CRESCENT OF STEEL AND DARKNESS

Chapter 11

As al-Ghul's men had taken Taylor away, Ghani had stared after them for a long time, even after the door had locked again. But now he'd dropped his gaze to the floor as if deliberately avoiding Martin's eyes. "This detective is a brave man," he declared quietly.

"I noticed," the other replied at a similar volume.

"It is not to his advantage."

"And what does that mean?"

Ghani let loose another of his accustomed heavy sighs. "We have all drawn our conclusions about Mr. Shaftoe; personally, I think he is quite mad." Still looking at the floor, he didn't notice Martin's emphatic nod. "But mad or not, the man is very, very cruel. Mr. Taylor would likely be better off if he allows himself to be broken quickly, and I fear that will not be the case."

"You're probably right," the prisoner agreed miserably.

"My impression is – is," there was a catch in Ghani's voice like a choke, or a sob, "that the terrible loss he suffered has hardened him far more than Shaftoe thinks…or even the malik suspects." Now he looked up at the other – and quickly dropped his gaze again. Without a word, Martin's iron expression and cold blue eyes accused: And whose cause is responsible for that?

There was another sob, then a few long, silent minutes. Martin bided his time, letting the other think a few unaccustomed thoughts. At length Ghani looked up into empty space and softly began to recite: "'If you wander far enough / You will come to it / And when you get there / They will give you a place to sit / For yourself only, in a nice chair / And all your friends will be there / With smiles on their faces / And they will likewise all have places…'" He finished, lapsing back into silence.

"That's not from the Qu'ran," Martin observed.

"No. It was in a book my daughter brought home from the public library. I was leafing through it to see if there was any inappropriate content; I came across that poem, and I found it comforting. I have remembered it ever since." He closed his eyes briefly. "That is how I always imagined Paradise: a place of quiet, rest, reunion, and most of all, peace."

I'm not the one who needs comforting, Martin mused, thinking uneasily of the other prisoner. Aloud he said, "I don't understand, Mr. Ghani. Why would a decent family man like you want to be complicit in the deaths of millions?"

No answer. Ghani's face vanished into his hands, and his body shook with a long run of choking sounds. When the hands finally dropped away, he muttered to empty air, "There is no other way…the two are incompatible, there is no other way…" He raised his damp face and looked at Fitzgerald as if noticing him for the first time. "It is written in the Holy Qu'ran: 'O you who believe! when you meet the unbelievers in hostile array, never turn your backs to them. If any do turn his back to them on such a day – unless it be in a stratagem of war, or to retreat to a troop – he draws on himself the wrath of Allah, and his abode is Hell, an evil refuge!' I must not be weak…Allah is the Quick to Punish…" He trailed off, lost in himself; it came as a momentary relief when the door opened.

The relief lasted only until they saw who had come in. The three gunmen were dragging in the CSI, who hung limp as before, unresisting as they shackled him back beside the first captive. But this time he was awake, his back bloody and tattered from shoulders to thighs; he did not fight only from lack of strength. "My God," exclaimed Martin, "what the hell did you do to him?"

"Us? Nothing." Samir was smirking. "Just a little moving around. If you want the details, ask him." A jerk of his head indicated where Shaftoe was coming through the door behind them, accompanied by al-Ghul. He was grumbling at high speed, "I don't bloody understand it, I gave the little bastard everything I got – even salted the wounds, and he didn't tell me a bloody thing! Son of a bitch must be made of wood!"

"Wood breaks," al-Ghul reminded him in a toneless voice. "Wood burns."

That brightened up the other considerably. "Now there's an idea! I'll drag him back up to my private room, this time it'll work…"

"Shut up," the sorcerer commanded. "I have no more time to waste on your entertainment."

Shaftoe narrowed his eyes. "Oh, really? Well, O High and Mighty Wizard, must I remind you that we still don't know why your magic didn't work?"

"We shall know in a moment," al-Ghul declared confidently. "Stand aside." Ghani, trembling all over and very pale, pressed himself against the wall; another brief order in Arabic sent the young men from the cell. Once he had enough room, al-Ghul drew and brandished the inscribed sword. Approaching his prisoners, he gave a light kick to the half-alive Mac Taylor and demanded, "I will ask once more. Where were you, and what do you know?"

The tortured man's voice was low, but clear enough. "Go to hell."

A narrow, mirthless smile cut across al-Ghul's face. "So." He raised the blade again and slashed down across empty air; suddenly Martin gasped in astonishment – and pain. The FBI agent stared down at his own chest: a wide slash had opened across his shirt, blood welling up rapidly in the shallow wound beneath. He looked up aghast from the cut to the face of his captor, who raised the sword again and gave it a twist. Martin fell back against the wall, gasping again, as a single ruby bead appeared on his neck. "Well, Detective? Shall I slash his throat?"

Taylor forced himself upright, urgency in his weakened voice. "No. I'll tell you."

With a smug glance over at the seething Shaftoe, al-Ghul returned the sword to his belt. "Very good. Now then, Detective Taylor: Where did you meet the FBI Missing Persons team, and why?"

Martin was about to protest, but a glance from the criminalist silenced him. "We went down to the West Side, to the grounds of a garbage hauler called Waste Management Services. The feds had gotten a tip about another body there, dead without a mark on him like the one in the Metropolitan Museum, and also that Lexi Duhaine had been seen on the grounds. Since our cases are linked, we've been collaborating."

"Indeed. And what did you find?"

"Absolutely nothing. The body turned out to be a homeless man who'd died of natural causes in his sleep, and the woman was just an employee of the trash hauler who shared Miss Duhaine's build and coloring."

Frowning, al-Ghul pressed on. "Why was I unable to observe you while there?"

"How on earth could I tell you? I don't know anything about magic!"

Stroking his beard with his left hand, drumming on the sword hilt with his right, al-Ghul considered what he'd heard. The silence stretched into a full minute and more until the sorcerer made his decision. "I can delay no longer. I had thought to have more time to prepare…but the Night of Power must be tonight." He shot a look at Ghani, still pressing himself against the wall, who began to tremble again. "Ghani! Keep a close watch. If either of them even breathes differently, I must know at once." He gestured to Shaftoe. "Come! There is much to do." They swept out.

The prisoners exchanged a look. "You're good," Martin whispered.

"Thank you." Taylor suppressed another wince of pain and looked across at Ghani apprehensively. The guard seemed paralyzed with fear. "Although I don't know if I bought us any time."

As they watched, Ghani gradually took command of himself and came slowly away from the wall, back to his seat. He was still shaking. Martin decided to risk it. "Mr. Ghani," he asked tentatively, "what is the Night of Power?"

Ghani's voice trembled. "The Qu'ran speaks of al-Qadr, the Night of Power. In its most mysterious sura. 'And what will explain to you what the Night of Power is/ The Night of Power is better than a thousand months. / Therein come down the angels and the Spirit by the permission of their Lord, on every errand/ Peace!...This until the rise of morn!' I wish I knew what it meant."

Martin felt a chill. "So do we."

XXXX

His teammates and the NYPD detectives were clustered around Agent John Myers, who struggled to translate Abe Sapien's results into map coordinates, but Danny Taylor sat across from Hellboy, watching him clean and prepare an immense revolver obviously custom-made for his stone hand. "Quite a piece you've got there," the human federal agent observed. "Where do you get ammo for it?"

"Load it myself."

"Think it'll do for our visitors from the Left Side?"

"It should." Satisfied, Hellboy snapped the empty cylinder into position and spun it. "The Samaritan here has knocked holes through a few demons in its time."

Danny nodded. "Impressive."

"Doesn't help much if the holes close themselves up, 'course." Noticing the color draining from the other's face, Hellboy winked and added, "Just kidding. Besides, there's always Plan B."

"Which is?"

"I haven't worked out all the details yet, but let's just say I expect to do General Washington proud."

Over at a much cleaner workbench, John raised his head from the maps. "This is the tightest you can come up with, right, Abe?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, John."

"Don't be," he assured his blue colleague. "You did your best. And I did my best." He held up the results.

Agent Malone and Dr. Manning moved in to read them. "Mount Kisco. Between Route 684 and the New Croton Reservoir." Malone considered. "It's a start."

Detective Flack hovered behind them. "It's a slow start. It's an hour away, and that's a lot of ground to cover."

"Especially if we have to go door-to-door," Sam Spade observed grimly.

Vivian Johnson put on a smile of sorts. "Then we'd better get started, right?"

XXXX

Guard and prisoners heard the screaming and arguing louder than the approaching clatter of feet. The door was flung open and Lexi Duhaine tumbled in, tangled up in yards of black fabric, her hands tied in front of her. She was shrieking herself hoarse; as she struggled to regain her feet, Samir and Mansour were upon her, trying to pin her as she flapped like a grounded condor. Abdelaziz followed them; in his hand was a small assembly of straps and rubber that Taylor recognized from the wall of Shaftoe's "private room." It took a great deal of effort to shove it into her mouth and strap it into position around her head, but it reduced her screams to frantic, gasping grunts.

Both captives were bewildered and appalled, but before Martin could protest, he heard someone else beating him to it. "What the hell's the matter with you?" Shaftoe was shouting as he burst in right behind al-Ghul. "She's one of us!"

"I will not dignify such nonsense with an answer," al-Ghul replied placidly.

"You'd not have laid a finger on the bloody sword without her!"

"Which means that her only further usefulness to the jihad is in this form. The jinn require three offerings to descend on the Night of Power. I hold two kufr prisoners, otherwise useless. Besides, as it is written in the Holy Qu'ran, 'It is not fitting for a Messenger that he should have prisoners of war until he has thoroughly subdued the land,' therefore it is best to eliminate them quickly. A third is necessary; speed and efficiency are of utmost importance."

"That's just an excuse. You could send your genies out to grab another cop!"

"But I have no intention of doing so."

"Bloody hell!" Shaftoe was fairly hopping up and down. "This isn't right! It shouldn't be her!"

An icicle smile gleamed in al-Ghul's face. "Are you volunteering to take her place? That would be brave, for a kufr."

The other went white and took a wobbly step back, to the snickers of the three men holding the bound and gagged Lexi. "I didn't say that…but I'm not letting you get away with it! You're on my property – and by the way, that's my ball gag, Abdul or whatever your name is – and you'll do as I say, or I'll blow the lid off your whole operation right now!" Shaftoe drew himself up and even puffed out his chest before turning and heading for the cellar door and the stairs.

Now the smile turned deadly. "So, you think I summoned the jinn to do the bidding of any drugged, oversexed kufr who deigns to let me use his house. Now I will show you exactly why I summoned them." He whipped the blade from his belt, and everyone else froze; even Lexi ceased struggling, paralyzed by an awful anticipation.

No one else moved or spoke as al-Ghul raised the sword and hissed a brief incantation. Shaftoe stood petrified halfway out the door, a foot on the lowest step, feeling the sudden close heat of the changed atmosphere, hearing the mad chittering and slurping grow nearer, louder…

Suddenly Martin knew; he recoiled against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut. Taylor saw him and instantly followed his lead. In this way they spared themselves the sight, but there was nothing to be done about Shaftoe's sudden screams of terror and agony, the tearing and sucking, the snapping of bones and hiss of dissolving flesh that went on even after the shrieking had faded into nothingness.

It went on for far too long until an awful, empty silence prevailed. When the captives opened their eyes, they saw Iftikhar Ghani huddled in a corner with his arms around his knees; the three youths trembling wildly, holding hands in a tangle; and Lexi lying on the floor shaking like a breeze-blown black sack, very white behind the gag. The jihadi sorcerer himself was the only one not staring at the slimy, bubbled puddle clotted with pink gore and little splinters of bone.

"Let that be a – what do you Americans call it? – a preview," al-Ghul declared triumphantly. "My offerings of the Night of Power and the power of the dhu'l-fakar will bring the legions of Allah descending in their master's cause…and they will be hungry."

"Please, malik, if I may have your permission – "

The voice was so low that al-Ghul almost missed it, but it did catch his attention. He rounded on Ghani. "What do you want? And speak like a man, not like a frightened old woman!"

"Forgive me, malik. But you have spoken of offerings making the jinn descend. What – what do you mean? What kind of offerings?"

A strange light of exaltation was shining on al-Ghul's face. "Tonight we offer the sacrifices of the glorious days of old, as recorded in Al-Azif and the other ancient writings. The jinn demand three kufr offerings on the Night of Power, to be brought before them, pierced through with the sacred blade of the dhu'l-fakar, and thrown into the fire, fulfilling what is written in the Holy Qu'ran: 'Such is the requital of the enemies of Allah – the Fire.' The jinn will be pleased, and once I have presented the sacrifices and carved their gateway with this sacred sword, they will come in their hordes to obey me and destroy all resistance to the jihad, 'and there prevail justice and faith in Allah altogether and everywhere'…"

"It – it does sound impressive," Ghani said uncertainly. "But I do not understand something: Are these offerings – these sacrifices to be made to the jinn themselves?"

"Of course. They demand their due, and I will provide it."

Now Ghani seemed totally confused. "But to offer sacrifices to spirits – isn't that idol worship? How can idol worship be for the service of Allah?"

"It is not idol worship!" His eyes had darkened dangerously. "Idols are manmade things, statues and pictures; these are the mighty jinn of Allah, who accepted the sacrifices of our ancient ancestors. The Palestinians of old offered blood and lives to the holy angels Baal and Moloch."

The three young men were now whispering among themselves, and Ghani's head was shaking like a baby's rattle. "But that was the time of ignorance when men were idol worshippers and polytheists – what the Prophet, peace be upon him, came into the world to correct!"

"Do you presume to lecture me?" al-Ghul snarled. "You, an ignorant Baluchi who cannot even read the Holy Qu'ran, dares to call my ancient Palestinian fathers idol worshippers? They were good Muslims one and all, builders of the Al-Aqsa Mosque, where their fire sacrifices to the angels brought glory and honor to Allah!"

"Fire sacrifices in the Al-Aqsa Mosque?" Ghani seemed about to cry. "But it was built in the time of Caliph Umar, on the place of the Temple of Suleyman – "

"You are a fool! Al-Aqsa was built more than a thousand years before Suleyman was born – it was all in the report from the Zayed Center in Abu Dhabi three years ago!" He snorted. "But why do I waste my time arguing with an ignoramus? Either you help me to summon the host of the jinn, or I feed you to Chaarmarouch and Taranoushi as I did that presumptuous kufr Shaftoe; do you understand me?"

"Yes, malik, I do." The expression that had replaced Ghani's confusion was not so easily read.

"Very good." A fierce gaze swept everyone else in the room, and paused on the small pool of human remains. "Everyone understands. Let us begin. Samir, Abdelaziz, you must come outside and prepare the site under my direction. Mansour, get a mop and clean up this mess; then I want you to help keep an eye on the prisoners – there are three now, and they have become far more valuable. And I must add something…" There was a hard gleam in al-Ghul's sunken eyes, and he was focusing it on Lexi Duhaine's bone-pale face. "No doubt you are clinging to the promise you had me make: That my new caliphate would preserve the temples of cross worship, and the vast barns full of idolatrous junk you kufr call art museums, to the limit of my ability. Now the time is right for me to explain that promise. The Holy Qu'ran and the Shari'a law forbid the preservation of idols and idol worship, and forbid the servant of Allah to disobey his law. The limit of my ability is to preserve none of it, and my duty is to destroy all I can. But I can promise that you will not be here to see the burning, shattering, and obliteration of all your precious idols." Next he looked to the men. "And you two will be fortunate enough not to have to witness the fall of your precious city and country."

TO BE CONTINUED