CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 7

The BPRD's briefing room was no more institutional than the rest of the place. The Missing Persons and Crime Scene units were frankly envious of the comfortable upholstered chairs in a setting of laden bookshelves and gentle low light; the projection screen against the far wall looked rather like an afterthought. But all eyes were on it. John ran through the images at Dr. Manning's direction. "We're pretty certain of who was in the Metropolitan arms and armor galleries on Wednesday night, helping himself to a certain artifact," the BPRD director began. The image on the big screen was of a scowling man on the far side of sixty, wrapped in a checkered keffiyeh over a white robe. The picture itself was slightly out of focus, as if taken surreptitiously from a distance and blown up a bit too big. "Meet Jibril Khalid al-Ghul. There are a few gaps in his dossier, but it's detailed enough to worry the CIA and Homeland Security big-time."

"Really," Agent Johnson mused. "Details?"

"We're getting there," Manning assured her. "He's disseminated his own set of details, in a classic effort of self-mythologizing. He claims to have been born into a poor farming family in Haifa in 1948 a week before Israel's declaration of independence, and been driven into exile at his mother's breast. Very touching story, but the record shows he was actually born to rich horse-breeders, distaff cousins of the al-Sauds, in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia in 1940. Interestingly, his fellow jihadists buy his story even though he doesn't even attempt to disguise his Saudi accent."

"So this clown's about as Palestinian as Shemp Howard," Hellboy muttered.

"Right," confirmed Manning. "As far as we can tell, he's never even set foot in any part of Palestine, unless you count Jordan, which by the way you should. At one point he was very active in the Black September group until the 1971 expulsion. He surfaced again in Damascus in 1975 very close to Hafez Assad's inner circle; word has it that he was instrumental in planning the Lebanon takeover, but we can't document that. Within a year, though, he must have done something to spoil his Syrian honeymoon. He got out just ahead of the secret police detachment sent to pick him up, and showed up next in Marseille running a white-slavery operation under the alias Abdullah Siddiq.

"It was in France that he began connecting with local chapters of the Muslim Brotherhood. Under their influence, he eventually abandoned the secular pan-Arab nationalism that had been the great cause and returned to the Wahhabi Islam of his youth – but with a difference. We think he came in contact with certain esoteric European circles, because during this time, he was diverting most of his resources to the collection and study of ancient supernatural texts in three different languages: Arabic, English, and French. I don't need to point out that the corpus of occult writings is huge in each of these."

Bonasera and Taylor exchanged a glance. "Actually, you do," she confessed.

"Okay, I can understand that. But to continue: After thirteen years in France, al-Ghul, alias Siddiq, had accumulated quite a library and a great deal of expertise, often by unsavory means – "

"Which comes as no surprise," was Danny's observation.

"No, definitely not. And the Iran-Iraq war provided his next opportunity. Apparently both sides tried to recruit him early on because of his growing reputation as an effective sorcerer. But he was too shrewd to throw in his lot with either side until the war was safely over. At that point he accepted Saddam Hussein's offer and went to Iraq in 1989; rumor has it that he was responsible for foiling the officers' coup attempt later that year."

"I have a question." It was Malone. "Any idea why he picked Iraq over Iran? Saddam Hussein failed to achieve any of his objectives, although one could say both sides lost."

"We're not entirely sure why," Manning confessed. "One of our Mideast analysts had a theory that al-Ghul shares the long-standing Arab contempt for the so-called converted peoples, especially the Persians, but I think it's better explained by the events of August 1990."

Taylor nodded slowly. "You mean the invasion of Kuwait."

"Exactly. You'll recall that one of the first systematic operations after the capture of Kuwait City was the emptying of the Kuwait National Museum by Iraqi troops and the shipment of the collection to Baghdad. The monetary and symbolic value of seizing Kuwait's treasures was obvious…but what was less obvious was the value of one item in particular. And this is where I yield the floor to Agent Sapien." Manning made a nod that was almost a nervous bow toward the piscine, who returned the gesture more calmly and rose to his webbed feet.

"Thank you, Dr. Manning." Sapien gestured to John; on the screen flashed the image of a book, its closed cover of ebony wood and crimson leather resting on white velvet in a glass museum case. "This is the item in question. A special detachment of Saddam Hussein's best troops were under orders to bring this to Baghdad and place it directly into the hands of Jibril Khalid al-Ghul and no one else; even though Uday Hussein was said to covet the book, his father overruled him."

Sam looked skeptical. "Must be some book."

"Indeed. This is believed to be the only surviving manuscript copy of the complete original text of Al-Azif." The huge, bright black eyes made the circuit of seven uncomprehending faces. "Some of you might have heard of it by the title of its Latin translation: the Necronomicon."

Recognition lit up only one face – Don Flack's – and that recognition was tinged with fear. "No way! That's just a legend!"

The smoothed-domed, gill-edged head shook sadly. "I only wish it were, Detective Flack. Unfortunately, it is all too real. In the wrong hands, it is beyond dangerous – and I fear any hands at all are the wrong hands."

There were quiet snorts and rolled eyes around the table. "So what's another banned book?" Bonasera said dismissively.

"We're not talking about Lady Chatterley's Lover, Detective Bonasera – which is greatly overrated, if you ask me." Sapien turned to look at the image himself. "To give you an idea, the book is displayed and photographed closed for the protection of anyone looking at it. We are speaking here of the most forbidden and esoteric of all forbidden esoteric texts, whose author, or rather stenographer, plunged into the most profound and incurable insanity shortly after beginning his efforts. It didn't even slow him down.

"And while we're on the subject of not slowing down, al-Ghul had exclusive access to this book for over ten years, during which he devoted himself to mastery of its contents when not attending to the service of Saddam. His little idyll came to an end just before his master's. On March 18, 2003, al-Ghul eluded his own security detail – remember, Saddam trusted nobody – and fled the country."

"Right before we attacked," Malone observed. "Let me guess: He came here."

"Yes, he did, Agent Malone, and very much in spite of being on every terrorism watch list in the civilized world. He found himself a pleasant and quiet little niche in New Jersey right under our noses, and began attending the El-Tawheed Islamic Center in Jersey City."

Johnson narrowed her eyes. "Isn't that the mosque whose last imam was convicted of fund-raising for terrorist organizations?"

"The very one. It proved a congenial spot for al-Ghul. We do think, however, that he limited his recruiting to a very small, hand-picked group, in the manner of Black September, whose lessons he learned quite well."

"Did he create any other cells in the area?" Flack asked, his eyes cold and narrow, his voice a growl. "He wouldn't have had any trouble. Back home in Yonkers, there was dancing in the street at the corner of St. Andrew's Place and South Broadway on 9/11 until the cops showed up."

"I wish I'd showed up," Hellboy growled back.

"We know of no other cells, only the Jersey City one."

"Interesting. Now will someone please explain to me why this al-Ghul and his little friends weren't rounded up two years ago?" Danny's voice had cooled to zero.

Agent John Myers had been so quiet as to be almost forgotten, but he answered this one. "Because they hadn't actually done anything yet. To tell the truth, it wasn't until this week that we were even aware of al-Ghul's presence in the US at all. What you're hearing now is the result of some code-blue research."

"So are we just sloppy, or is this guy really good at hiding?" Danny asked, no warmer.

"A combination of the two," John confessed. "And as I mentioned, they didn't make their move until this week – with the connivance of two more recruits." Without being asked, he put up another image, one all were familiar with. Sapien waited quietly for his colleague to make his contribution. "Alexa Duhaine, of the Metropolitan Museum of Art's department of European painting and sculpture. We have no idea what motivated her to help a jihadist cell rob her own institution…but it could have something to do with this man."

The next image arrived onscreen. It showed a lean, fox-faced man dressed in leather, with long hair of a particularly greasy shade of black. Danny Taylor and Don Flack both almost growled when they saw it. "That's the creep who set us up!" Danny announced.

"Yes, we know," replied Sapien, taking over from the human agent. "Derek Shaftoe, long over his fifteen minutes of fame as lead singer of Black Tide. We have good reason to believe that he is bankrolling the U.S. cell – al-Ghul had to leave almost all his assets behind when he fled Iraq – and providing them with a center of operations. What we wish we knew is why." He looked hopefully at them. "Any suggestions would be quite welcome."

"Let's consider what this charmer became famous for," Taylor said. "A stage show that reportedly disgusted Ozzy Osbourne, a sound that made Metallica seem gentle, and lyrics that could have left Pol Pot hiding under his bed. Maybe this is just a case of adolescent nihilism finding its logical conclusion."

"You mean helping the enemy?" John probed.

"I mean destruction for its own sake."

Hellboy linked and flexed his fingers and gave his upper body a good stretch. "Sounds about right to me."

Dr. Manning nodded. "It's plausible."

"It is," Sapien agreed. "Whatever his motivation, Shaftoe has placed his considerable material resources at al-Ghul's disposal. More worrisome, however, are al-Ghul's own, less material resources. His occult studies have left him with a remarkable range of skills. At the very least, he has complete mastery of at least one technique of arcane surveillance, which is how he was able to identify his pursuers, monitor you and stay ahead of your investigations."

"And abduct Agent Fitzgerald?" Malone's tone was dark.

"Ah! That brings us to the heart of the matter: al-Ghul's motives, his goals, and the means of achieving them. As they say, let's cut to the chase. Next, please, John."

The new image was one familiar to them all: the inscribed sword stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "I have tried to remain unfamiliar with the original text of Al-Azif in order to avoid the accompanying risks, but have obtained some small second-hand knowledge of its contents. One of its more obscure chapters describes the forging of a sword with considerable mystical powers. We now believe that the artisans of Suleyman the First worked from the text to create this item. Hence al-Ghul's interest in it, and his use of Miss Duhaine to help him take possession of it. It seems a certainty that he intends to put it to far more extensive use than ever before – indeed, already has put it to some use. May we have the next slide, please?"

The gruesome image of an autopsy photo popped onto the screen. "How did you get – oh, never mind," Detective Taylor almost asked. The murdered museum guard James Abbott was shown from waist to neck, his cloven heart clearly visible.

"Allow me to solve your forensic mystery, Detectives, Agents," Sapien continued grimly. "Behold the awesome capacity of this sword to strike from a distance, unimpeded by any obstacle, guided by the will of the sorcerer who has learned its secrets."

Bonasera stared, considering the terrifying possibilities. "So you're saying that al-Ghul had broken into the case and taken the sword when James Abbott came into the gallery…and al-Ghul used the sword to kill him from twelve feet away?"

"That is precisely what I am saying, Detective Bonasera."

"We're in trouble," Danny grunted.

Across from him, Manning nodded grimly. "More so than you think. Please continue, Abe."

The piscine made his own nod. "All things considered, ladies and gentlemen, this weapon's physical striking power is the least of the threats it poses. Of far greater concern, and probably the real reason for its creation, is its potential use for cleaving something other than mere flesh." He turned his soft midnight gaze on Hellboy and each of the humans in turn. "When activated with the proper spells and rituals, this blade has the power to cut through the barriers between different levels or aspects of reality."

Seven uncomprehending stares fixed Sapien. Samantha Spade spoke for all of them. "What in the name of J. Edgar Hoover are you talking about?"

Unexpectedly, Sapien sighed. "With your permission, Dr. Manning, I'd like to sit down, please." He did so without needing an answer. "Tedious as it might be, I must remind the company of the words of Hamlet to Horatio. Through the use of Al-Azif and other justifiably forbidden texts, al-Ghul has learned a great deal about things undreamed of in your philosophy. How to contact them…and how to control them." Again he looked around at all their faces. No one was smiling. "There is this fertile and congenial world we live in and love…and below it, in a metaphorical fashion, is another. It has also been called the Left Side, or the Shells, or the Shadow. The divide between the two is normally impermeable – most fortunately for us, as the Left Side, in its own way, is also inhabited."

"By what?" Flack asked bluntly.

"It is difficult to say. The normal terms in which we think about life, even existence itself, simply don't apply. Not to mention that it is extremely dangerous even to research these matters. One way I can try to describe the quasi-lifeforms of the Left Side is to say that, in our terms, they can exist in a state of quantum flux."

"Which makes no sense above a subatomic level," said Taylor flatly.

"Precisely. In terms of what we consider existence, it makes no sense at all. Which is part of what makes these matters so dangerous. The very indefinability of quantum states in the absence of direct observation – neither matter nor energy, neither in one location nor the other, neither A nor not-A – would render such a presence practically unstoppable by any normal physical means."

"What means would stop it?" asked Johnson, all practicality.

Hellboy snorted. "I can think of a few I'd like to try."

"I doubt any of them would work as you would hope," Sapien replied to his scarlet colleague. "There have been incidents of such entities released or summoned into this world, described in certain esoteric texts. Most agree that the only effective means of defeating them is to return them to the Left Side whence they came, preferably by a reversal of the process of their release. The actual destruction of such a being in the context of our world, though, would require nothing less than a physical manifestation of the Primordial Will."

Danny observed, "Then we'll have to come up with one, won't we?"

Sapien shook his head. "As the young people have it, dream on, Agent Taylor. I speak of the Primordial Will, which by its very nature cannot be subject to outside control or manipulation of any kind. The Primordial Will manifests only when and where it will. Of course, one can make a case that on one level, said manifestation consists of all times and places, ever since the anagrammatic transformation of ain, that is to say 'nothing,' to ani, 'I,' in the simultaneous initial and ultimate expression of the Primordial Will revealing itself…" He trailed off as he noticed their blank looks. "It's much clearer in the original Aramaic," he finished lamely.

"No, it isn't, " declared Flack.

Sapien raised and dropped his webbed hands in a helpless gesture. "We all do what we can. At any rate, there have been incursions from the Left Side in the past, but never consisting of more than one entity at a time. The unusual physical evidence collected from the scene of Agent Fitzgerald's disappearance indicates that al-Ghul has already released at least two of them."

"What you're saying is," Sam probed, "that the NYPD crime lab is holding physical traces of aliens?"

"These entities are nothing so simple or compatible as creatures from another planet, with which we would share a common physical and metaphysical nature. These are alien in a far deeper sense."

With lowered eyes, Mac Taylor considered carefully before commenting. "This quantum flux state you mentioned…the implication is that these entities took Agent Fitzgerald and Derek Shaftoe into this state, and that's how they vanished."

"Exactly."

At this, a wave of consternation broke over the Missing Persons unit. "Wait a minute!" Sam cried. "If Martin is now in this Left Side or whatever it is – "

"Oh, no, Agent Spade!" Sapien sat up sharply and raised a hand toward her. "Nothing of the kind. The two of them were merely transported somewhere else within our standard reality. In fact, they may be fairly close by. Find them, and we surely find al-Ghul…which we must do as quickly as possible before he completes his ultimate design." The piscine paused, and gulped wetly. "We fear that al-Ghul's intention is to use the sword to open a large and permanent breach between that reality and this."

"There's one thing that I don't understand," said Malone. "Actually, there are a lot of things that I don't understand here, but one I'd particularly like to ask about. It all sounds very sinister, but you've said nothing specific about what kind of threat these Left Side things pose beyond an ability to teleport."

Unexpectedly, it was Manning who answered him, in a deep and distant voice speaking out of memory: "On the horizon, the peaks assembled; / And as I looked/ The march of the mountains began. / As they marched, they sang/ 'Ay! We come! We come!'"

There was silence. The visitors exchanged uneasy glances; Hellboy leaned back with folded arms and narrowed eyes; Sapien lowered his head into his hands. Only John Myers shrugged and looked undisturbed. "Whatever that's supposed to mean," he mumbled.

The brief look Manning shot him was irked, but tolerant. "We've already been over al-Ghul's involvement with the Muslim Brotherhood and his return to radical Islam. It appears as if he has been cultivating occult knowledge toward the goal of using it in furtherance of the international jihad against the West, and the United States in particular." He paused as if reaching for the right words – or as if calling up the courage to utter them. "There could be few faster ways of reducing our society to blood-drenched chaos than breaching the division in realities that Agent Sapien just did his best to explain."

"You've got to be kidding," Malone declared. "Either that or trying to scare us."

"He is trying to scare you. For a very good reason." Hellboy rose from his chair and leaned heavily on his fists, his mighty figure shadowing the table. "Our neighbors from the Shadow are pretty much incompatible with the world as it is now…and the only use they've got for the native life-forms is as food." The stony look in the little golden eyes admitted no humor or exaggeration. "If this jihad jack-off can really control them, this country will be in for a complete and very nasty makeover. And his little helpers will definitely come hungry."

No one spoke. No one wanted to believe him. But no one had any basis to deny it now. It was the senior CSI who broke the breathless silence. "Tell me if I've got this straight: You say we're facing a hate-crazed jihadist who's committed just about every crime that doesn't require courage. He has sole possession and full knowledge of a text with immense destructive capabilities, he's abducted a federal agent, and he can now unleash a hellish supernatural invasion on this country thanks to a washed-up self-parody of a metalhead and some overeducated girl with less sense than God gave asparagus."

Sapien sighed wetly and slumped back in his seat. "I could not have put it more accurately and succinctly myself, Detective Taylor."

Taylor next addressed the BPRD director. "I hope you have some kind of plan in mind, Dr. Manning, because nothing in our experience was preparation for this."

And unexpectedly, Manning almost smiled. "I wouldn't put it so strongly. For us as for you, the first step is to go to the crime scene and follow wherever the evidence may lead…"

TO BE CONTINUED