “So why did you bring me along on this trip?” Their decision to take a public jet had left them scant time to discuss the situation.
Simon exhaled. In the morning light, his hair seemed more white than gray, the lines in his tanned face more defined. “Massoud knows we have the Egg. I don’t understand how he could, but he does. He was very... curt... over the phone. He outright stated that we were destroying the world although he didn’t elaborate on how exactly we were managing Armageddon.”
“You believe him?”
He shrugged. “I’ve but glimpsed its power, and with that furtive peek, I’ve seen its potential. I have no doubt in my mind that it could tear reality a new one.” A chunky bug splattered on the windshield, startling Stephanie. Simon turned on the wiper spray, the effort doing little except smear the insect’s guts across the glass. “It almost seems like he knows more than he’s letting on. But if he did, then why did he let us take the Egg in the first place?”
Stephanie watched him piece the puzzle together in his mind. For all his talents, his ability to make intuitive leaps in logic impressed her the most. “So he invited you over,” she said.
“Demanded, more like it. Massoud is a tough sonofabitch. Even the most devout of the Taliban feared him. They say he had special powers.” He grinned boyishly at her. “That’s why I brought you along, to act as backup.”
“Great, I’m a bodyguard,” she grumbled and then paused. “Did you know I had a date with Kevin last night?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t,” he replied, his face a mask. Another pause. “Do you think you’re ready--,” he began as he turned toward her.
She glared at him with narrowing eyes.
“--to meet this Sufi?” he finished seamlessly. “I mean, he is a holy man. We need to act respectful.”
“I’ll be better with him than you are with Callow.”
Simon winced. “Touché, darling. Touché.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice crackling with impatience, her fingers massaging her temples.
“Manningham,” replied Simon, his eyes switching between the crumpled directions sitting on his lap and the road before them. “It’s part of Bradford. If I recall correctly, it has a large Muslim population. It’s also rundown with a lot of crime.”
“So that’s why Kevin sent this info. Apparently, it was the site of some riots back in the nineties.”
“It’s not easy being a stranger in another country, Steph. It’s especially difficult for Muslims. The Koran isn’t told from the perspective of a minority. How does one reconcile that?” His eyes lingered on her for a second. “You experiencing those headaches again?”
Stephanie nodded. “They got progressively worse during the flight. Once we landed, they became really bad.” She rooted around in her bag to find the medication that did not seem to help much.
“It’s only fifteen minutes to Manningham. We’ll make this as quick as possible and then head to the hotel so you can get some rest.”
Her lips grim, she replied, “I’ll be fine, Simon. I’m a tough girl.”
“That you are,” he chuckled.
Part 4 - The Music of the Spheres
“Here we
are,” said Simon, gazing up at the dilapidated, redbrick building that teetered
above them. “The
Stephanie glanced around, feeling awkward in the midst of bearded men dressed in their salwar kameez suits and kufi skullcaps. She had expected some influence of Southeast Asian Islamic culture, but nothing of this magnitude, with many of the building signs written in a language she did not recognize. Even though she saw a few women and even some younger people wearing Western clothes, all eyes seemed to focus on her. “Are you going to stand out here admiring the architecture?” she grumbled.
“Well, I am an engineer,” he replied. Not seeing a doorbell, he rapped his knuckles on the peeling paint of the frame.
The door complained noisily as someone tugged it open. A young bearded man garbed in local Muslim clothes greeted them with a cautious smile. He wore a light tan salwar and a red head covering. He bowed his head slightly, addressing them in an unfamiliar language.
“I think he’s speaking Punjabi,” said Simon. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Do you speak English?”
The man frowned. “No English,” he muttered.
“Massoud Khalili?” asked Simon. “Zahoor Phadkar?” He pointed to his own chest. “Simon Litchfield.”
The stranger’s eyes lit up. He nodded his head eagerly. “Yes, yes,” he replied, motioning them
inside.
They entered a simple, clean room,
with low-sitting padded chairs and equally low
benches. Windows to their right provided
dim, haphazard light from the mercurial England sun. Oriental rugs covered the worn wood floor,
the scent of strange spices lingering in the air. Their smiling host graciously offered them a
seat. As soon as they made themselves
comfortable on a bench, he departed through a curtained doorway.
Stephanie grimaced, her head
pounding. She began to cross her legs
when Simon grabbed her ankle. “Not
trying to be fresh,” he said, “but it’s considered extremely rude to show the
soles of your feet to a Muslim.”
She sighed. “I knew that.” She leaned back on the low seat, her shoes planted firmly on the floor. She sat in stillness, her migraine consuming her attention. Their host came back a few minutes later with a tray of hot tea that he placed on the table in front of them. He stood to the side quietly. Stephanie picked up one of the steaming cups and gazed at the milky, pink liquid with pieces of nuts and cinnamon floating on top. She sipped carefully and for a moment forgot all her discomfort, the deliciously spicy, salty Kashmiri chai overwhelming her tongue.
Another
Pakistani entered the room, shorter and much older, wearing an off-white salwar kameez with matching kufi.
His beard seemed like snow. “Assalam alaikum,” greeted the old man, grinning
affably. “Welcome to my home.”
Simon rose to his feet, his knees popping loudly. “And peace be with you,” he replied back. “You must be Mr. Zahoor Phadkar.” He motioned to Stephanie still seated. “This is my associate, Ms. Stephanie Keel.”
She reluctantly placed her unfinished tea on the tray and also stood. She forced a smile.
Zahoor nodded warmly at her. Addressing them both, he said, “I am glad you came so quickly upon Massoud’s request.”
“Where is Massoud?” asked Simon. “If you don’t mind me asking?”
“I am here, Simon,” rumbled a voice from the doorway.
Stephanie turned her head and experienced an unexpected stab of fear. She had seen pictures of the ancient, grizzled Afghanistani before, but nothing in those photos conveyed his eyes, glowing pupils that pierced her soul, leaving her very essence naked and exposed. The sensation rekindled a buried memory of William Gryphus standing over her abused, battered body as it lay tied to a musty bed. She placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder to keep her from collapsing back onto the bench.
Simon glanced at her, concern etched in his features.
“Aren’t you going to say hello, Simon?” she said through gritted teeth. Her head swam and thumped painfully, her heart roaring in her ears. She pushed back against the nausea bubbling inside her.
Simon tore his eyes away from her to gaze upon his old comrade-in-arms. The pall of silence burdened the room. Even in her pain-laden haze, Stephanie sensed the tension between the two men.
“How’s it going, old man?” asked Simon hopefully. “It’s a bit far from the dusty mountains of Afghanistan.”
“Yes, quite a distance,” replied Massoud slowly. “A necessary trip, unfortunately. A trip necessitated by your irresponsible ways.”
“Hold on--,” protested Simon.
“No, you hold on,” interrupted the Afghanistani, his voice increasing in volume. “The time for childish games is over. You must return the artifact to me immediately. You’ve done great harm to the world.” His voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “You may already have destroyed it.”
His face reddening, Simon made ready to retort but then composed himself. “Massoud, if there’s something you knew about the Egg, you should have told me. If I’ve done something wrong, it is out of ignorance. What is it that you’re not telling me? What exactly have I done wrong?”
“What you have done wrong?” snarled Massoud venomously, his disconcerting number of teeth flashing predatory. “You said you would not use it, that you would keep it safe from the ambitious talons of your fellow men. That you would throw into the depths of a volcano, never to be seen again. Do you not remember when you used the ultrasound upon the Key? How the very fabric of time tore asunder? And now I find that the world is not safe, for the one I trusted the most has tempted fate again. Deny it! Deny that you have not set your greedy fingers to tamper upon it!”
Stephanie
watched her friend curiously. Simon had
not told her of anything involving the Egg other than what happened in
Simon sighed. “Yes, but it was not my doing. There are others with more... influence... than myself. I had thought the Egg sunk into the depths of molten lava. I did not find out the truth until afterwards.”
Callow’s doing, thought Stephanie. This is going to get ugly. Her eyes quickly scanned the room. They had not brought any weapons and the only thing near at hand that seemed adequate was a brass candleholder on the window sill. She casually inched toward it.
“I’m sorry, old friend,” continued Simon, stiffening. “I can’t return the Egg, especially if I don’t know what it’s capable of.” Massoud snarled, his fists clenching.
Stephanie readied herself, her battle reflexes taking over, the thumping in her head muted in the background. Okay, take out the other two as quickly as possible while Simon engages Massoud. If that bear is half as tough as he says, he’ll need all the help he can get. She felt a strange calm, the world slowing before her. She had always awed her fighting instructors in the past with her skill and instincts. It was as if she took all the hate and hurt and self-loathing inside her and forged it, a keen blade both fast and surgical.
“Perhaps a forthcoming approach may be more welcome,” said Zahoor calmly, snapping Stephanie out of her frame of mind. The thick anxiety clouding the air abated for the moment. “They cannot see because of the veil before their eyes. We must pull it back so they can view the situation more clearly.”
“What are you saying, you old fool?” snapped Massoud. “You and your veils! Your outdated tasawwuf will not provide us wisdom here.”
“What has your shrouded ways accomplished, except bring discord among us?” countered the Sufi. “We are all children of Adam. The danger is real to each and every one. They are right to want to understand.”
“We are not going to tell them anything,” said grizzled Afghanistani flatly.
“I must respectfully state that the decision is not yours to make,” said Zahoor. Yet despite that edict, he waited expectantly.
Massoud snorted, waving his hand dismissively. “So be it. Speak, then, old man! If you are so wise.”
Zahoor bowed to him and then turned to Simon and Stephanie. “The object you call the Dragon’s Egg has another name, an ancient one. It is the Key of Solomon. With it, kings of times past have unlocked the doors to other worlds. Solomon himself, in conjunction with his Ring, bound the jinn into his service by use of these powerful items.”
Stephanie stifled a laugh at such a preposterous statement. She looked sideways at Simon and expected him to be smirking as well. Instead, she saw a face serious and concerned.
“How do you know this?” asked Simon.
“I am part of an ancient order,” replied the Sufi, “the Sulaiman Silsila, or the ‘Order of Solomon’. Our sole duty is to safeguard the Key and prevent its use for evil ends. Solomon, in his great wisdom, knew the object too powerful for normal men, so he hid it. We have remained vigilant for the last three thousand years in the event of its return.”
“When it was unearthed in Afghanistan last year,” said Stephanie.
“Please do not interrupt,” barked Massoud, the disdain evident in his expression.
Stephanie glared at him, the earlier fear she felt dissipating with her rising anger. “I’ll interrupt if I damn well feel like it.” She turned back toward Zahoor. “So when it was found, why did you entrust it to Nightwatch?”
The Sufi smiled. “To answer that question, I shall ask one. How does a person safeguard an indestructible object of tremendous power?”
“It can’t be destroyed,” observed Simon. “It’s too large to hide easily. Its existence is known to every major nation of the world. So you need to put it out of reach, which is why we decided to put it in the volcano.”
Massoud rumbled his displeasure.
“We probably should have sent it up with Tom,” said Stephanie. “Toss it into the sun.”
Simon bestowed her with a sardonic look. “You know, it’s so easy to make judgments in hindsight. Besides,” he continued irritably, “I wouldn’t put that thing near the Tesla generators powering those ships. It would probably open up a wormhole or a singularity or--,” he suddenly paused, deep in thought. “Hmm...” he said aloud before realizing he had gone off on a tangent. “Anyway, you mentioned jinn and other worlds.”
“Therein lies the threat,” said Massoud. He wandered to the window, his fiery eyes fixed on people passing by. Stephanie backed away and stood closer to Simon.
“There are still too many questions,” said Simon frowning. “For one thing, Solomon existed a long time before the birth of Islam. How did Sufis get involved? Secondly, how did the ancients control or even create the Key?”
“The delineation amongst the various religions of God, may He be exalted, was not as marked back then as it is now,” explained Zahoor. “When Sufism was young, it often incorporated Christian and Jewish elements. It is told that the burden came to us at behest of a dying Kabalah sect. As for the Key...” The Sufi shrugged. “It had existed long before Adam, perhaps forged by the jinn. Not even Solomon knew. The exact manner of its control has also been lost. We do know a few things. The most important was that the Key responded to the ’sama.”
“The music of the spheres,” said Massoud quietly, his eyes still fixated outside.
“Yes,” agreed Zahoor. “The harmonic sound that existed in the primordial that brought about the creation of the universe. That is the key to the Key.”
“And the ancients knew the ’sama?” asked Simon.
“To a degree. It is not so much knowing it as hearing it, a gift that precious few have.” He motioned to the Pakistani who had answered the door and stood silent throughout the conversation. “Daud has that gift. He can hear the ’sama. It is our hope that he can bring back the harmony and close the doors that are now ajar.”
“Ultrasound definitely seems to be the trigger,” stated Simon. “I doubt the ancients had access to that. The Key expected gasoline and we used rocket fuel.’”
“I think you are right,” said Zahoor. “From what little we know, the harmonic sound was produced by a group of men chanting together. Through their precise skill, they could open and shut specific doors. Using ultrasound may have caused the Key of Solomon to behave in manners unexpected... and dangerous.”
Massoud angrily beat his fist against the wall. The whole house seemed to shake. He turned to them. “The art of the mystics has long been lost! Besides, even their skills might not have mended the damage done by this ultrasound.” He glared accusatorily at Simon.
“Ah, my old friend,” said Zahoor smiling, “the trick is not to open doors, but to close them. And when they are all closed, the ’sama is in complete harmony.” He bowed slightly to Simon. “We will need to use the ultrasound on the Key. Daud will listen to the ’sama and guide it until harmony is again achieved.”
“So we’ll all head back to Washington,” said Simon. “I can arrange with our scientists--”
Massoud laughed bitterly. “You think it that easy?”
“It’s never that easy,” said Stephanie gloomily.
The Afghanistani grinned wickedly. “Zahoor, tell him the second part.”
The Sufi
grimaced. Almost apologetically, he
said, “Daud can only hear the ’sama well enough at certain places in the world, places
where a Ring has been constructed. There
is no known Ring in
“The Ring of Solomon,” said Stephanie. “According to mythology, wasn’t that some sort of magical item that he wore to control the jinn?”
“Myth,” grumbled Massoud disapprovingly. Stephanie ignored him.
“Time and legend has made the Ring a piece of jewelry,” said Zahoor. “In actuality, it was a circle of power where the ancients could stand and chant and bring forth the doors to other worlds.”
“Whoa,”
interrupted Simon, “are you suggesting we need to head to the Middle East? To the
Zahoor shook his head. “Alas, that Ring has long been lost. There were other Rings, however, all which predated Solomon’s, which was the last. Stonehenge is one such Ring and the most famous. However, it is far to the south and closely watched by all. What we need is one a bit more discrete.”
“How many other Rings are in England?” asked Simon.
“This land is full of ancient stone circles,” replied Massoud, “constructed long before the Druids, who in turn incorporated the Rings into their rituals.” He motioned his hand to his right. “The one we seek is to the northwest.”
“Castlerigg,” added Zahoor. “Near Keswick.”
“Well then,” said Stephanie, eager to escape Massoud’s angry gaze. “Let’s go examine this particular collection of rocks, shall we?”
Part 5 - Castlerigg
Stephanie exhaled wearily. “It’s a four hour drive to Keswick,” she said glumly. Her thundering headache caused her to wince at every bump in the road.
“It’s more like three,” said Simon, his attention fixed on Massoud’s car in front of them. “I can drop you off at the hotel so you can get some rest. Let me signal that bitter sonofabitch--”
“No, it’s alright,” she said. “I can doze during the drive.” She pulled out her PDA / mobile phone and began typing an email to Kevin. She needed more information on Solomon, Sufism, stone circles, and, in particular, anything that concerned the ’sama As she hit the send button, she belatedly realized that the email was terse and formal. He’s probably expecting me to send a ‘Hello, handsome’ or ‘How are you?’ and here I as demanding as a drill sergeant.
“Something bothering you?” asked Simon.
Stephanie closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window, listening to the rhythm of the road. “Just thinking about the conversation with Zahoor.”
“Me too,” he said, chewing his lip. “If this situation with Castlerigg turns out to be true, the logistics concerning the Egg will be problematic. And I’m not naïve enough to believe that Callow will just let us go and borrow the thing.”
“I was actually thinking about something else,” she said softly.
“What’s that?”
Stephanie paused. Opening her eyes, she swiveled her head toward Simon. “If there’s one thing that both you and I possess is a healthy dose of skepticism. Hell, we make the gang from Scooby Doo look gullible in comparison--”
“Well, Shaggy and the dog are fairly gullible,” he mumbled.
“--which is why I can’t figure out why you accepted Zahoor’s story about other dimensions and magical genies and the fate of world based on something called Solomon’s Key.” She studied him.
“Huh,” replied Simon after a moment and then remained silent.
“You want more time to formulate an answer?” she asked.
He scratched his jaw and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Stephanie could almost see the various explanations filtering through his mind. “Let me get it started for you,” she continued. “‘I used the Key of Solomon and...’”
The statement made him scowl. He glanced at her and finally sagged in defeat. “And I traveled back in time. To 1939, to be precise. Callow coerced me into going.” Through clenched teeth, “We came to blows over it.”
“You never told me,” said Stephanie.
“Listen Steph, it’s not something I’m proud of. He convinced me that the world was in danger. In reality, it was us that caused the problem. And in the end, I had to do something... terrible.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he responded bluntly.
“I see,” she said icily, her arms crossed. “So you get to know all about my darkest experiences. The things that still cause me nightmares. Things that still wake me up in a cold sweat at night. But God forbid if I should know anything concerning you.”
“Steph, it’s not the same.”
“You’re right,” she said morosely. “It’s not.” She tilted back her seat until she lay almost prone.
“But--,” began Simon.
Stephanie, her eyes closed, placed a finger to her lips. War drums assailed her temples. Disappointment festered in her chest. Sunlight flickered through the unkempt clouds and teased her eyelids with veiled brilliance. Yet despite all that, her head lolled to the side and sleep settled fast upon her.
* * * * *
“Steph. Steph, wake up.”
Stephanie’s eyes fluttered open. She groaned as she worked out the kink in her neck. Not surprisingly, the thundering in her head had not abated. In fact, it seemed worse than ever. “Where are we?” she asked groggily.
“I’m pulling into the lay-by right now.”
“What’s a ‘lay-by’?”
“It’s the British equivalent of a parking lot,” Simon replied as he eased the car into a cramped parking space.
“I keep forgetting you were born here.” She yawned mightily as she straightened her seat. “You don’t sound British.”
He eyed her ruefully. “Well, when you’re twelve years old, it’s gets bloody tiresome hearing the same jokes over and over again. I finally gave up my accent altogether when I turned to the girl next to me and asked, in the most innocent of childlike naivety, for a rubber, not realizing the correct term is ‘eraser’.”
Stephanie snickered. “I wouldn’t have had the same issue. I only write in pen.”
“Let’s forgo my childhood trauma and focus on the task at hand, shall we?” he said as he opened the door. Massoud, Zahoor, and Daud waited for them by their car.
Stephanie debated whether to go back to sleep. Resignedly, she pulled on the door handle and slid out of her seat, her sneakers crunching pebbles on the gray asphalt. The clouds had eased back during her nap, leaving the world in a surreal glow. It slowly dawned upon her that a beautiful vista that surrounded them, a cascade of multi-layered hills and rolling fields. “Wow,” she stammered.
“The view is even better at the stones,” said Zahoor smiling. “Come, come. Let us see!” He beckoned to a grassy knoll that led up to the worn stones above.
“Hope you’re not offended if I don’t skip and prance,” muttered Simon.
Stephanie made ready for a smartass reply when a stab of pain twisted her brain, like her heartbeat but much louder, a pulsing jolt, Ka-Khoom Ka-Khoom Ka-Khoom. She grunted, the splendid view wavering as she focused on retaining her sanity. A wave of dizziness washed over her.
“You okay, Steph?” asked Simon.
“Yeah, just got a cramp,” she hissed. “Must have slept awkwardly.”
She knew that he knew that she lied, but neither said anything. She placed one foot in front of the other, her eyes trained on the ground. She feared to glance upward and lose what little balance remained. So intent her eyes upon the ground, she almost bumped into a grazing sheep. At least by looking down I probably won’t step on a turd.
They finally reached the top, a short walk for the others but an eternity for her. She found a smaller rock and immediately sat down upon it. Guiltily, she wondered if she broke any laws by doing this and saw others loitering on other stones. A couple kids jumped from one craggy rock to another. The analytical part of her thought this a terrible way to treat humankind’s ancient heritage. The screaming, tortured part gave exactly two shits on the matter. She wiped the cold sweat off her brow.
Ka-Khoom Ka-Khoom Ka-Khoom
“I must admit, this is an incredible view,” said Simon. “We’re in the Lake District, right?”
“You are correct,” replied Zahoor enthusiastically. “There is art in the placement of the rocks. See how they fit within the landscape? Look to the north at Blencathra and west towards Skiddaw. Notice how the stones harmonize with the fells? The view changes with the weather, the sun highlighting different aspects.” He motioned to the set of stones forming a rough rectangle within the circle on the eastern side. “It is said that these rocks here align with the equatorial sun.”
“Strange,” observed Simon, “but it’s not a true circle. It’s more egg-shaped, flattened on the northeast.”
The Sufi made ready to reply when Massoud interjected. “Let us discuss why we’re here,” he growled in a low voice. The other visitors had shifted away from them, leaving them a sort of privacy. One couple quickly left, doing their best not to stare. Stephanie hazarded that some of that came from racist distrust of the Muslims. Mostly, however, it probably centered on the animosity that seemed to swirl around the irritable Massoud.
“Well,” said Simon, surveying the area, “it’s fairly spacious, I’d say about one hundred feet across with plenty of gaps between the clusters of stones. There should be little effort involved placing the Key up here. Do we need to position it in any special arrangement?”
“I must confess my ignorance,” said Zahoor demurely. “The rite has not been performed for thousands of years. The details have long been lost. I suspect, however, that as long as Daud can manipulate the Key while in the vicinity of the stones, then that shall suffice.”
Simon frowned. “We probably don’t want curious onlookers interfering. Who owns this site?”
“The land is owned by the National Trust and managed by English Heritage.”
“Do they supply the sheep as well?” grumbled Massoud. “What does this matter?”
“Listen here, you miserable...” replied Simon, his patience finally exhausted.
Their spiteful exchange faded into a muted roar, the thundering beat hammering the inside of Stephanie’s skull as an overwhelming din.
KA-KHOOM KA-KHOOM KA-KHOOM
She leaned over, vaguely aware she moaned in agony. She glanced up as the others watched her. In slow motion, she saw a curious mixture of concern and amazement on their faces. Simon turned to his right and she followed his gaze. It rested upon Daud, also doubled over, also in pain, also wincing at every Ka-Khoom.
Stephanie whimpered once and blacked out.
* * * * *
Massoud watched the others fret over the fallen form of Stephanie. He had seen her collapse and immediately understood that a most improbable event had just occurred. The odds seemed so unlikely that for a brief moment Massoud actually believed in the existence of God.
“We must get her away from the Ring,” said Zahoor urgently, ignoring the few startled visitors who watched the scene with uncertainty.
Simon carried her limp form down to the cars, placing her gently in her seat. Massoud discerned the pain in the engineer’s step, the harbinger of old age. “Follow me,” Simon commanded as he ducked into his car. He roared the engine to life and, without waiting for the others, departed the area in a squeal of tires.
“Come, come, Massoud!” shouted the Sufi, beckoning him from their vehicle. Daud had already climbed in back, his own expression a mask hiding the torment inside. Even the grizzled Afghanistani marveled at the discipline of the chosen one. Growling and cursing, Massoud slid quickly into the driver seat.
“Daud, my friend, let us know when the ’sama becomes tolerable,” said Zahoor in Urdu.
“I shall,” replied Daud through tight lips. He breathed deeply and evenly, his psyche turned inwards.
“Will we have to drive to the other side of this forsaken country?” asked Massoud.
“Allah willing, I think not,” replied Zahoor cautiously. “I suspect being so near where the veil has been torn is what caused them such pain. The disharmony of the ’sama must be very loud to them.”
“Simon’s woman has become a liability.”
“A liability?” exclaimed the Sufi incredulously. “You think her weak? Do you realize how strong she must be to have tolerated hearing the ’sama without any training?” He shook his head in amazement. “Most men would have gone mad.” He paused. “And most jinn.”
“I care not if she could carry the world on her shoulders,” said Massoud coldly. “She is American and the dog of Litchfield and Callow. She is a liability. Don’t let your foolish tasawwuf blind you, old man, nor taunt me of jinn.”
“You are far older than I,” said Zahoor, his voice laden with sadness, “and yet despite all those years you still cannot understand. How can you, of all Allah’s creatures, not see?”
“To you your religion and to me my religion,” said Massoud, quoting an old Islamic saying.
“What is your religion, ancient one?”
Massoud chose not to reply. He concentrated on the road ahead. Simon drove determinedly, weaving expertly in and out, and it took all Massoud’s skill and daring to gain ground.
“We are far enough,” said Daud from the back.
Massoud flashed his lights until Simon pulled into a deserted parking lot. He followed the small car around to the side of an old, ramshackle brick store, most likely abandoned. Simon parked beneath a sorrowful oak, out of easy sight of passing motorists. Massoud knew that the man from Nightwatch acted out of habit, acting covertly when possible.
“What is it?” asked Simon brusquely as he stepped out of his car, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. At that moment, his cheerful exterior cracked to show the stone warrior beneath. “Why did you have me pull over? It better be important.”
Massoud’s lips curled in a snarl but Zahoor cut him off. “Easy, my friend. Ms. Keel is safe now. We are far enough from Castlerigg.”
Simon glanced over to Daud. His face grim, he strode around to the passenger side and opened Stephanie’s door. He spent a moment examining her and reluctantly announced, “She seems better. Her breathing is normal and her heart is no longer racing. However, I think we should take her to a hospital.”
“You may, if you wish,” replied Zahoor, “but no medicine will avail her. You know what caused her discomfort.”
Simon straightened and gazed fiercely upon the Sufi. “The ’sama,” he said bluntly. “No offense, but for all I know, Steph could be suffering from a stroke or a hemorrhage. It could even be a brain tumor. I can’t take that chance.”
Massoud hissed. “We do not have time for this!” He shook an angry fist at Simon. “While you are wasting time running tests on your woman, the door to the other worlds will crumble further.”
“The worlds can go to Hell for all I care. I won’t sacrifice Steph for any reason.”
Massoud’s pupils burned brightly. “You have made sacrifices before,” he goaded in soft, dangerous voice. “The kindness of strangers is never forgotten.”
“Enough!” shouted Zahoor, his elderly voice loud but shaky.
Massoud ignored the old man, his gaze locked with Simon’s. “What if I can show you a glimpse of Hell? Would that suffice for you, comrade?”
“I find the proposition extremely doubtful,” replied Simon evenly.
Massoud snorted and spat on the ground. Walking to the back of his vehicle, he reached down and pulled the latch. The boot opened noisily. He beckoned for all of them to see.
He felt a great satisfaction seeing Simon’s eyes open wide in horror. “What is that thing?” asked the engineer. “Is it... human?”
Massoud shook his head, his nose stinging from the chlorine-like odor that billowed out. The claws four inches long. The putrid, leathery skin. The dark, soulless eyes. The sharp, wicked canines tainted yellow-orange. “Whatever it is, it is not human. Not unless he’s a dwarf with four arms and three legs and a tail longer than his body.” His voice turned grave. “This is a creature from another realm. And as nasty as this beast appears, it is but a gnat compared to the true horrors that wait behind those doors. Faeries and angels, spirits and demons. Creatures, both legendary and nameless, that once roamed the world among men until Solomon shut the door for eternity.”
“Where did you find it?” whispered Simon. Already his scientific curiosity had him inspecting the monstrosity with a pen.
“In an alleyway in Birmingham,” replied Massoud. “I found it lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush someone. It appeared hungry.”
“You killed it?” asked Simon in amazement.
“Yes,” Massoud said simply. He frowned, “Who knows what else has slipped through? We may already be too late. Every moment now is valuable. We must hurry.”
“I agree,” said Stephanie from behind them.
Massoud spun around, his fiery heart thumping. Only a few occasions in his long existence had anyone managed to sneak up on him. He forced himself not to physically lash out at her.
“You seem better,” said Simon, the concern still heavy on his face.
“I still have a headache, but it’s not as bad as it was at the circle.”
“What caused you pain--,” began Zahoor.
“--was the ’sama,” finished Stephanie. “Yes, I realized that after seeing in Daud in a similar plight.”
“Not so similar,” said Massoud, having recovered from his shock. “He did not pass out.”
“It must be his Muslim training,” she said dryly.
“You are right in that regard,” said Zahoor earnestly. “That training can be taught to you as well. You need not suffer as you are now.”
Both Simon and Massoud turned on the Sufi with their reproachful looks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” objected Simon while Massoud simply exclaimed, “Preposterous!”
“Actually, it’s not a bad idea,” said Stephanie slowly. “Listen, we need to get the Key. We also need to secure the site. Simon can return to Washington while I talk to this English Heritage.” She crossed her arms and faced them all. “It’s more efficient.”
Massoud watched Simon’s mouth twist, ready for a response, when Stephanie’s glare caused the engineer to wilt, his protest dying on his lips. Even though the grizzled man from Afghanistan also thought her idea a bad one, he had to laugh seeing Simon cowed so readily.
“Neither Massoud nor myself should speak to the Heritage,” added Zahoor. “Their representative, a Sir Michael, is a staunch Christian. It is rumored he detests worshippers of Islam.”
“Perhaps I should speak to him,” grumbled Massoud as he slammed the trunk shut with extreme force, startling a couple of nearby pigeons into warbling flight.
Part 6 - The Veils
The veils are everything. They are ignorance. They are desire. They are your mind. They are all the objects in this world. They are what keep you, the seeker, from
obtaining what you seek. As you lift
these veils, one by one, the true image of God slowly takes shape.
Stephanie pondered the words of Zahoor during the two and a half-hour train ride from Leeds to London. He had agreed to teach her how to cope with the ’sama, but she grew impatient as he pontificated on theology. She possessed little tolerance for mysticism, her rational mind the bedrock of her personality. She just wanted to block out the thundering noise that caused her crippling pain.
To block out the ’sama? Ah, but therein lies the paradox. For most people, the ’sama is covered in many veils. It is mute to them. You have enough of the veils lifted to glean the music of the spheres, yet the way is still not clear. It is these final veils-- your inability to hear properly-- that cause your torment. You must listen instead of blocking. Here is the first exercise. Pay attention to your heartbeat. It will be difficult, but over time--
And immediately she had heard her heart, its beating, a different rhythm than the ’sama As she focused her attention elsewhere, the music of the spheres had suddenly taken on a different aspect. It no longer sounded like a war drum. Although it still thundered, she had felt the sound coming from all around her, not just inside her head. She had felt her mind relax. She had then shuddered, her heart synching with the pulse of the great primordial beat, her migraine vanishing like a strong wind upon a shroud of fog.
Zahoor had gaped at her. Daud had taken years to reach that level of mastery. For her it was but a moment.
Her headache gone, the mission that she had accepted in her haze of pain suddenly snapped into disconcerting focus. She had immediately contacted Nightwatch and requested them to arrange a meeting on short notice with Sir Michael. Nabil Safian, the chair of the European/North African Affairs Committee in the Upper Echelon, promised to pull a few strings. She had quickly formulated a cover story of wanting to measure the magnetic background at Castlerigg while Mars, Venus, and Saturn formed a compact, planetary gathering. It sounded loony and scientific enough for bringing weird instruments to a stone circle. Simon had tersely agreed with her it was an adequate cover story.
Simon. They spoke few words since her insistence on remaining behind. She had sensed a myriad of emotions bubbling within him. Irritation at being disobeyed. Worry with her condition. The inability to protect her. He could have pulled rank and forced her home. He probably would have been justified.
Instead, he left her with Zahoor without even saying goodbye.
She sighed, the ’sama pulsating in the background, oddly matching the tracks rolling underneath. The cabin smelled dank, the legacy of countless souls passing through, and she wondered what small piece of her would remain behind.
The train finally arrived at its destination. The hectic bustle of London contrasted with the plodding pace of English countryside. Although Bradford and Leeds were a cities in their own right, they seemed quaint compared to the great international metropolis of England. Stephanie exited the railcar into King Cross station, her laptop bag and rolling suitcase lagging behind her, and quickly found herself swallowed up by the teeming masses. She managed to jostle her way to a subway guide pinned on a wall, the brazen fluorescent lights bearing down upon the display. Even with her mathematical prowess, it took a while to figure out the confusing Zones and Travelcard options and which line led where. She finally settled on an All Zones, 3-Day Consecutive Travelcard. She jumped on the Piccadilly Line to Earl’s Court station, eager to settle into the hotel.
She finally located the place after patrolling the sidewalks for an hour, the building hidden behind a massive skyscraper. She likened herself as the most clueless tourist in England at that moment, having passed the hotel unknowingly three times, her rolling suitcase eager to flip over at the merest hint of an obstacle and once even tripping a frumpy businessman in a black suit. The hotel clerk seemed slow and unenthused, adding further to her impatience. She restrained herself from performing a nasty knife-hand to the rude man’s cranium. She snatched the keycard from his hand and tromped off to the elevators.
The room. Finally. She eagerly thought of the nice, hot bath awaiting her as she slid her keycard into the card reader. She bolted into the dark sanctuary and threw the suitcase onto the second bed. Her laptop she more gingerly laid upon the desk. The heavy scent of cigarette smoke clung in the air and she wrinkled her nose distastefully. As she tugged her shirt off, she heard her PDA / mobile phone ring irritably.
Her head covered by a partially disrobed shirt, she managed a muffled, “Dammit” before untangling herself completely. She simultaneously scrounged for a light switch and grabbed the PDA / mobile phone from a flap in the laptop bag. “A video call,” she muttered, glancing down at the display. Must be someone from Nightwatch.
She held the PDA / mobile phone in front of her, lining up the camera, and hit the answer button.
The disapproving face of a striking yet aloof Native American woman glared at her, the video image incredibly sharp.
“Dr. Mankiller,” greeted Stephanie in surprise.
Paula Mankiller arched an eyebrow. “Are you in the throes of heat exhaustion, Ms. Keel?”
“Er, no. Don’t think so. Why are you asking?”
“I’m just curious as to why you’re half-dressed.”
Stephanie turned a shade of scarlet. “I was just about to enter the shower,” she replied as she covered her bra with her free arm.
“Well, it’s a good thing I did not call a few seconds later,” said Dr. Mankiller dryly. “And unless you’re trying to electrify me with your Parkinson’s impression, I kindly insist that you stop jerking your mobile around. You’re giving me motion sickness.”
“What do you want?” snapped Stephanie and then cringed. Paula worked in the Upper Echelon as the chair for American affairs. She was one woman with the ability to make her life unbearable. “I’m sorry, I meant, how can I help you, Dr. Mankiller?”
“I’m actually calling you on behalf of Mr. Safian. You see, he just left for vacation. I’m covering for him in his absence.” She said in a lower tone, “He has a bad habit of doing that.”
“Oh. Great,” said Stephanie as enthusiastically as the clerk downstairs.
“I need to verify a couple items,” continued Paula. “First, your reason for meeting with Michael Akinsanya. I’m not aware that Nightwatch’s expertise covered astrology or, for that matter, any of the so-called pseudo-sciences.”
Stephanie coughed. “Yes. Well, see--,”
“Also, I’m not sure what mission you’re engaged in.” Paula frowned. “Are you participating in another questionable endeavor for that insufferable Callow?” She said his name with such distaste that Stephanie flinched. It never occurred to her that others disliked the man as much as she and Simon.
“No, not directly.
Simon and I are following up on a mission from last year. The one from
Paula glared at her with a hard, discerning expression. “Litchfield,” she hissed in tone that made Callow seem pleasant by comparison. “I see. Of course, one or the other would be involved.” She shook her head irritably. “Regardless, as to your story, I assume it is total fabrication for some unethical yet unavoidable reason?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s unethical...”
“A better
story,” interrupted Paula, “would have been to test a new method of carbon dating. Something that would have
seemed plausible and within the realms of Nightwatch. But since Mr. Safian was overly eager to wrap
things up before heading out on holiday, and since both you and Simon must be
suffering from serious head trauma to have jointly concocted such poorly
thought-out plan, your original story will be the one that you will discuss
with Sir Michael at precisely
“Eleven! Thank you,” stammered Stephanie. She’s
right, she thought. What was I thinking? And why didn’t Simon say anything?
Probably because he was distracted, like you were.
“Good day,
Ms. Keel. I’ll have
Stephanie sat on the bed, the promising bath forgotten. She debated calling Kevin. Instead, she pulled out her laptop and connected the Ethernet cable to the hotel network, one of the few saving graces of the place.
She had a lot of research to do on short notice. First on her mind was not Michael Akinsanya. Rather, the odd comment from Zahoor about Merlin while they briefly discussed Massoud’s ill temper.
Merlin? Did
I say that? That old wizard? I’m sorry Ms. Keel. I meant to say ‘Massoud’. Hard to confuse the two, don’t you
think? For one thing, Merlin saw men’s
dreams, their potential for greatness.
Massoud... all he sees are their nightmares.
* * * * *
“You warned her about me,” accused Massoud darkly.
“Praise Allah, I did not speak to her of who you are,” replied Zahoor as he sipped his tea. They sat next to each other on the low furniture. Young men chanted outside, voicing their displeasure with the world, unsure of their place in it. It was a dangerous confusion that seemed to leech into everything Muslims did in Bradford, much to the dismay of the older generation.
Smoke twirled in the dim light of the room. Massoud breathed deeply the heavy aroma. He felt the texture of hot ash whirling in his chest. “You said something. I can see your guilt,” he rumbled, a cloud of gray billowing out of his nostrils. “It hangs about you like a sickness.”
Zahoor placed the half-finished tea upon the saucer on the table. “You see men’s faults to such a degree that you’ve forgotten one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That sinning is the best part of repentance.”
Massoud rose to his feet, his eyes ablaze. “You dare joke to me, you old fool?”
Zahoor remained tranquil. He returned Zahoor’s fiery gaze with one of calmness.
The Afghanistani seethed for a moment as he towered over the elderly Sufi. He extended a thick finger in stern warning. “Listen to me, dervish. I will do what’s necessary to complete the mission. Involve these Kafirs at their own peril.”
“Only a Muslim can call someone else a Kafir.”
Massoud raised his arm as if to strike the Sufi. His fist quivered, held aloft. Zahoor did not flinch. Almost spasmodically Massoud unclenched his fingers. He lowered his arm. “You are right. But that does not change the fact that you are endangering them.” He turned and stormed out the room, eddies of smoke whirling behind him. He paused at the door and glanced backward. “And you might want to think of your safety as well, old man.”
Sitting alone, Zahoor calmly reached for his tea. He brought it to his lips, the cup trembling slightly in his timeworn hands.
Part 7 - The Knight of Stone Circles
Subject: Michael Akinsanya
Aliases: The Knight of Stone Circles; Mr. Grey
Marital
Status: Single Nationality: UK nationalized (orig. Nigeria)
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