The three Sunni prisoners shifted uneasily. The brave one continued to glare at Ibn Sabbah, though now there was doubt in his eyes.
“And if we fail to kill him?”
“Then he will assuredly kill you.”
The brave Sunni nodded. “Which one of us fights him first?”
Ibn Sabbah smiled. “All three of you will fight him. Three men, three swords against my man and his knife. Surely even men such as you—thieves and pirates of the desert—could not call those unfair odds.”
“Your word before Allah?” demanded the brave Sunni.
“May His wrath wither the flesh on my bones and make dust of my household.”
The brave man grinned and fast as lightning he hooked his toe under the blade of the nearest sword and kicked it into the air, caught it like a magician, whirled and charged at the fida’i. The other men, even cowed as they were, bent and snatched up the weapons and joined in, knowing that God had granted them mercy when they believed their lives were over. The three of them charged toward the assassin, closing the few yards in a heartbeat, swords glittering as they struck.
And then the fida’i moved.
His body seemed to vanish like smoke as he dodged in and to one side with incredible speed. The dagger vanished from his sash as he ducked under the sword of the left-handed prisoner, a fat man with bullish shoulders. The assassin danced past him and turned. As he did blood erupted from the fat man’s throat. Like a handful of rubies tossed into the wind, the drops of blood flew into the air and then spattered against the face and chest of the second prisoner, a tall man with the heavy forearms of a miller. The assassin pivoted and dropped low as the second man hacked at him with the sword.
“No!” cried the brave man, but it was too late. The miller was committed to the swing, and the assassin darted in and up; his blade opened a vertical line from crotch to breastbone. He stepped aside as the miller’s entrails erupted from the wound and flopped wetly onto the floor. The miller gagged out a shocked denial as he sagged to his knees and toppled forward.
And now it was the fida’i and the last Sunni.
The Sunni was not a rash man. He had just witnessed two men fall in two seconds, men he had seen kill in desert raids. The sword in his hand felt heavy but its solidity was reassuring. And yet …
The fida’i did not rush him, but instead began circling, stalking with catlike silence. The Sunni suddenly lunged, cutting upward at an angle that almost always caught an opponent off guard. It was nearly impossible to evade the cut at that distance, and the Sunni was not slow. But the assassin fell backward onto the floor, and as the blade passed, he arched his body and flipped to his feet again like an acrobat. When the Sunni checked his swing and cut backward to take the man across the thighs, the assassin leapt into the air, spry as a monkey, and the blade missed his bare feet by an inch.
The assassin landed on the balls of his feet, balanced and ready. The Sunni pivoted and cut again and again and again, alternating long and short slashes; stabbing and chopping. He stamped forward and darted left and right, whipping the sword at the assassin at angles impossible to evade. But the blade never once touched him.
“Stand still you devil!” cried the Sunni as his frustration disintegrated into doubt. With each passing second he began to fear that he was indeed fighting a demon, some desert ghost who could not be harmed by human weapons.
Then behind him, the Sunni heard Ibn Sabbah speak.
“Stop toying with him.”
For a fractured moment the Sunni thought that Ibn Sabbah had directed the comment at him; but then he saw the body language of the fida’i change. It was a subtle thing, a shift from acrobatic evasion to the attack posture of a hawk. With another blur of movement the assassin darted in under the Sunni’s next swing, slipping past the blade with a hair’s breadth to spare.
The Sunni felt the world freeze into a pinpoint of ice. He tried to speak, to ask what had happened, but his jaw would not move. There was a strange pressure under his chin, in his throat, and his brain felt wrong in ways the man could no longer identify. He heard a distant metallic sound and as an afterthought realized that he was no longer holding the sword. He saw the fida’i step back away from him, his hands equally empty. The Sunni reached up to touch his own throat and found the hard, cold edge of a blade there. That made no sense. How could a blade be in such an absurd place?
The room tilted as his knees gave way, and then the Sunni was falling, falling into the void with his jaws pinned shut so that he could not even speak the name of God.
The fida’i stood over him, his naked chest barely heaving to betray the effort he had just spent in the killing of these three men. On the floor, the Sunni lay with the hilt of the dagger pressed up against his soft pallet and the very tip of the blade standing an inch above the top of the man’s skull. The assassin glanced up at Ibn Sabbah, who nodded; then the assassin knelt and pulled his knife blade free.
Ibn Sabbah smiled down at the fida’i and waved him back to his place in line.
Yes, he thought, Ibrahim will be so very pleased.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
CIA Safe House #11
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 1:04 p.m.
I stared at Krystos. He would not meet my eyes.
My phone rang and I looked at the screen display. NO ID. I punched the button.
“Hello, Violin.”
“Joseph, are you all right?”
“Now’s not a good time.”
“I—”
But I ended the call. I was confused enough and didn’t need another cryptic conversation.
On the other hand, in a weird way some of this was starting to make sense, but the sense it made was badly warped, and I knew I was out of my depth. I told Ghost to watch the prisoners; then I walked into the kitchen to make a call. Church answered on the first ring.
I said, “Look, Boss, I know you’re busy—I’m busier.”
“Are you at the safe house?”
“Yes and no. I’m here, but it’s no longer a safe house.”
A slight pause, then he said, “I’m in video conference with Dr. Sanchez and Circe. I’ll cycle you in. Okay, you’re on speaker.”
“Cowboy!” Rudy exclaimed. “How are—?”
“Not a social call, Rude. I’m going to give this to you fast.”
They listened while I told him what had just happened. I heard Rudy curse and Circe gasp when I repeated the word “Upier.” Everyone started asking questions before I even finished. I had to yell to get them to shut the hell up. “Hey, guys—I’m in a compromised safe house with dead bodies and two wounded prisoners. I’m calling for field support, not a panel discussion.”
“Tell us what you need, Captain,” barked Church.
“Sure. Let’s start with this Upier stuff. Do we believe in vampires?” I asked. “The DMS, I mean.”
“No,” said Rudy and Circe.
Church did not answer.
“Boss,” I prompted, “say something, ’cause you’re scaring me here.”
“We have to keep an open mind,” said Church.
“Mother of God,” said Rudy.
“What the hell does that mean?” I demanded. “Answer the question. Do we believe in vampires or not?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Church.
Interlude Seven
The Leaping Stag
Newburgh, Yorkshire
January 30, 1193 C.E.
Sir Guy heard a scream as he stepped out of his room. The whole tavern was alive with shouts and yells and the stamping of boots as patrons and staff ran toward the front door.
“What is it?” demanded Sir Guy.
“It’s little Mary!” cried one of the tavern boys. “They’re bringing her in a cart!”
Sir Guy lingered for a moment, lips pursed, smoothing the wings of his mustache with two fingers. He heard a footfall and turned to see Brother Reynard, the little monk Father Nicodemus had sent to accompany him on this mission.
&n
bsp; “You heard?” asked Sir Guy.
Brother Reynard nodded. “Is this what we came for?”
“Let’s hope so.”
They went downstairs and outside to join the crowd that was gathering around a rickety wooden cart pulled by a donkey. Sir Guy pushed his way through the throng. “Where is the reeve of this shire?”
A warty little man with a cheap sash of office was bent over the cart and looked up.
“I am, milord,” he said, snatching his hat off his head and knuckling his forelock. “Faville is my name, sir.”
Sir Guy removed a document from his pouch and held it up for inspection. The little man—chief constable of the district—could not read, but he was visibly impressed with all of the official-looking seals.
“I am here on orders from the Holy Father in Rome,” lied Sir Guy. “His Holiness has heard of your troubles and sent me and this good monk here to help.”
The reeve bobbed his head. “Thank you, milord. It is a great honor to have so distinguished a—”
“Let me see the body.”
Sir Guy pushed past the reeve and stepped to the side of the cart. He pulled on his gloves and then raised the threadbare horse blanket that had been used to cover the body.
Beneath it lay a shepherd girl of no more than fifteen.
“This is ’ow we found ’er, milord,” said Faville.
“God save us!” cried Brother Reynard, who peered past Sir Guy’s elbow. “This is surely the devil’s work.”
Sir Guy could not argue. The girl had once been lovely, in the way that peasant girls can be before hard work and hard use made them old before their time. She had yellow hair that gleamed in the early sunlight, and pale blue eyes. Though she was but a girl her figure was womanly, with a premature heft of breast and good hips. But it was all ruined now. She lay naked and torn and frozen on a bed of straw.
Sir Guy shifted around to examine her face and neck. There was a small amount of blood on her throat, caked around the savage wounds, but otherwise the girl was not bathed in gore as might be expected from such injuries.
He cut a look at the reeve. “Did anyone clean her off?”
“No, your lordship,” answered Faville. “This is ’ow she was. Stripped bare and bled white. Frozen stiff, too.”
“What about the surroundings? How much blood was on the ground?”
The reeve shook his head and touched the cross around his neck. His eyes were shifty and frightened. “None to speak of, milord.”
The crowd murmured. Sir Guy noted that although they were horrified, no one looked surprised.
“Her clothes?” he asked.
“Torn to rags and scattered among the bushes.”
Sir Guy bent close and probed the wounds. As is so often the case, the legends had it wrong. Not a pair of clean punctures—that was a fantasy spun by bad poets and liars—but rather a ruin of flesh savaged by many sharp teeth.
It was exactly as Father Nicodemus had described it.
Sir Guy dropped the cloth and turned to the reeve, who was fidgeting and frightened.
“How many others have there been?”
Faville looked uncomfortable and Sir Guy knew that it was because he was the law in these parts and murders were occurring unchecked. “Six, milord.”
“Where was the body found?”
Faville nodded toward the forest. “Near where the others were found, milord. She was in the fields up near the priory.”
Sir Guy ordered the man to give him a precise set of directions. “And recall all of your scouts and officers. No one else is to go into those woods until Brother Reynard and I have run this fiend to ground.”
“But … but, milord, at least let me send ten pikemen with you,” stammered the reeve.
“What use are pikes against the devil?” said Sir Guy, which left the reeve nonplussed. “No, Brother Reynard and I are armed with special weapons blessed by the Holy Father himself. Stay here and see to this poor child.”
Five minutes later he and the monk were galloping out of town.
When they eventually slowed their horses as they approached the scene of the murder, Brother Reynard asked, “‘Special weapons’?”
Sir Guy grinned. “Peasants love a good story.” He narrowed his eyes and studied the shadows under the trees. “Besides, in truth it is a weapon that we seek.”
The monk’s frown deepened. “Father Nicodemus sent us to find a monster.”
The Frenchman shrugged. “For our purposes, it is the same thing.”
Chapter Sixty
CIA Safe House #11
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 1:07 p.m.
“Vampires…”
I repeated the word, trying to see how it fit in my mouth. It didn’t. Not in this context.
“Wait,” cut in Rudy, “are we talking actual monsters here?” I could only hear his voice, but I could imagine the way he’d look right now. Face tight, eyes dark and unblinking, his hand touching the middle of his tie, right over the spot where he wore a crucifix under his clothes.
“Dr. Sanchez,” said Church, “I don’t have the kind of answer you and Captain Ledger would like. Vampires exist, yes.”
“Perhaps you misunderstand my question,” said Rudy. “I’m asking if these vampires are—”
“Yes, Doctor, thank you for explaining the obvious to me,” said Church coldly. “I do understand the question. Are we talking about supernatural monsters or something else? Frankly, I don’t know. My tendency, as you well know, is to look for the scientific explanation.”
“The rational answer,” offered Rudy, but Church cut him off.
“Rational? You are a devout Catholic, Doctor. Is faith in an invisible God and invisible saints rational? Is it supernatural?”
“It’s religion,” replied Rudy. “It’s faith. And it’s not trying to kill my friend.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Doctor? That is, I believe, a requirement of Catholics, as it is of most religions. Ghosts, spirits, demons, all manner of creatures that cannot be quantified.”
“Yo!” I shouted into the phone. “Can we save this for some time when I’m not standing in a house full of dead people?”
There was a brief silence, and Mr. Church said, “Quite right. To the point then. We have known for some time that the Red Knights either are, or pretend to be, some kind of vampire. We know that they are unusually strong and fast, which are qualities ascribed to most species of vampires in folklore. We know that they have unusual dentition, specifically they have sharp teeth and pronounced canines.”
“Yup,” I said. “I can testify to all of that. Fucker didn’t turn into a bat, though.”
“That’s not part of the vampire legend,” said Circe, joining the conversation after what I can only assume was a shocked silence. “There are a lot of legends of vampires transforming into different kinds of things. Mist and fog, swarms of flies, birds—mostly black ones—and even balls of light. But bats aren’t on the list. It was made up for fiction.”
I heard Rudy mutter. “I can’t believe we are having this conversation.”
“The knight I fought didn’t transform into anything but dead meat after Violin put a bullet in his head. Maybe I watched the wrong movies, but I thought stakes were how you killed a vampire. Bullets in the head are zombies, and we’ve pretty much done zombies. And, I might add—they were the products of science, not black magic.”
“The stakes are questionable,” said Circe. “In most legends the vampire hunters use sharpened poles rather than stakes, and they don’t kill the vampire. The stake was used to hold the vampire down, pinning it to the ground or to its coffin, so that the full Ritual of Exorcism could be performed.”
“Dear God,” said Rudy, “what’s that?”
“They cut the vampire’s head off, fill its mouth with garlic, turn it backward in the coffin, then drive iron nails into the arms and legs of the vampire and rebury it. Or cremate it.”
“I’m here to tell you, Circe,” I
said, “a bullet in the brainpan does a spiffy job of dropping your modern-day vampire.”
“I have found that a bullet in the brain works on most things,” Church said dryly, and I couldn’t argue with that.
“So, are we talking about something nonsupernatural?” asked Rudy. “If he could be shot and killed, doesn’t that mean—?”
“It means we know how to kill it,” said Church. “It doesn’t mean that we understand its nature.”
“Surely it’s more likely that this is some kind of genetic aberration,” insisted Rudy, “or at most an evolutionary sideline. We know that there were many kinds of human species evolving at once.”
“It’s very possible,” agreed Church. “And it’s the working premise I’ve maintained for many years. If these Upierczi are vampires, then we will want to ascertain whether that is a subspecies or separate species.”
“Wait, roll back a sec. You said ‘many years’?” I asked. “How long have you known about these Red Knights?”
He paused. “For quite a long time. I first encountered them in Europe, but that’s a story that we don’t have time for now, and it may not be relevant.”
“Getting back to the whole ‘stakes’ thing,” I said. “These jokers tried to use them on me.” I described the general size and design. “Each one has the same thing written on it. It’s Latin, so bear with me.” I pulled the stake from my belt. “Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio; contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium—”
“Ah,” interrupted Circe, “it’s the prayer to Saint Michael created by Pope Leo XIII in the late nineteenth century. The whole translation is, ‘Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in the battle, be our safeguard and protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil: May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.’” She paused. “An interesting choice, considering the scope of this situation.”