Eric Lustbader - The Testament

"No smoke coming out of your mouth, good, good," he said as he refilled Bravo's glass. He had an outsized presence, seeming to fill the cafe with light, with life. "You know, for me, it is always of great interest to meet Americans. America reduces other cultures to a state of transparency. In its place, it exports many things of bright colors: Britney Spears, Bruce Willis, anorexia, Fords bigger than Cadillacs, Hummers bigger than Fords. America has become a country of extremes, and so it engenders extreme responses. The rest of the world wants to either run under America's skirt or chop off its head."

"Which camp are you in?" Bravo asked.

Adem Khalif laughed. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

"Well, that is a relief." He took some moments lighting up a Silk Cut. "These British brands, very difficult to obtain here. I go to a lot of trouble for my habit." He shrugged. "But then who doesn't, yes?"

Another bottle of raki appeared. When they were alone again, he hunched forward, his voice lower and somehow conspiratorial. "I am not a member of the Order. I was a conduit for Dexter Shaw-a resource for both practical knowledge and spycraft. I was, in a word, Dexter's eyes and ears on this part of the world." He took a bit of tobacco off his ruddy lower lip with the tips of thumb and little finger. "This is in answer to your question about which camp I am in, you see?"

Bravo said that he did.

"But now let me ask you whether you think it's wise for America to raise such extreme responses."

"I don't, no, particularly so because despite their power the extremists in America are a tiny minority."

"But like all extremists everywhere, what havoc they can cause, yes?"

"Absolutely." Bravo took more raki. "What was my father interested in out here?"

Khalif smiled. "The current state of mind of the Muslim fundamentalists, the extremists, as well as their movements. I was monitoring both for him."

"Do you know why?" Bravo asked.

"I never asked," Khalif said. "This is not something someone in my line of work would do."

"Would you hazard a guess?"

"It is coming on time for dinner, shall we order?"

Bravo asked Khalif to choose, which made Khalif happier still.

"You will love the food here," he said, "everything sparkles fresh from the sea." When the waiter had gone, he topped off their glasses. His gold teeth glittered. He looked like he should have a pegleg and a wicked cutlass between his teeth. "Guesses are inherently dangerous. Having said that, I will tell you what I believe was your father's concern.

"It had to do with America, and with Islam-with the fundamentalist religious elements who are diametrically opposed to one another, who want nothing less than to see each other wiped from the face of the earth." He looked around suddenly. "This place, this Trabzon, it doesn't look like much now, but the importance it once held for both East and West, for Christian and Muslim, is incalculable. It was the center of trade, and trade breeds wealth, wealth breeds warfare, just like religion. Here, still, in this slum, East and West mingle, trying to get the better of one another. Your father, I believe, saw the coming of the new religious war, the last Crusade, if you will, and he wanted very much to do everything in his power to stave it off."

"So that was why he wanted to be Magister Regens."

"Through the power of the Order, judicious use of its cache of secrets-oh, yes, I know of the cache's existence, though little, I'm afraid, of its contents. There is great power there, and influence, this much I do know. But it would take a special man, indeed, to take control of the Haute Cour, to be elected Magister Regens."

"There was also the matter of the traitor hidden in the midst of the Haute Cour. I imagine he would have worked dutifully to frustrate my father's plans."

"I would think he made circumstances more difficult for Dexter, yes."

"I found him," Bravo said. "In Venice. Paolo Zorzi."

"Zorzi! But this is incredible news." Khalif shook his head sadly. "I know Zorzi, and liked him, as did your father. I thought him intensely loyal."

"Then he did his job well," Bravo said.

"Did?"

"He's dead. Uncle Tony-Anthony Rule-shot him before he himself was killed by a second traitor, one of Zorzi's Guardians named Jenny Logan."

"My God, the tragedy is doubled and redoubled." Khalif rubbed his chin. "Heartfelt condolences, my Bravo, what a terrible series of shocks you've had." He lifted his glass. "A drink to departed friends."

They clinked glasses and drank deeply of the strong, harsh raki.

"And the inferno to our enemies, eh?" Khalif cried.

The glasses clinked again and this time they drained them dry.

The food came then, a veritable feast, seven plates or more, and they fell to consuming it. The steady rain had morphed into a fine drizzle that kept the concrete and roof tiles dark and gleaming. Lights had come on, steaming in the wetness. Illumination harsh as the local tobacco threw into prominence the bow-backed workers trudging across the bridges that spanned the ravines. The Natashas were long gone, presumably now hard at work seducing what tourists had wandered, half-stupefied, into their territory. An eerie hissing rose from the pavement, as if the drizzle were tiny pellets of ice. The low sky was the color of a deep and painful bruise.

Bravo was lost in thought. At length, he said, "I never realized how difficult my father's life was. He was battling the Knights and members of his own Order."

Adem Khalif nodded. "Your father had vision, this is undeniable. In this he reminded me of Fra Leoni, the last Magister Regens of the Order, but he lacked a certain-how shall I put this-a certain ruthlessness. I don't mean to give offense, I loved Dexter as if he were my brother, but his expertise lay in other areas. His genius lay in planning for the future. He wasn't the warrior required of a Magister Regens. What was required was digging deep into the lower echelons of the Order, that's where his support would have come from." Khalif's eyes twinkled. "It's a lesson his successor should learn."

Bravo put down his fork. "You mean me."

Khalif spread his hands. "Who else? You are Dexter's son, he chose you from an early age to follow in his footsteps."

"I've heard this before."

"Of course by now you have, but have you ever asked yourself why he chose you? It wasn't because you were his son, that wasn't Dexter's way. The Order was too important to him, it was his life. He chose you, Bravo, because he knew. He saw your future, just as, I firmly believe, he saw his own death. It is the passing of things, from father to son, the building of a legacy, do you see? This I know." He thumped his chest with his fist. "I feel it here."

"If my father had this so-called second sight, why didn't he know the identity of the traitor inside the Order?"

Khalif cocked his head to one side. "I hear your skepticism, Bravo, and I grieve at your lack of faith. Do you think second sight is like a flashlight that can be turned on and off at will? This adolescent idea is from the comics. Your father wasn't a superhero. He was gifted with something unknown and unknowable, it cannot be questioned or parsed. The more you try to understand it, the more enigmatic-and improbable-it seems." He shrugged. "But I cannot tell you to have faith, you must find it on your own."

There was silence between them for some time. Khalif went back to shoveling grilled octopus into his mouth. Bravo, his appetite vanished, turned away. Light thrown off by the buildings on either side lit the top of the ravines like a livid scar, but below was the utter darkness of the abyss, as if the ravines were bottomless, a crack clear down to the earth's core. On the bridges, the procession of people continued unabated. He observed a smattering of women now, young, pretty, perhaps more Natashas on a cigarette break. An old man walked beside a small boy, a large, square hand on the boy's narrow shoulder. The boy looked up, asked a question, which caused the old man's face to crease deeply in a smile that made him look twenty years younger.