Jonathan Maberry - Assassin's code

“Crossed paths or crossed swords?” I asked.

He didn’t answer that.

“Did anyone tell you to run away?”

“Captain-”

“Tell me why I just ran away, Church. Sure, the knight at the hotel blindsided me and I had some trouble. I was unarmed then. Different story now; and now I’m going to be expecting the next one to be stronger and faster than the average psycho asshole with fangs. And, speaking of which, what’s with those goddamn fangs? Do they hire freaks? Are they implants of some kind, or is this some gene therapy bullshit?”

“We don’t have time for a full briefing right now,” Church said. “Continue on to the CIA safe house and when you are safe and settled we’ll have a longer conversation. In the short term, I want you to be sensible of the degree of threat these knights represent. If you encounter another one, or even suspect that you are facing one of them, do not hesitate and do not give them a single chance. Escape if you can, and if that is not an option, do not allow yourself to be drawn into another hand-to-hand confrontation.”

“Because-?”

“Because it is unlikely you would survive it.”

“Kiss my ass. I was starting to win that fight.”

“From what you told me, Captain, the knight wanted information from you,” replied Church. “That opened a window of opportunity for you. If you are unfortunate enough to encounter another Red Knight, he’s likely to be less chatty. My recommendation stands: don’t engage them. The odds are not in your favor.”

“Gee, Coach, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Mr. Church snorted. “You got lucky at the hotel, Captain. Don’t bank on your new girlfriend being on hand to save you next time.”

I will rip your throat out and drink your life.

“Jesus,” I said, “what are you trying to do here? Scare the hell out of me?”

“If that’s what it takes to drive the point home,” said Church. “You haven’t faced anything like this before. If you encounter another Red Knight, I want you to avoid contact and flee, or failing that, to terminate him immediately and with extreme prejudice.”

I bit down on a few of the things I would have liked to say to him.

“Sure,” I said.

“I’m serious, Captain.”

“Don’t worry, if I see another scary bad man I’ll run away screaming like a nine-year-old girl.”

He sighed. “See that you do. Call me from the safe house.”

The line went dead.

I looked at the phone. “Kiss my ass,” I said again.

But his words had made cold sweat break out all over my body.

Interlude One

Near the City of Acre

May 17, 1191 C.E.

A cold wind blew out of the desert, stirring the thousands of banners and flags that rose like a forest of silk above the camp. Hundreds of cooking fires set the night ablaze and the air was filled with laughter and songs and conversation. The fragile quiet of the night-time desert recoiled back from this rude intrusion, and overhead the stars seemed to turn shyly away from the firelight below.

Sir Guy LaRoque sat astride his horse and watched as his king, Philip II, walked toward the command tent with a phalanx of advisors around him. The whole camp was on fire with excitement. The kings of Europe were coming to the Crusade. Philip was there first, as was only right, bringing eight thousand men in one hundred ships and enough provisions to mount a countersiege against Saladin. By June, Richard the Lionheart of England would be here, and more crusaders would flood into the Holy Land in his wake. After a weary siege and inconclusive battles, the tide was turning.

The energy crackled like lightning in the air, and Sir Guy smiled. This was how it should be. This was what served God. Still smiling, Sir Guy tugged on the reins to turn his horse away from the camp, kicked it into a light canter, and set out into the darkest part of the surrounding desert. The standard-bearer, an old and trusted family servant, spurred his mount and followed. They rode in the general direction of the coast, but once there were hills between them and the camp, Sir Guy turned his horse away from the smell of salt water and headed toward the deep desert. A half an hour’s easy gallop brought them to an outcrop of rock that rose like a cathedral from the shifting sands. Sir Guy stopped on a ridge and ordered his companion to unfurl the white flag.

After a full minute, a small light appeared at the base of the tall rock. A lamp was unshielded for a moment and then covered again. Sir Guy waited until this action was performed again, and again.

“Stay here,” he told his servant. “Stay alert and sober.”

With that, Sir Guy dismounted and walked down the sloping sand toward the rock. When he was ten yards away he called out in perfect Arabic.

“ As-salamu ‘alaykum.”

“ Wa-laikum as-salam,” replied a voice from within the featureless shadows at the foot of the rock. There was movement and the lamp was once more unshielded, revealing in its glow the thin and ascetic face of a bearded Saracen. Sir Guy went forward to meet the other man and they shook hands warmly.

“Come, my friend,” said the Saracen, “I have food and a warm fire inside.”

Together they passed beyond the tapestry and entered a cave which cut nearly to the heart of the towering rock. Inside, the cave was comfortable, furnished with a rug for the floor, pillows, a low brass tray piled high with cooked meats and dried fruits, and a tall pitcher of clean water.

“You look well, Ibrahim,” said Sir Guy as he warmed his hands over the flame.

Ibrahim al-Asiri was a tall thin man with a hawk nose that had been broken and badly set, giving him a villainous look that was at odds with his role as diplomat and counselor to Salah-ed-Din Ayyubi. Like Sir Guy, his counterpart in the politics of the wars here in the Holy Land, Ibrahim was a scholar, but, unlike the Frenchman, the Arab was also a mathematician of some note and the author of complex books on engineering, geometry, and algebra.

While they ate, the two men picked up the thread of a conversation that had occupied them over many previous secret meetings.

“I am taking the matter to a priest,” said Sir Guy. “One of the Hospitallers of my order. An old friend of the family. He is a wise and subtle man, and I think he will see the logic of our plan.”

Ibrahim frowned. “What will happen if he does not agree with us? What will he do?”

“Do?” laughed Sir Guy. “He would denounce me and I would be lucky to escape being publically whipped to death. My lands and fortune would be seized and I would be excommunicated.” The Frenchman waved a hand at the expression of alarm on Ibrahim’s face. “No, no, my friend, that’s what could happen, but I do not think that it will happen. I know this man.”

“So far,” Ibrahim said, “this has all been nothing but an intellectual exercise, a discourse of a philosophical nature. Once you speak to this priest, it becomes something else.”

“I know. With the first words I say to the priest it becomes treason and heresy.”

They thought about that for several moments, each of them staring through the flickering fire at the future.

“We could turn back,” suggested Ibrahim. “Now, I mean. We could finish our meal and you could ride back to your camp and I to mine, and we could never speak of this again.”

“We could,” agreed Sir Guy.

“If we do not, then we are irrevocably set on a course that will wash the world in blood and pain and destruction from now until the ending of time.”

“Yes.”

“We must be sure.”

“I am sure,” said Sir Guy. “If you were not a heathen of a Saracen then we would drink wine together to seal the bargain.”

“And if you were not an infidel deserving of a jackal’s death we would spit on our palms and shake upon it.”