Jonathan Maberry - Assassin's code

“Yes.”

“And as far as you can determine they all look similar?”

“Disturbingly so.”

Church glanced at Aunt Sallie, who nodded.

“Lilith, I just e-mailed you an image file. Take a look at it and let me know if this man is similar in appearance to the priest currently working with LaRoque.”

“Opening it now,” said Lilith. She made a sharp, disgusted sound. “Yes, that’s him. Damn it, if you already know about him why are you grilling me on-”

“We did not know about the priest,” interrupted Church. “This photo is from a supermax prison in Pennsylvania, here in the States.”

“This man was in prison?”

“Yes. He was arrested at the scene of a multiple murder in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania and later convicted of the murders. The case was built on strong circumstantial evidence but there were no other suspects and he offered no defense.”

“This looks exactly like the priest. Exactly. What is his name?”

“Nicodemus.”

“When was this? When was he arrested?”

“1996.”

“When was he released?”

“Lilith,” said Church slowly, “he was not released. He was incarcerated at Graterford Prison until December of last year, at which point he apparently escaped.”

“Then it can’t be the same man. We have pictures of him from just before the air strike on the presidential palace in Baghdad on March 19, 2003. That’s when the old Murshid and the Tariqa high council were killed, along with the current Scriptor’s grandfather. So, your man would have been in prison.”

“Yes,” said Church softly. “Odd, isn’t it.” He did not phrase it as a question.

“One of us is working with bad intel,” growled Lilith, “and I really doubt it’s us. Arklight isn’t-”

“Please,” cut in Church. “No need to sell me on Arklight’s capabilities. But there’s something more about the prisoner Nicodemus. He was involved in the Seven Kings affair last year. The bombings and other attacks that were part of the Ten Plagues Initiative.”

“Hugo Vox?”

“Yes.”

“Mother of God.”

“Yes.”

“Vox knew most of the men who were killed in the Baghdad bombing. He’s known the LaRoques all his life.”

“I-didn’t know that,” admitted Church.

Lilith snorted. “You need better sources.”

“The DMS often relies on the goodwill of its allies and the exchange of crucial intelligence. Tell, me… how is Oracle working out for you?”

The only reply from Lilith was a stony silence.

Aunt Sallie mouthed the words, “Stop dicking around and play the card.”

Church sighed and nodded. “Lilith, when I gave you the Oracle system it was with the understanding that it be used to help your cause, and to provide occasional support for my operations.”

“That was long before you built the DMS. I have no standing agreement with the Americans.”

“You have an agreement with me,” Church said quietly. “And with Aunt Sallie.”

“Is she listening?” demanded Lilith.

“Yes.”

“Bitch.”

Aunt Sallie grinned, but said nothing.

“This conversation has made it abundantly clear,” said Church, “that you have information that is likely crucial to one of our ongoing operations. I have never used MindReader to intrude into Oracle, and I would prefer not to.”

The threat hung in the air.

“No. You tell me what’s going on. Why is your man Ledger taking meetings with Jalil Rasouli.”

“I want your word that this will be a fair and free exchange, Lilith. No games, okay?”

Instead of answering the question, Lilith said, “The shooter tracking Captain Ledger is my daughter.”

Church sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

“You put her in the field?”

“Of course I put her in the field. That’s what she has trained for.”

“Have you told her?” asked Church. “Does she know who her father is?”

Lilith took a moment, and when she spoke her voice was bitter. “She knows. Telling her was the cruelest thing I have ever done.” She paused. “But I don’t need to tell you about breaking a daughter’s heart, do I?”

Church sighed again. “That’s unkind, Lilith. I do what I do to protect Circe from who and what I am.”

“So, she doesn’t know who her father is?”

“She knows enough,” said Church. “I don’t see any benefit in doing her any additional harm.”

Lilith snorted. “And now she works for you. Do your people know that she’s your daughter?”

“Only those who need to know,” he said. “And that topic is closed.”

“Very well,” said Lilith. “Now tell me about Ledger and Rasouli. What was on that flash drive?”

Church told her.

Kingdom of Shadows

Under the Sand

June 15, 11:29 a.m.

“Your son is dead, Father,” said Albion, the eleventh of Grigor’s sons. “My brother is dead.”

Those were the words that still burned in Grigor’s mind.

Your son is dead.

Delos. The sixth of his sons to be born without genetic flaw. The sixth to receive Dr. Hasbrouck’s genetic therapy.

Delos. Grigor’s pride. One of his most trusted warriors. One of the elite even among the Red Knights.

His son.

His son was dead.

Grigor’s rage was a terrible thing, but it was not evident. The storms that broke and howled were not physical things, they could not be felt or seen. There was no outward sign of it. Not unless someone could look into the bottomless crimson depths of his eyes.

Even though he wanted so badly to shriek out his fury, to burst listening ears with his cries, he sat in stillness.

LaRoque had made him send one of his sons to his death.

A knight.

One of the pure ones.

He sat on his throne there in the bottomless darkness and as the waves of pain washed over him, he endured them. Welcomed them. Let them feed the awful fires that burned in his heart. And there, deep down in his personal darkness, those flames grew hotter and more terrible still.

Interlude Four

On the Pilgrims’ Road

The Holy Land

November 1191 C.E.

The three monks pushed the pilgrims toward the rock wall as the riders swept down the hill toward them. The ancient fort was little more than fragments of walls and an overgrown courtyard filled with palm trees whose trunks had burst upward through cracked flagstones. It was poor cover, but it was better than standing out here on the sand, waiting for the Saracens to sweep down and slaughter them.

Most of the pilgrims ran, their prayers strangled from their throats by fear. A few of the more devout wavered, caught between their belief that God would protect them and the fear that He might not chose to do so today. One old man stood his ground and held a cross up and out toward the approaching riders as if that was a shield that could turn any sword. His white beard fluttered in the hot wind.

“Go, go! ” yelled Brother Julius, pushing his shoulder. The old man twisted away from the monk.

“No! I shall not move one inch from the path to Holy Jerusalem, and neither devils nor demons nor the swords of the infidels will-”

His words were struck to silence as a crossbow bolt buried itself to the fletching in his throat. The old pilgrim staggered backward a step, touching his fingers to the line of hot blood that ran down his chest. The sheer impossibility of his own death, of his mortality in the presence of God’s grace here on the pilgrims’ road, tethered him for a moment to life. His mouth formed the word “No.” But the only sound that issued from his throat was the wet gurgle.

The old man sagged to his knees and his head slumped forward but he did not fall over, and Brother Julius marveled at the horror and beauty of it all: the devout traveler ending his pilgrimage in a posture of supplication.