CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 5

It was a tense and bewildered group of NYPD detectives that met an apprehensive one of FBI agents as their cars pulled up before the wrought-iron gates. "It's good to see you here," Detective Taylor declared to Agent Malone as they left their vehicles and recognized each other. "Now maybe we'll get some answers."

Malone shrugged as he turned to look at the gates and the immense brick lump of the building beyond. "Not from us."

"Why not? We got a call from the FBI asking us to be here now." Taylor also looked toward the ugly edifice that squatted like a resting boar behind the black metal bars. With a glance he indicated the modest sign identifying WASTE MANAGEMENT SERVICES. "I'd really like to know why."

"Frankly, so would we," Malone replied. "We got a call too; he claimed to be from FBI special ops. No further explanation. If there's a task force or special unit assigned to this case, it'd be nice to be told about it, especially considering that a member of my team disappeared two hours ago in the course of this investigation."

Flack's eyes narrowed coldly. "Yeah, that was fun. Now I really, really want to know who called us here – and for what." Among the seven of them, eyes met and hands began to reach for weapons.

Detective Bonasera's gaze had gone to the door of the building; she was the first to see it open, and a small figure grow rapidly larger as it approached. "Looks as if we're about to find out."

It was an earnest-looking, nondescript young man who came towards them, with brown hair, blue suit, and a bemused expression that turned worried when he saw the guns. "Oh, dear. You guys really don't need those." He raised both hands placatingly. "Special Agent John Myers, FBI. I'll show you my badge if you can keep from shooting me." When only Bonasera and Johnson lowered their weapons, he went on, "Come on, it's seven to one. How much damage could I do before getting perforated like a balloon in a rosebush?"

"Man's got a point," Danny Taylor conceded, lowering his gun. His NYPD namesake did the same, as did Malone. Now with only Spade and Flack covering the stranger and the others watching warily, the young man reached slowly into his jacket and came out with a familiar-looking leather folder, flipping it open.

Malone came up to the bars of the gate to examine John Myers' credentials. Still wary but convinced, he announced, "He's real." With a nod, he cued the stowing of all their weapons. Now, coolly he turned from sizing up the ID to doing the same to the man who held it. "So you're one of us. Mind telling us which office you're with, which division, and why the hell we're being put through all this cloak-and-dagger crap?"

The earnest young face looked a little pained. "Really, I'm sorry. It wasn't my idea. I know you're all worried about Agent Fitzgerald, and I'd have handled this differently, but this is standard operating procedure at – at this division." He stepped back to allow the iron gates to swing open. "Please, come in. You deserve some answers, and I promise you'll get them."

xxxx

The man in the white robes and keffiyeh didn't waste more than a brief glance on the captive FBI agent before looking through the door and up the stairs. He gave a piercing whistle as if calling dogs; within seconds footsteps, several sets of them, were rattling downwards. Soon four more men had arrived in the room. All were of a dark Middle Eastern cast; three seemed to be in their twenties, dressed nearly alike in nondescript jeans and t-shirts, while the last was older, maybe forty, in pressed khakis and a navy polo shirt. All three of the younger ones sported the patchy beginnings of beards, while the fourth had a full black beard, well trimmed in keeping with his overall neat and mature appearance. Interestingly, he was the only one not wearing a handgun. Now he held back a little, staying near the door as the leader spoke rapidly and emphatically in what Martin guessed was Arabic.

Soon enough, the three young men variously nodded and grunted assent, then returned up the stairs. At that point the old man turned his attention to the remaining man, handed him a handcuff key, and, to Martin's surprise, switched to English. "Your task is to watch the prisoner. If he has physical needs, call Mansour to help you. And give the alarm if he tries to escape."

"Of course, malik," the other answered in a heavy, musical accent. He looked over at his charge; Martin was surprised to see sympathy in his eyes. "Shall I attempt da'wa while I have this chance? There might be a possibility – "

A derisive snort cut him off. "Don't be a fool. He has surely had a chance to know and embrace the truth before now. Have you forgotten the words of the Holy Qu'ran? 'If We had so willed, We could certainly have brought every soul its true guidance: but the Word from Me will come true, "I will fill Hell with jinns and men all together".' Or do you presume to know better?"

"Oh no, surely not." He smiled; it looked a little forced. "You can count on me to keep careful watch."

"Good." With that, the leader swept out in a wave of white. The other man carefully closed the door, turned the lock, and sat down on the stool lately occupied by Lexi Duhaine. He folded his arms, put on a stern expression, and proceeded to glower at his charge as if that were part of the assignment.

In that fierce and obviously unaccustomed look, Martin thought he saw an opening. He put on a disarming smile and said lightly, "Listen, you can relax for a while. It's not as if I'm about to make my move." He rattled the handcuffs by way of demonstration, and widened the smile. "My name's Martin Fitzgerald. I'd say Special Agent, but that's not likely to impress you, given the circumstances."

And to his secret relief, his guard smiled back. "I'm impressed that you can keep your sense of humor, given the circumstances! I am Iftikhar Ghani."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Ghani. Sort of." Ghani's smile became a chuckle, and Martin felt more confident: Good one, Martin. Now take it nice and slow… "So you scored babysitting duty. I assume 'physical needs' means the men's room?" Ghani nodded. "That's good to know. But why do you need Mansour's help for that?"

The other touched his hand to his right hip. "Because Mansour has a gun. Yes, you're quite an amiable fellow, but I am not about to be charmed into forgetting that you're also an FBI agent."

"Believe me, I had no hope of doing that! I can tell you're too intelligent to fall for a little fast talk. Really, though, why doesn't your boss let you have a gun too? That way you could handle me all by yourself."

Another chuckle. "Oh, I am not so sure of that! You are younger than I, probably stronger and faster too, and surely better trained in fighting."

"All the better reason to give you a gun."

"I know." Ghani looked at the floor for a moment, and his tone was rueful. "The malik knows that I am loyal to the jihad, and that I am not afraid to die…but he cannot trust me fully. Not like the others."

"What others? Not Miss Duhaine."

"Of course not!" Ghani snickered at the thought. "And not that disgusting so-called musician, either. I mean Mansour, Samir, and Abdelaziz. They are of the blood of the original believers, an honour I cannot share."

"I don't understand." Martin was completely honest about that: he didn't understand at all.

"I am Baluchi – a Pakistani." His gaze fell to the floor again, and this time stayed there. "The malik can only give his full trust to his fellow Arabs. I cannot even speak the language, or understand the Holy Qu'ran as Allah gave it. I am only the descendant of idol worshippers."

"So? Languages can be learned. Besides, go back far enough in history, and everyone's descended from idol worshippers."

"And many still are," Ghani said pointedly.

"Touche. But still, why judge a man's loyalty on his blood and not his character?"

Ghani shook his head. "You are American as well as infidel. You will never understand." Another shake. "I wish you could. I wish all of you could."

"What I wish I could understand," Martin said quietly, "is why you want to be part of this jihad thing in the first place."

Ghani shrugged. "It was not an easy decision to make. I have been working in this country since I was nineteen, and I thought I was content. The community where I live in Jersey City is close and supportive, my wife respects me properly, and I never thought I would have to take this step."

"So what changed?"

"It's my son, my eldest. I had such hopes for him, but since he turned thirteen…" His head fell into his hands. "What will become of him? And what example does he set for his brother and sister? What do I do?"

Martin nodded. "It's always hard raising kids."

"Not like this!" Frustration hissed in Ghani's words. "He no longer will join me at the mosque without a fight, and he refuses to rise in time for dawn prayers – some days I cannot make him pray at all! All he wants to do is listen to that horrible, horrible American music! Maroon 5? Coldplay? Bowling for Soup – Bowling for Soup! Who are these madmen? How can anyone endure such noise, let alone a boy raised a good Muslim?"

Martin suppressed a smile. He certainly wasn't about to describe what he had on his own iPod, but one could easily sympathize with a distressed parent. "I know it can drive you nuts, but that's teenagers for you. I remember that when I reached that point, it got a lot harder to drag me to church. Not to mention that my mother had it up to her neck with Talking Heads and REM."

It didn't work. If anything, Ghani got angrier. "It's not the same! You are not a Muslim; my son is. Why should someone raised with the most beautiful music of all – the chanting of the Holy Qu'ran – desire the screaming of sodomites and Jews?" He sighed heavily, as if letting the anger dissipate to make room for sadness. "He had been saving his pocket money for months. I was hoping that he would invest it toward his first hajj trip with me. Can you imagine how disappointed I was when he brought home an electric guitar? With one of those horrible loud amplifiers! It was appalling. I had to confiscate it at once!"

"What did you do with it?" Martin asked quietly.

"Well, I didn't burn or break it, although I still want to. His mother prevailed upon me simply to hide it away. I wish I had been able to ignore her tears."

Carefully keeping emotion off his face, Martin thought of an angle to play. "If I recall correctly, the guitar – the original acoustic kind – is a Moorish instrument that was brought to Spain by Muslims. So that makes Les Paul's invention the perfect blend of cultures: Islamic artistry and American technology." The captive chanced a gentle smile. "Maybe your son understands that instinctively."

"Well, I do not! Nor do I want to! You only prove the malik's point: that the only way to protect the Islamic ummah from this disease you call your culture is to destroy it."

And there was the opening he'd been waiting for. "But how?"

To Martin's surprise, Ghani suddenly became uneasy – profoundly uneasy. "I am not the one to ask. The malik has a book, a very old and strange book; we are not permitted to read or even touch it. And he says that this sword from the museum is dhu'l-fakar, like the sword of the Prophet, peace be upon him." He stopped to look around nervously, as if they might be watched. "The jinns – if they are…"

Suddenly the door banged open. "Oi! Ghani! It's my turn!"

Startled, Ghani tried to leap from the stool and whirl toward the door at once, almost stumbling to the concrete. With a stab of disappointment and rage, Martin recognized Derek Shaftoe sauntering in. "What are you doing here?" Ghani demanded.

"Master says I can have him for a bit." Shaftoe was holding something shiny in his right hand; as he approached, it resolved into a hunting knife. A large hunting knife, curving to an upswept point and with a serrated ridge along the back edge. Standing before prisoner and guard, he began tossing it up to spin and catching it, casually, an unpleasant smile on his lips. Martin found himself idly wishing that he'd miss his rhythm and grab the wrong end.

"Well, I do not believe you! The – the malik will have to tell me himself." Ghani stood defiantly, fists clenched, but trembling slightly. What's he afraid of? the captive wondered. This sleazeball Shaftoe? Their leader? Both…or something else?

"Ah, don't worry about it, Iftikhar darlin'. I'm just here to check our fed's reflexes. You know, do the knees jerk when someone says 'America,' does the heart race when he sees the flag…does he hold his breath when the knife comes close?" Shaftoe caught the hilt, raised the blade and turned it slowly, his smile metastasizing.

"Get out of here, Shaftoe," Ghani said almost calmly. "I have no orders to let you hurt him."

"Bloody hell! It was my bloody idea to take him in the first place!" The knife flashed, its point a centimeter from Ghani's nose.

"You must go now." The Pakistani's voice was somewhat less emphatic.

"Well, aren't we the big brave wog," growled the other, slowly moving in and making another pass with the knife. "You want to take the first swing?"

Ghani stepped back, looking uncertain. Just then there was motion at the open door; Shaftoe turned, and all eyes went to the white-clad figure that stood there, glowering from under his keffiyeh. In his hands he cradled an antique book; at his left hip hung the stolen sword. "What is the meaning of this?" In a brief pause, neither of his men could get over the intimidation before he snapped, "Get out, both of you." His eyes zeroed on Martin Fitzgerald. "I have something to show him."

xxxx

"What the hell kind of place is this?" Detective Flack was the one to say it, but all his companions were thinking it. The inside didn't match the outside at all, particularly in the matter of the mysterious symbols etched and inlaid across the marble floors and the many sealed, climate-controlled glass cases holding books, scrolls, and far less identifiable objects that looked positively antediluvian.

Special Agent John Myers cleared his throat. "Special Agents, Detectives," he began, "it's my honor to welcome you to the FBI's Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense."

"Holy crap," Agent Danny Taylor said softly. "This isn't supposed to exist."

"And we wish profoundly that it didn't have to." All eyes went to the deep, almost mournful new voice, and watched the approach of a tall, broad man, elegant in a tailored suit, eyes melancholy beneath a bald head. "I also wish you never had to learn of it."

Jack Malone's face lit up with recognition – and bewilderment. "Dr. Manning? Dr. Tom Manning? Aren't you supposed to be at Quantico?"

"In a just and rational world, I would be." The new arrival permitted himself a smile. "It's good to meet you at last, Special Agent Malone. With you and your team on this case, I have my first reason to feel confident about it."

Malone smiled back. "Thank you, Dr. Manning, and here's your second reason to feel confident: Allow me to introduce Detectives Mac Taylor, Stella Bonasera, and Don Flack, NYPD."

Once hands were shaken and introductions completed all around, Manning led the way deeper into the secret installation. As they went down seemingly endless corridors and levels lower and lower, the questions continued. "So what kind of cases do you handle here, Dr. Manning?" Vivian Johnson asked almost innocently.

"The kind that no other division can believe are real," Manning replied cryptically, "and that the public could not accept without chaos resulting."

"Hence the hush-hush," Sam Spade reasoned. "Who does know about you?"

"The President and Vice President, of course, chairmen of a few relevant Senate and House committees, and the top levels of the Bureau, the NSA, and Homeland Security. In fact, as you'll hear at the briefing, there's an important Homeland Security angle on this case. Also, Deputy Director Victor Fitzgerald has taken a personal interest in the matter." Manning cleared his throat. "I understand the agent who went missing today is his son."

"Yes," Sam replied quietly.

The two CSIs had hung toward the back of the party, quietly taking in the strange sights they passed and occasionally exchanging skeptical glances. Their colleague Don Flack stuck close to John as if afraid of getting lost. "This place gives me the creeps," he muttered.

"That's pretty much par for the course when you're new here," the young agent replied. "I felt the same way. You get used to it. It's also good to know that nothing paranormal – at least nothing we're experienced in – can surveil or enter this building."

"How do you figure that?" The tall detective was still looking around anxiously.

"Well, we have the whole headquarters warded." Answering Flack's look of incomprehension, John explained, "Special symbols are placed and – uh – procedures performed to protect the BPRD from hostile influences."

Flack's eyes widened. "You mean someone's put a friggin' spell on this place?"

"More like six or seven, actually."

"You know, that doesn't make me feel any better."

Up at the front of the group, Malone was continuing the questioning of the BPRD director. "I guess I can assume you know everything we do about this case, Dr. Manning."

"Not in detail. The briefing will be useful on all sides, Agent Malone. We have the general outlines, of course: the disappearances of Alexa Duhaine and the Ottoman sword from the Metropolitan Museum, and we now have a copy of the autopsy report on the murdered guard. By the way, Detective Taylor," Manning looked back over his shoulder to address him, "that ME of yours, Dr. Hawkes, is remarkable. If he ever gets bored with the kind of cases he's been getting, I have a job for him here where he can learn a lot."

The criminalist smiled, though he wanted to laugh. "With your permission, I'll let him know, Dr. Manning. By the way, you're not about to tell us how you obtained that autopsy report, are you?"

"I'm afraid I can't. You understand, don't you?"

Taylor looked again at his strange surroundings. "I think I do now."

Manning nodded and returned his attention to Malone. "Things took on a certain urgency after Agent Fitzgerald vanished. Of course, we're aware that you're also looking for that retired Nineties rock singer, Derek Shaftoe."

Malone nodded. "He's pretty slippery. We've found out a little, but unfortunately, not where to go looking for him."

"We can definitely help with that. For example, if you can just bring in something that belongs to him, there's a member of my team that can do a psychometric reading."

"Psychometric reading?" Evidently the term was new to Bonasera.

Manning turned to her with an explanation. "People's property, especially if frequently touched, often picks up a psionic impression, which someone with the proper sensitivity can then track to the source."

Bonasera's interested look instantly turned sour; her partner declared with a touch of scorn, "When the NYPD crime lab was entrusted to me, I saw it as our job to trust the evidence and not waste precious time and resources chasing phantoms."

With a sad and understanding smile, Manning gazed at them. "Ah, scientists. I was one of you – once."

"He's got a point, Dr. Manning," Malone said diplomatically. "I've spent fifteen years in Missing Persons. Families are always calling in psychics to help, and they've never broken or solved a single case. All they seem to do is get in the way."

They had stopped before a door, a thick steel door suitable not for a room nor even a wing, but a vault. Manning said in a tone of utter seriousness, "Agent Malone, Detective Taylor, I'm familiar with your teams. It's time you met mine." He nodded to his subordinate. "Let's go in, Myers."

TO BE CONTINUED