Crown of Souls, page 17
“At the expense of my life?” he growled beneath the pinch of the curved blade that swept too elegantly around his throat.
With a flourish, the blade was gone, and the man stepped back. Effortless. Swift.
Coming to his feet, Thefarie returned his dagger to its sheath. “You are either brave or foolish to enter our camp.” His gaze slid to the first voice, recognition ringing through his head as he eyed the man. “You are familiar to me.”
“I would have your help, knight,” the man with the scimitar said, deliberately drawing attention from the younger.
Yielding to the tactic did not mean Thefarie surrendered the fight. “You are a Saracen. Since when do we ally ourselves?”
“Since we have a common enemy.” The older man, hair as thick and gray-streaked as his beard, inclined his head.
“Am I to know the name of the man who comes to me at night with a scimitar and veiled threats?”
“It was not a threat—I knew you would awaken with dagger in hand. You speak violence, so I preempted in your language.” He parted his hands and rolled them outward, the sleeve of his long tunic drawing up. The light of the dwindling fire illuminated black marks on his arm.
Thefarie’s mind scrambled, registering the tattoo and recalling it from years past. At the time, it had meant little, save that it violated the rules for knights.
“You once struck a bargain with a Saracen, did you not?”
“And I was betrayed for that slip in judgment.” Since that treacherous night when the crown had been lost, not a day passed that Thefarie did not search for it and the men who had ripped it from his hands.
“It was no slip.” Guilt hung heavy on the younger man’s shoulders. He pulled aside his tunic and revealed a glaring scar in his chest. “Your reminder, Dawiyya.”
“Bahir,” Thefarie breathed, assessing his reaction. “Traitor.”
“The mark is unfortunate,” the older man said. “Bahir was not a traitor—at least not to you. He has been among our number since he was but a youth. We worked him into the inner circle of Saladin once we noted Nur’s favor upon his nephew. What you saw as betrayal was in fact Bahir’s cunning.”
“There will be no more words between us, old man, unless you give your name.”
“Why give what is already known?”
Thefarie lifted his chin, confused. He thought of how the older man had stolen into the camp without alerting any of the other brother-knights, sergeants, or soldiers. Was he truly that Old Man?
“Let us sit and talk.” The old man lowered himself to the ground, just far enough from the fire for the light to strain but fail to reach him. “As a knight of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ, you are limited in the action you can take.”
Thefarie perched on his cot.
“Is it not frustrating when your hands are tied by the Grand Master?”
Tension rolled through Thefarie, but he gave no answer. He studied the long, thin face before him. Lined with age, but more with wisdom and cunning. He was as mysterious and slippery as mist.
“Is it not even more frustrating when the orders that restrain you are higher than that?” A smile listed beneath his ash beard. “Eh, Malaa’ikah?”
Alarm pinged, but Thefarie planted a hand on his thigh and considered his guests. “That name has oft been attached to my person, though there are little grounds or justification. But I am a messenger,” he said, filling his words with menace. “A messenger to carry out the one true God’s purpose of protecting the Holy City and His people. That mission is not so different from yours. Is it, Old Man?”
This time, a knowing smile parted his lips and revealed yellowed teeth. “Very good.” He nodded yet again. “Very good.” He took in a breath. “Now that we are past that, I would have your help against Saladin.”
“What do you want?”
“Information. Bahir”—his brown eyes flicked to the younger man crouching at the edge of the tent and watching outward—“says you are well equipped with connections.”
“Though some of us move with haste, I have long been in these lands.” It was necessary to be among the people, speak their language, understand their customs.
“Know your enemy,” the Old Man said with a nod. “If you are able to help us learn his location, we can free my country from Yusuf’s iron grip.”
It was strange, yet good, to hear the man refer to Saladin by his common name among the Saracens, because that told Thefarie there was no reverence, that the opportunity existed to end the warrior, not join him. “Once, two years ago, I struck a bargain with a Saracen,” Thefarie said, looking at Bahir, “and I was soundly betrayed. Why would I do it again?”
“Because I do not want the crown.”
“Yet you must take the crown from him to end this unnatural rise to power and fame.” Thefarie sighed. “It took the crown but one heartbeat on Saladin’s head for his mind to be changed. If you—”
“I will not.” Ferocity bled through the Old Man’s eyes. “I seek not power. I have seen its corruption and destruction on my people. My life is but to serve and protect Syria.”
Thefarie rubbed his hands together, thinking. Considering.
“Together, Dawiyya, we can stop this plague sweeping our lands. You want it. I want it. Let us work together.”
Did it violate his oath to enter this agreement?
Thefarie gave a soft snort. Had he forgotten that while he might serve the Order now, he had a much longer, more permanent oath to uphold? This moment, this unrelenting storm called Saladin, would prove to be no more than a blink on the map of humanity.
“I will do this,” he finally agreed. “But know that there will be no end to my vengeance should I again be crossed.”
The Old Man inclined his head, his expression inscrutable. “If Yusuf discovers you are in league with us to assassinate him, there will be no mercy, for you or any other knight.”
“I do not fear death,” Thefarie said. “The crown must be returned.”
“Why do you want the crown, Malaa’ikah?”
“The same reason you want Yusuf.”
“To stop what’s happening.”
“Thefarie?” came the gruff voice of Ameus from another tent. “Are you praying in your sleep again, brother?”
The Old Man’s grin returned. “Prayers will not rectify the wrong you have done.”
The thwap of a tent flap drew Thefarie around, and he spotted Ameus peeling from his cot, dressed as required in shirt and breeches, shoes and belt. The ever-burning candle glowed behind him. Hair askew, Ameus frowned, his gaze skating around the campsite. “Who were you talking to?”
Thefarie turned, surprised—and yet not—to find the Old Man and Bahir gone. It had been a thrill and a fright to sit with such company. “One of the Nizari Ismailis.” It felt good to finally say the name.
Ameus barked a laugh. “You jest!”
Thefarie sensed his brother-knight’s gaze, the anxious expectation that he would laugh off the anvil he’d dropped. “Nay, ’tis no jest,” he said, squinting to where a shadow flitted over the land in the distance. “And no less than Rashid ad-Din sat at my feet.”
“Rash—the Old Man of the Mountain?” Ameus stomped up to him. “You sat with the Grand Master of the Assassins?”
18
— DAY 21 —
FOB STRYKER, BAGHDAD, IRAQ
“That was some piece of work.”
Tox kept his face neutral, his anger roiling beneath the surface.
“I haven’t seen a royal screw-up like that in a long time, not from you, Tox.”
“Beyond my control, sir.”
“Was it?”
He gritted his teeth.
“Regardless,” Iliescu said, leaning into the camera feed, “it can’t happen again. Mufti’s got everyone and their brother looking for you after his guys caught you on camera with an M4 bringing Thor in.”
Not exactly what he’d been doing with that weapon, but the point was moot. And he’d already told Iliescu what really happened in his debrief, then repeated it in his AAR. Saying it now would be a waste of breath.
“Get your team back on track.” Iliescu sat back with a grunt. “We have to get King shut down before he puts more heat on us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll update Rodriguez and Almstedt. We’ll be in touch.”
The screen went dark, and so did Tox’s mood. He shoved his hands over his face and scrubbed his scalp with a growl.
“Sarge!” Cell burst into the room, face animated, the team hovering in his wake. “You have to see this. I found it again. It’s unbelievable.”
Not the best timing, but Tox couldn’t pass up any chance to turn this disaster around. “Explain.”
“Explain?” Cell’s voice cracked, shaking his pasty white face. “Dude, there’s no explaining this.” He hefted a case onto the table as the guys took chairs. “We need Ghostbusters or something.”
Tox’s patience had worn thin. “Try that again,” he warned.
“I heard it.”
“Heard what?”
“That . . . noise. Same one from Egypt, but . . . different. Louder.” His forehead wrinkled and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Same freakin’ thing. Listen.” He flipped the locks on the case and sprung it open. A few knob adjustments and the push of a button later, the recording of the failed mission hissed to life.
Tox gritted his teeth. He did not need to relive that mission.
Cell stepped back, folding his arms. Bit the nail of his thumb.
The feeds were dull and grainy, taunting him over missed intel on Karim’s organization. He scowled at Cell, shaking his head. “Why are we watching this?”
Cell frowned at the box. “It was there. I heard it.” He stalked forward. “Let me try . . .” More knob adjustments. Consternation knotted his brow. “It was just like Egypt, Sarge.”
“Cole didn’t hear it there like we did,” Haven said. “He was down the hill with the Elarabi family.”
“Right,” Cell muttered. “So he didn’t hear the ghost—”
“Did you cross paths with a black cat?” Thor taunted.
“Or step on a crack?” Maangi suggested.
“Not funny.” Cell didn’t look up as he continued messing with the machine, then paused, thinking about something. “Sidewalk seams don’t count,” he muttered and went back to work amid the guys’ laughter.
“Stop,” Tox said, but the recording started again. He hung his head and let it play out. There was street noise. The loose chatter of Ram first encountering Mufti. But nothing else. “Cell. I just got chewed out by Iliescu. If this—”
“I’m telling you—”
“Cell,” Tox growled.
He straightened. “I—”
Howling, low and ominous, creaked through the room, filling it with hollow, empty whispers.
A chill shot down Tox’s spine.
Hands like blades, Cell jabbed them at the machine. “That. Tell me that was just in my mind.”
Exhaustion plied Tox. Surrender forced him to say, “Play it again,” as he unfolded his arms. He pushed his gaze down so he could concentrate. He shut away everything else, listening to see if he could make out what was said.
Were there even words?
The feed ended.
“Again.” Tox came to his feet and moved away from the table, wondering if distance helped.
Howling . . . whispers . . .
“It’s indecipherable.” Ram sat beside the speaker.
“But there are voices,” Tox said, as much for himself as the others.
“Definitely,” Maangi said.
“Where did it come from, Cell? How’d you—”
“I don’t know!” Cell shrugged. “I was getting that interference in the van”—he nodded to Tox—“remember? I told you about it. I couldn’t figure it out, so as soon as we hit Stryker, I got the box out and starting going over it. That’s when”—he wagged his fingers in the air—“I heard it. Freaked. Me. Out. I fell over my chair.” He angled his elbow, where a scab was forming. “Took a chunk out of my arm.”
Maangi snorted. “How did you make it out of Special Forces school?”
“I’m just glad I was recording.” Cell shook his head. “There’s got to be something to this. I heard it in Egypt. Now here.”
“Coincidence?” Thor shrugged, not really believing his own suggestion.
“Possible,” Tox admitted. Though very unlikely. But still . . . “We should notify SAARC about this.”
“Agreed,” Ram said.
An hour later, back in the conference room with the team, Tox had Cell explain what had happened with the noise to Iliescu, who wasn’t amused or interested in it. Almstedt and Rodriguez seemed mildly fascinated, the way someone might inspect roadkill.
Rodriquez shifted and drew out a folder. “What about King? Is he done with Karim? Should we put assets there?”
“As far as I can tell,” Tox said as they briefed again, “Alec’s hit everyone connected to the Karim mission.” A shrug filled the gap as he thought through who might be connected to that mess. “Besides me, I can’t think of anyone left. Three of his team died, and the rest are working with him. Unless he goes after clerks and admins, he’s run out of bodies to put in the ground.”
Robbie Almstedt leaned toward her camera. “I hope you’re right, Sergeant Russell, because we’ve racked up quite a bit of trouble with the people he’s killed.”
“He’s made threats against me and Cortes, but those were intended for nothing other than persuasion.”
“I’d call his method of persuasion rather violent,” Robbie said. “And can you guarantee that he’s done with this . . . vendetta, Sergeant?” It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
“I can guarantee nothing, ma’am. I am not Alec King.” Not technically. But he was Alec in that he was a soldier who had killed enemy combatants. Who’d been given orders to take out targets. Who’d complied. Who’d believed years ago God had gifted him . . .
“Then we must continue to act with caution, and in doing so, we will ask that your team remain in place for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Remai—ma’am. To what end?”
“That I cannot divulge at this time, but as our team works the intel, we need you accessible.”
“For what?” he asked at the same time as Ram and Cell.
“Moving on.” Iliescu assumed control of the briefing. “We’re looking into something.”
“We rerouting?” Runt asked.
“Negative. Just limited information to share at this point. We’ve been trying to piece together why King was in Stuttgart when he got into that altercation with the German.” An image splashed across the screen. “This man was seen with Alec in the Neue Staatsgalerie museum. Their meeting went undetected until we unearthed a selfie by a visitor. Today we identified the man as Frenchman Henri Barre.”
“Is he important?” Ram asked.
“He’s the CEO of a shipping conglomerate, Mattin Worldwide, which specializes in large luxury pieces.”
“Artifacts?” Maangi asked.
“Possibly, but unproven. Our agency has long tried to prove that Mattin also controls—through threats and attacks—the shipping lanes in and out of the Middle East and Asia.”
“Why haven’t you intercepted him?” Tox asked.
“Barre is a face, that’s all. The power players behind Mattin—they’re hidden. He’s their mask. We have to get under that mask before we can move. That Alec King met with Barre is . . . unsettling.”
“Most everything he does is unsettling,” Cell shot back.
“It may be,” Almstedt interjected, “that King is looking to expand his empire. Whatever his purpose, we can’t let him proceed, since he’s lost his footing. Too many years as a soldier fighting bloody battles have taken their toll. He’s a lost cause who needs to be put down before he can do more damage.”
“Pardon, ma’am,” Thor said, “but you’re speaking to five grunts who’ve spent a decade or more fighting bloody battles. Does this make us lost causes, too?”
“Don’t you turn this against me, Thorsen. You know full well what I mean,” Almstedt bit out.
“Back to King.” Like an attack dog that didn’t stop until he fulfilled his last command, Iliescu lifted a paper. “We’ll look into Mattin Worldwide, but until then, stay put. As Almstedt said, we may have something in Afghanistan that needs your attention.”
“No,” Almstedt hissed, with a glowering look. “I didn’t mention that, Dru. Hasn’t been cleared yet.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Iliescu might’ve apologized but there was no contrition in his expression. He’d dropped that information on purpose.
“Wha—”
Low and out of sight of the camera, Tox’s hand flashed out. He silenced Cell, who wasn’t keeping up.
Almstedt seethed. “Sergeant, we will be in contact within the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours. For now, stay low. Get some rest.”
The feed ended.
“So, rest.” Haven looked relieved.
Tox’s smile never made it past his lips as he turned to Cell. “Power up your computer.”
Cell’s grin was a mile wide. “Afghanistan?” His fingers flew over the keyboard.
“Listen up,” Tox said to the rest of the team. “I suggest that if you haven’t had rack time in the last twenty-four, grab some now. Everyone else, shower up and eat.”
“Should you—we be doing that?” Haven asked, bobbing her head toward Cell’s quick fingers on the keyboard.
Behind her, Wallace waited. He’d been unusually quiet this mission. Tox wanted to be glad, but it unsettled him not to have the agent in his face every second.
“Iliescu said Afghanistan—”
“Yes, but Robbie—”
“Iliescu named it because he wanted us searching it.” Tox admired her tenacity. Always had. He guessed that was how and why she was his now. “The sooner we get the 411 on a situation, the more time we have to plan and be intimately acquainted with it.”
“What situation are we getting a handle on?” Haven asked.
“It’d be my guess that something’s blowing up in A-stan,” Tox said, noting Ram pecking away on his phone, searching—no doubt—for trouble. Tox wouldn’t mention to Haven that if Iliescu wanted them digging now, that increased the likelihood of it being a very bad situation. For now, rest and relaxation. “Grab grub or a shower. Then rack time. We have no idea when they’ll call us up.” He nodded to Wallace, indicating he should rest up, too.
