George Martin - Suicide Kings

Three more weeks and we can really go home. Noel entered the kitchen and set about brewing a pot of tea. He realized he was hungry and set out a muffin. His back felt tight. He hadn’t worked out in weeks and hadn’t attended a karate class in months. The fact that he had been complacent suddenly alarmed him, and he decided to get back to the gym.

He snapped on the TV in the kitchen, headed to CNBC for the latest financial news, and found himself passing through CNN. He caught a quick flash of the Presidential Palace in Baghdad and a grim-faced Prince Siraj surrounded by security rushing up the steps. Siraj looked old. Shockingly old.

I need your help… I really do need your help.

His old friend’s words echoed filled with sadness, reproach, and might-have-beens.

Noel pulled out his phone and dialed. “What exactly do you want me to do?” he said.

Jackson Square

New Orleans, Louisiana

Michelle was in that strange room again. Juliet and Joey were there. But her mother and father were gone now.

Her throat was still brutally raw. She could barely swallow, much less try to speak. Her arms and legs were as useless as her throat.

And the power was like napalm in her veins. Drake, she thought. Oh, God, Drake. What happened? Did I kill him? Did Sekhmet kill him? Tom Weathers? Was that wound from the medallion worse than it seemed? And how am I not dead? How are we all not dead?

“Wha…” Her voice was a rusty hinge. Her throat felt as if it were being stabbed by a knife when she swallowed.

Juliet started crying, and Michelle wanted to comfort her. To tell her it was all right. Whatever had happened to Michelle had clearly hurt Juliet. Juliet didn’t even have any tats scrolling across her body.

Michelle closed her eyes. Maybe if she went back to sleep, she’d wake up later and everything would be all right.

Saturday,

November 28

Presidential Palace

Baghdad, Iraq

The Caliphate of Arabia

The scent of dust, dried lemons, and saffron seemed to pierce not only his sinuses, but his heart.

Noel staggered, and rested his hand against the stone wall. It was hot to the touch. He drew in another deep breath and more scents were added-kerosene from countless cookstoves, the wet smell of donkey, incense from the nearby mosque. The sun beat down on his head and warmed his shoulders. He could almost feel the cold fogs of New York and England leaching from his pores. Yes, he thought somewhat ruefully as he stepped out of the alley, the hem of his robe brushing at his heels. I am one of those desert-loving Englishmen.

The music of spoken Arabic fell like glittering notes all around him, but the point of the conversations were dark and somber. Too many fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons had marched off to the Sudd, and too few had been heard from again. Speculation ran wild in the streets.

As he walked by the palace he kept touching the dark glasses that disguised his swirling golden eyes, and he kept the tail of his keffiyeh across his face. Not that he expected to be recognized. When he’d developed his new male avatar he had made certain that Etienne was clean-shaven. But golden eyes were always going to be a problem.

Noel knew this city almost as well as he knew London. He had lived a second life here as Bahir, the Sword of Allah, the Caliph’s ace assassin. He had even taken a wife, whom he’d put aside for barrenness last year. It had been entirely his fault. He was a hermaphrodite, and basically sterile. It hadn’t been easy for Finn to find a few viable sperm. Luckily the little fellows hadn’t had to make their way upstream all on their own.

What would have happened if he and Gamal had undergone the fertility treatments? But thank God they hadn’t. She had been just another pawn as he served as an agent for the British Secret Service. That was another life, a life he’d left behind.

Except here he was, armed with three pistols and four knives and scouting out the lay of the land. He had told Siraj he would come. He had even told him when, but Noel wouldn’t keep that appointment. He would arrive earlier, at a time of his choosing. A time when every good Muslim would be at prayer.

The call from the minarets began. Achingly beautiful, it was an echo across the centuries. Noel reflected that the Catholic Church should never have abandoned the Latin Mass. They had lost that link to history.

The streets emptied. Noel ducked behind a parked truck, stared narrowly at the palace, pictured Siraj’s office, and teleported. There was the faintest pop as his arriving body displaced air. The man kneeling on his prayer rug, forehead pressed to the floor, didn’t react.

Noel studied Siraj’s vulnerable back. It would be so easy to remove this threat forever. One shot. Done.

But was Siraj actually the worst of his problems? Tom Weathers was a far more dangerous enemy, and Siraj and Weathers were locked in a bitter war. The enemy of my enemy.

Noel pulled out a pistol, moved quickly to Siraj’s side, and joined him on the floor, while at the same time pressing the barrel of the gun into the other man’s side.

Siraj gasped. His expression was both angry and amused. After a moment he looked back down at the floor and resumed his prayers. Noel joined in. They finished, and both pushed up until they were sitting on their heels.

Siraj looked again at the gun. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Not today.”

“That’s probably wise. You see, I’ve prepared a number of packets with information regarding England’s crack assassin and his family connections.”

At this oblique reference to Niobe, fury seemed to claw across the inside of Noel’s skull. His finger began to tighten on the trigger.

Siraj sensed Noel’s rage for he added quickly, “And if I die by assassination those packets will be sent. To the World Court, to the press…” He paused for maximum effect. “To Tom Weathers.”

Noel forced himself to relax.

“That’s better. Would you like a drink?” Siraj moved to a table and lifted a carafe out of an ice bucket.

“What is it?” Noel asked.

“Fruit juice.”

“Still being a good Muslim, I see.”

The sigh seemed to shake the prince’s body. “On days like this, it isn’t easy.” Siraj set the carafe back into the ice. He paced the office, clasping and unclasping his hands. “What happened to the boys of Cambridge?”

“They grew up.” Noel paused. “And discovered the world was complicated.”

“We thought we could save it.”

“Yes… well… my goals are more modest now.”

“Yes, I heard you got married. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“A very different look,” Siraj said. “How do you do it?”

He seemed reluctant to get to the point. Noel was willing to wait for a little while. He had told Niobe he was going to England to talk with his manager. “Simple redistribution of mass,” he answered. “Etienne is taller and thinner than Bahir. Losing the beard and mustache is easy.” Noel touched the frame of his dark glasses. “The eyes are harder. They never change.”

Siraj walked behind his desk, randomly moved a few papers, turned, and gazed out the window. The hands clasped behind his back were still writhing as if he were choking something.

“So, what do you want?” Noel finally asked.

“I need to see what happened. I need you to take me to the Sudd.”

“You don’t have a helicopter?”

“You’re more subtle than a helicopter,” came the dry reply. “Why are you so reluctant? This is a small thing when compared to the actions you took to put me here.”

Noel briefly closed his eyes and remembered the night of chaos and death when he’d killed the Nur, clearing the way for Siraj to take control of the Caliphate. He was supposed to have been a compliant puppet for Britain’s ambitions.