very tip of the blade standing an inch above the top of the man’s skull. The assassin glanced up at Ibn Sabbah, who nodded; then the assassin knelt and pulled his knife blade free.
Ibn Sabbah smiled down at the fida’i and waved him back to his place in line.
Yes, he thought, Ibrahim will be so very pleased.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
CIA Safe House #11
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 1:04 p.m.
I stared at Krystos. He would not meet my eyes.
My phone rang and I looked at the screen display. NO ID. I punched the button.
“Hello, Violin.”
“Joseph, are you all right?”
“Now’s not a good time.”
“I-”
But I ended the call. I was confused enough and didn’t need another cryptic conversation.
On the other hand, in a weird way some of this was starting to make sense, but the sense it made was badly warped, and I knew I was out of my depth. I told Ghost to watch the prisoners; then I walked into the kitchen to make a call. Church answered on the first ring.
I said, “Look, Boss, I know you’re busy-I’m busier.”
“Are you at the safe house?”
“Yes and no. I’m here, but it’s no longer a safe house.”
A slight pause, then he said, “I’m in video conference with Dr. Sanchez and Circe. I’ll cycle you in. Okay, you’re on speaker.”
“Cowboy!” Rudy exclaimed. “How are-?”
“Not a social call, Rude. I’m going to give this to you fast.”
They listened while I told him what had just happened. I heard Rudy curse and Circe gasp when I repeated the word “Upier.” Everyone started asking questions before I even finished. I had to yell to get them to shut the hell up. “Hey, guys-I’m in a compromised safe house with dead bodies and two wounded prisoners. I’m calling for field support, not a panel discussion.”
“Tell us what you need, Captain,” barked Church.
“Sure. Let’s start with this Upier stuff. Do we believe in vampires?” I asked. “The DMS, I mean.”
“No,” said Rudy and Circe.
Church did not answer.
“Boss,” I prompted, “say something, ’cause you’re scaring me here.”
“We have to keep an open mind,” said Church.
“Mother of God,” said Rudy.
“What the hell does that mean?” I demanded. “Answer the question. Do we believe in vampires or not?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Church.
Interlude Seven
The Leaping Stag
Newburgh, Yorkshire
January 30, 1193 C.E.
Sir Guy heard a scream as he stepped out of his room. The whole tavern was alive with shouts and yells and the stamping of boots as patrons and staff ran toward the front door.
“What is it?” demanded Sir Guy.
“It’s little Mary!” cried one of the tavern boys. “They’re bringing her in a cart!”
Sir Guy lingered for a moment, lips pursed, smoothing the wings of his mustache with two fingers. He heard a footfall and turned to see Brother Reynard, the little monk Father Nicodemus had sent to accompany him on this mission.
“You heard?” asked Sir Guy.
Brother Reynard nodded. “Is this what we came for?”
“Let’s hope so.”
They went downstairs and outside to join the crowd that was gathering around a rickety wooden cart pulled by a donkey. Sir Guy pushed his way through the throng. “Where is the reeve of this shire?”
A warty little man with a cheap sash of office was bent over the cart and looked up.
“I am, milord,” he said, snatching his hat off his head and knuckling his forelock. “Faville is my name, sir.”
Sir Guy removed a document from his pouch and held it up for inspection. The little man-chief constable of the district-could not read, but he was visibly impressed with all of the official-looking seals.
“I am here on orders from the Holy Father in Rome,” lied Sir Guy. “His Holiness has heard of your troubles and sent me and this good monk here to help.”
The reeve bobbed his head. “Thank you, milord. It is a great honor to have so distinguished a-”
“Let me see the body.”
Sir Guy pushed past the reeve and stepped to the side of the cart. He pulled on his gloves and then raised the threadbare horse blanket that had been used to cover the body.
Beneath it lay a shepherd girl of no more than fifteen.
“This is ’ow we found ’er, milord,” said Faville.
“God save us!” cried Brother Reynard, who peered past Sir Guy’s elbow. “This is surely the devil’s work.”
Sir Guy could not argue. The girl had once been lovely, in the way that peasant girls can be before hard work and hard use made them old before their time. She had yellow hair that gleamed in the early sunlight, and pale blue eyes. Though she was but a girl her figure was womanly, with a premature heft of breast and good hips. But it was all ruined now. She lay naked and torn and frozen on a bed of straw.
Sir Guy shifted around to examine her face and neck. There was a small amount of blood on her throat, caked around the savage wounds, but otherwise the girl was not bathed in gore as might be expected from such injuries.
He cut a look at the reeve. “Did anyone clean her off?”
“No, your lordship,” answered Faville. “This is ’ow she was. Stripped bare and bled white. Frozen stiff, too.”
“What about the surroundings? How much blood was on the ground?”
The reeve shook his head and touched the cross around his neck. His eyes were shifty and frightened. “None to speak of, milord.”
The crowd murmured. Sir Guy noted that although they were horrified, no one looked surprised.
“Her clothes?” he asked.
“Torn to rags and scattered among the bushes.”
Sir Guy bent close and probed the wounds. As is so often the case, the legends had it wrong. Not a pair of clean punctures-that was a fantasy spun by bad poets and liars-but rather a ruin of flesh savaged by many sharp teeth.
It was exactly as Father Nicodemus had described it.
Sir Guy dropped the cloth and turned to the reeve, who was fidgeting and frightened.
“How many others have there been?”
Faville looked uncomfortable and Sir Guy knew that it was because he was the law in these parts and murders were occurring unchecked. “Six, milord.”
“Where was the body found?”
Faville nodded toward the forest. “Near where the others were found, milord. She was in the fields up near
