CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 10

Iftikhar Ghani was still asleep and Martin Fitzgerald miserably trying to when many feet came rattling down the stairs, and the door banged open, slamming against the concrete wall opposite. The Pakistani came awake with a shock, tumbling from his stool and yelping as he hit the floor. "Oh! You startled me – I wasn't asleep!" He grabbed for his stool and squirmed back on; quite likely he would have been in serious trouble if anyone had been paying him attention.

Martin wearily opened his eyes, not really caring what he saw – until he saw it. The whole awful crew of them had come down: al-Ghul and the three young men, plus Derek Shaftoe and the black-draped, white-faced Lexi Duhaine…but there was another. Between them al-Ghul's young trio were dragging the limp body of a man. Dead? No, unconscious, he has to be…Martin breathed again as they dropped their burden against the wall beside him, flung another set of handcuffs around the pipe, pulled up the unresisting wrists to be shackled. Wondering who had been captured and why, Martin listened and remained still.

"Why didn't you let me get one of the girls?" Shaftoe was grumbling. "Two of them were fine!"

Jibril Khalid al-Ghul shot him a look of contempt, then sighed. "I barely know where to begin. First of all, you did not 'get' anyone or anything; the honor for this operation belongs to Taranoushi alone. Secondly, women know nothing but desire and gossip; what could we learn from hens?"

From the concrete corner where she had retreated, Lexi broke in acidly, "Two of those 'hens' are FBI agents, and the other is second-in-command of the New York crime lab. Maybe it's just me, but I think they might know a few things!" Martin felt his face grow hot at the mention of the first two; however, either he succeeded in hiding it or none of the enemy noticed.

One of the young Arabs turned to her. "You're quite right: It is just you." The three and their leader chuckled among themselves before ignoring her again.

"As I was saying before we were rudely interrupted," al-Ghul continued pointedly, "your repulsive desires are of no interest here, Shaftoe. The issue we must consider is that both the FBI and the police investigating our operations were able to foil the power of the mirror of ink. Until now they have been no threat to us, but if they have been able to find their own source of spiritual power, we face our first real challenge. I must learn what they know and what they did when beyond my surveillance." He turned to the shamefaced Ghani. "Let me know when he awakens. And do try to stay awake yourself when on guard duty." All but Lexi were smiling more or less smugly as they went out, leaving behind only the two prisoners and their furiously blushing guard.

Martin turned his attention to his new companion. He'd never seen the man before, but had a good idea of what, if not who, he was; the lapel pin in the blue and gold of the NYPD detective's shield was a clear sign. And considering that the Missing Persons unit had begun to work with the NYPD's crime lab on this whole misbegotten case, chances were that this unfortunate was one of them.

The new captive's eyes fluttered open within a few minutes. Martin noticed first, but Ghani caught on not two seconds later. "Oh! You're awake!" He wobbled up to his feet, hardly less clumsily than the last time he'd gotten off the stool, and stumbled out of the basement toward the stairs, almost forgetting to lock the door behind him. As soon as he was gone, the new man took the measure of his surroundings instantly – starting with testing his fetters and finding them secure. He turned sharp blue eyes to his left. "Special Agent Martin Fitzgerald, I presume."

Martin leaned in close to the other. "We've got maybe a minute," he whispered quickly. "You were brought here because they were tracking the investigation and lost the trail. So whatever you do, don't tell me a thing, or they'll try to get it out of both of us."

"Got it," the other answered. "How were they tracking us?"

"I can't explain it. Some sort of trick with ink. Any more than I can explain the – the things that brought us here."

"That sounds about right." He even smiled. "Detective Mac Taylor, NYPD Crime Scene Unit, at your service. I can tell you that, can't I?"

Martin smiled back. "Name, rank, serial number, and date of birth."

Across the concrete room, the door clicked and began to yawn open. Taylor turned his head to watch. "That's all I'll be telling them."

XXXX

Dr. Tom Manning ran a slow, appraising gaze across the objects arrayed on the steel table before him: the samples from the two abduction scenes, the piece of office-chair fabric, the two pairs of men's underwear (his gaze speeded up across the last two). Meanwhile Detective Bonasera made her own appraisal of the BPRD's lab – if that was indeed what it was. It certainly was laid out and largely furnished like a crime lab, but the equipment…She suppressed the urge to think about it too hard; that way lay madness. Neither did she want to think about why the place was so poorly lit, for a lab. Detective Flack was hovering at her side, looking across the table at the impeccable Manning and the slightly disheveled John Myers in order to avoid looking at said equipment. "So these are all the traces you were able to recover?" asked the BPRD director, focusing on the sample bottles of acidic slime and the giant chitin fragments mounted in petri dishes.

"I'm afraid so," she answered. "Is this enough to improve your trace attempt, Agent Sapien?"

The piscine felt tentatively at the piece of upholstery with one claw. "I won't know until I've tried. Probably several times." He heaved a deep, damp sigh. "How I wish Professor Broome were still with us."

"You said it," grunted Hellboy from far side of the room, where he leaned against a wall as if propping it up. He scratched his ear, shifted, twirled his tail around his stony right wrist. "Damn it, isn't there anything I can do?"

"Not until we know where to look," Manning declared, perhaps a little too firmly. "There is something you can do, John: I'd like you to contact Special Agent Malone right now. He and his team won't appreciate being left out at this stage."

"I'm on it, sir."

XXXX

Just as Martin had estimated, Ghani returned with his master in less than two minutes. The three Arab youths attended al-Ghul, with Shaftoe tagging along like an afterthought. Both captives were just a little gratified to see that Lexi had been spared this session, and noticed how Ghani quietly slipped off to the farthest corner and stood watching, as if afraid or not permitted to participate directly. There was a brief, electric silence as al-Ghul rested his hands on the hilt of the sword he wore and stared hard into two sets of blue eyes in turn. They stared back just as hard and waited for him to speak.

When he did, he adressed Taylor only, and wasted no time or tenderness. "Where were you today at four o'clock? How were you able to hide from the mirror of ink?" The questions came out in a snarl.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." The answer was cool, affectless.

"Of course you do." A snicker crackled in al-Ghul's beard. "Somehow you police scientists and the FBI have found a way to counter the ancient secrets of my people. How? Have you deciphered the writings of the Comte d'Erlette? Or have you salvaged forbidden knowledge of the Great Old Ones?"

Taylor deployed his own snicker. "Now you're just making stuff up."

There were gasps and glares from his captor's entourage. One of the young men, eyes ablaze, reached into a pocket for a gun; another of them put out a hand to restrain his comrade. With eyes like molten iron, al-Ghul rumbled, "You kufr think everything is made up but your overrated science. Soon, you will all wish that my secret knowledge was mere make-believe. And if you do not answer my questions, you will learn the evil fate Allah reserves for the unbelievers. For the last time: Where were you at four o'clock, and what spell hid you from my observation?"

With narrowed eyes, Taylor replied almost too calmly, "Here are the only answers you'll get from me: The NYPD doesn't practice, give credence to, or otherwise waste its time with magic. And it does not cooperate with terrorists. Now get it over with."

Frowning, al-Ghul raised a hand and made a curt gesture. The man holding the gun understood; he came forward and placed the barrel of the pistol against Taylor's temple. "I know you Americans," al-Ghul purred. "You love life, because death means the end of your eating, drinking, and whoring. Now that I have you chained at my feet, I give you one more chance to save yourself."

"You know nothing of America, and nothing of me." It was as if the gun at his head did not even register to Taylor. "Let me enlighten you. I had a wife once, who never harmed another human being in her life. One pleasant Tuesday morning she went to work…at the World Trade Center. Thanks to the likes of you and your jihad, the woman I loved has no grave. That is all you need to know."

"All you need to know," his captor growled back, "is that if you do not tell me what I want, you will join her today in the fires of Hell."

"Fine. I'm waiting." Taylor closed his eyes, and waited.

Panic was rising in the back of Martin's mind. The handcuffs were still tight, and the pipe sound and secure. Maybe he could slide down the pipe a couple of feet, kick the gun from the Arab's hand? Not before they could stop him, not to mention that he'd accomplish nothing more than slowing them down for about a minute. Helplessness tasted hot and bitter…

"Oi! Don't do that!"

All eyes went to Derek Shaftoe, who'd elbowed his way through al-Ghul's honor guard to confront the sorcerer. "That'd be a bloody stupid waste, wouldn't it? Especially when I can make the bastard talk!"

"Indeed. And how?" A sharp skepticism inflected al-Ghul's tone. "As the heroic martyrs prove day after day, a man who does not fear death is invincible."

"Oh, it's not so simple as that." Shaftoe's grin was mirthless and very unpleasant. "A quick, clean death's not such a bad thing. Especially when a man's not got much to live for anymore…that's right, Mansour, you can put away the gun now."

The youth looked lasers at him. "I'm Samir, you stupid kufr son of – "

"Whatever."

With a sharp glance, al-Ghul silenced the gunman. "Be quiet, Samir. Well? Go on, Shaftoe, I am listening."

"It's not like I have to spell it out to a wise bloke like yourself, Jibril old boy. Just let me remind you that endurance – or should I say, the lack of same – can be more effective than fear. I'll take care of everything; you won't have to get a drop on those delicate magic hands of yours. You know about that special little playroom of mine…"

Stroking his beard slowly, al-Ghul intoned, "Yes, I understand. A fine idea."

"I need a little help moving the package upstairs and into position. Your boys can give me a hand. And I'd appreciate it if you could have one of your jinn standing by in case the boys need a little help. That's all I'll need – well, that and a little time." The unpleasant grin grew toothier. "Probably less time than anyone expects. I hope it won't be over too fast to be fun…"

Taylor said nothing; his face was almost expressionless except for a mere glimmer in his eyes. Nearly sick with anger, Martin kept his own silence not out of fear, but from the bitter bite of the knowledge that nothing he could say would make the slightest bit of difference.

XXXX

Derek Shaftoe was flushed with anticipation as he prepared for the interrogation. He'd been looking forward to this chance for what seemed like centuries. No more performances or play-acting; this was his first shot at the real thing! He'd changed to his favorite costume: the long, tight tunic of black leather, the matching trousers that were like a second skin, and the high-heeled spurred boots that he'd worn on the farewell tour in '97; all still fit as on the day they were made for him. All his best equipment hung on the walls in precise places; Shaftoe turned off the harsh fluorescents and turned up the gas jets in their wall brackets, lighting the room with flames that sent the shadows reeling on the scarlet walls.

Everything was perfect – or should have been perfect. Something wasn't right, and Shaftoe had a suspicion as to what it was. He turned from the line of wall-mounted knives he was inspecting to shoot a glance at the prisoner. Mac Taylor had been put into position too, kneeling at dead center of the circular room, in shirtsleeves, wrists bound with leather straps to the iron ring set in the floor. But he was as silent and immobile as a statue of himself; his back was straight and his eyes never left his captor. Shaftoe was bewildered, and irritated too; the man should have been squirming like a trapped mouse, maybe even fighting to hold back tears. It just wasn't fair, and it left Shaftoe without the delicious taste of mastery he deserved. Not to mention that the criminalist's keen blue gaze seemed to have its own crosshairs.

Well, he'd fix that soon enough. It was time to begin. Shaftoe ran his tongue quickly around his lips, selected a riding crop from the supply of props on the wall, and slowly advanced on his captive, drawing out his approach to prolong the terror, sensuously caressing the shining leather of the chosen tool of discipline. "Well, here you are, Detective Taylor. Bound, helpless, completely at my mercy…and the only thing that can save you is telling me exactly what I want to know."

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't tell you if your fly was open. I've got this thing about cooperating with traitors."

Shaftoe stopped short. He was expecting a bit of half-hearted defiance, but nothing like that! There should be at least a catch in the victim's throat, or something. Suddenly he realized he was standing and staring dumbly, and quickly retook command. "You can't call me that! This isn't my goddamn country."

And infuriatingly, Taylor smiled, his eyes blue ice. "Do you really think we don't know who you are? After your little stunt in the West Village, the FBI dug into your records with a backhoe and shared everything with NYPD. They didn't find all the details, but they did learn that until 1988, you were Paul David Ericsson from Minneapolis. Born in 1967, by the way, not 1971 like it says on your CD liner notes." Taylor's voice dripped scorn. "You're about as British as Hillary Clinton, and you and your stupid accent are equally phony. But I will admit that you were completely truthful when you said this wasn't your country."

It seemed as if the pig was determined to ruin the whole thing. Still, the real fun hadn't started yet. Just wait until the blood began to flow – his blood – and then he'd show his true colors – canary yellow, like all of them. Shaftoe ran the riding crop through his fingers, purring, "Now your country is reduced to this little room – which I rule. I will make it a cauldron of pain…and you will pray for death."

He got his answer: a snicker, cold and edged with contempt. "Aren't you embarrassed by this?"

Astonishment flashed in Shaftoe's eyes, momentarily blasting away all the triumph and amusement, but again he reasserted control over himself and the scenario. He gave an icy chuckle of his own. "Brave words from a man on his knees!"

Taylor looked up at him coolly. "You didn't put me here. That took three men with guns backed up by invisible monsters, remember? If it were just you and me, I could take you in my sleep. Want to try it?"

Shaftoe bristled. "Still trying to play the tough cop, with the badge and the gun. But I took that badge and gun. I took everything from you: your freedom, your dignity, your hope…" he stood above Taylor and touched the leather quirt to the captive's face, slowly drawing it down and across his throat; "and if I want, I can take your life."

And Taylor only laughed at him again. "You think I'm afraid of your costume and props and silly script? You wouldn't have made a light snack for my old drill instructor. And every Marine in my Gulf unit back in '91 would be laughing himself silly at this performance."

Shaftoe's cheeks blazed; quickly he snatched the riding crop away from Taylor's neck and waved it furiously. "Marine? So you think you're a real man because you let them stuff you in a uniform and tell you what to do? And what did you face in the Gulf back then? Saddam's Republican Guard nancy-boys, who couldn't tell one end of a gun from the other! Well, now you're facing me, and I'm going to teach you about fear!"

"Oh, give it a rest." Taylor sighed as if bored, and shook his head. "Who do you think you're dealing with? I'm not one of those poor hookers and hustlers you pay to come here, to tremble and plead while you act out your sick fantasies."

Shaftoe froze. "How did you know about that, you bastard!"

"Could you have made it any more pathetically obvious?" Taylor glared lightning into his captor's face. "Is that why you signed on with al-Ghul? Did he assure you that once he was caliph of the world, you'd have a steady supply of infidel slaves you could torture and debase for real, so you could finally feel alive?"

"Starting with you!" Shaftoe shrieked. He flung the riding crop across the room, where it banged against the wall; he ran after it and snatched up a heavier horsewhip. Cracking the lash, he ranted wildly, either not noticing or not caring that his London accent had vanished. "But that's just the gravy! The main event is going to be watching al-Ghul's things take down this whole worthless corrupt garbage-heap of a society! The steel towers will fall, the bloodsucking corporations will be gone once and for all and take all their pollution and racism and exploitation with them, and all their goddamn money will be just piles of worthless green paper at last! And it doesn't matter what kind of society replaces it – anything else has got to be better than this!"

"This is all an abstraction to you, isn't it?" Taylor observed in a cool and quiet tone. "No thought to all those who would die, and the many more who will wish they had?"

Shaftoe chuckled. "Didn't someone once say that one death is a tragedy while a million deaths are a statistic?"

"Yes. Stalin. And he was wrong; there's no such thing as 'a million deaths.' One human being dies, and another, and another – tragedies and bereavements accumulated one by one by one."

There was a brief and deadly pause. The British accent returned, and the eyes flashed daggers. "If I didn't have to question you, I'd cut off your balls and gag you with them. But I promised al-Ghul I'd make you talk, and I promise myself I'll make you beg for mercy!"

Taylor's eyes did not flicker. "Bring it on."

Shaftoe failed to keep both promises…but it was not for lack of effort.

TO BE CONTINUED