them, they cut their man free and we’re left with nothing. It’s as simple and frustrating as that.”
Orla nodded. She’d come across similar protection mechanisms in sleeper cells in Western Europe. It was part of the modern philosophy of fear. It was based upon distrust. No one could afford to trust anyone around them. They expected to be betrayed at any moment, so there were no secret hideouts, no conspiratorial meetings of gunpowder, treason and plot. It was difficult to be betrayed when people didn’t have the slightest clue who you were or, when it came right down to it, whether you even existed. Everyone focused on their own place in the chain.
In a structure protected by distrust it was amusing that all any of the individual conspirators had to go on was the word of the man above them in the chain that they weren’t alone in what they were doing. She wanted to ask how the disciples disseminated their orders, how the word to fight was passed from link to link without it taking forever. How did the disciples make their will known to others in the chain? It was a basic thing, but in such a fractured chain of command it was hard to imagine them picking up a cell phone and calling the first man on the list beneath their name. She almost laughed at that. She didn’t. Instead she asked, “So the men you caught didn’t talk?”
The toad shook his head. “On the contrary. They tked plenty. They begged. They pleaded. They swore blind they didn’t know anything. It was all we could do to stop them talking. Unfortunately they were telling the truth. They had nothing of use to say. We had hoped that by taking one of them we might work our way up the chain, get the name of his contact, track down the next man in the line, bring him in, break him, get the name of his contact and so on. It didn’t work out quite like that.” The toad licked his lips nervously. She was naturally uneasy about people who licked their lips. It was a furtive thing, a reflex that smacked of nervousness. “The first name on our list was found floating in the Yarkon estuary the morning after we brought his man in. It was a quite literally a dead end.”
Orla nodded again. It made sense that someone would be making sure they kept their house clean. Given the nature of the Shrieks, either the disciple himself, or more likely, his right hand, would have seen to it that Schnur’s men couldn’t simply kill their way up the chain to the top.
“This is all very interesting, but, and forgive me for being blunt, Gavrel, how exactly does this all link up with our two Akim Caspis?”
“A few days ago I would have said it didn’t,” the toad admitted, shifting in his seat again. She pitied the chair. “I wasn’t even sure it did until you showed me that photograph of your man. Then, as they say, it all became clear.”
“You recognize him?”
The toad nodded slowly, as though deciding how much it was reasonable to share. “I do,” he said. “He was one of us.”
Now that had her attention. “You mean Intelligence?”
Gavrel nodded again. And again the gesture was painfully slow and drawn out, as though it physically hurt him to share even that much. “Now he calls himself Mabus. When I knew him his name was simply Solomon. He was Akim Caspi’s protege.” He looked at the photograph of the Masada dig again. “The fool took him under his wing, taught him everything he knew. I think he saw him as the son he never had. It is a common flaw among childless men of a certain age. Curious that Solomon chose to pass himself off as Akim. This was taken when?”
“Around two months after the real Akim Caspi died,” she said. “It was taken at an archeological excavation at Masada after the ’04 earthquake.”
“Meaning, if I understand you right, two months before these mysterious payouts from Humanity Capital began?”
She nodded.
“Curious.”
“You could say that,” she agreed, “but I’m still not seeing how this all ties together. I feel like I am missing something obvious, something staring me right in the face.”
“From here on, what I am about to tell you is pure conjecture. It has no basis in fact. I have no real reason for believing it, but I do. I believe Mabus is not merely a self-styled Disciple of Judas, but rather he is the First Disciple, the man who stands above them all. That he should be reborn at Masada, well, perhaps that is not so surprising. How much do you know of the place?”
“Some,” Orla said, leaving it to the Israeli to work out for himself what she did and didn’t know.
“For a while Masada was a Roman fortress, then it was occupied by a group who called themselves Sicarii. They wanted to expel the Romans and their partisans from Judaea. One could argue it is the same fight we are having today, but isn’t that always the way? People fight about territory. Anyway, the Sicarii were dagger men, assassins. That’s where the name comes from in point of fact. Sicae is Latin for dagger. Sicarii, men of the dagger. They were forerunners of the Arab Hashshashin. Patient killers. They worked their way close to their target, ingratiating themselves into their service, becoming trusted friends. Confidants. Allies. They would become indispensable to the Roman generals they sought to kill. They worked away in the background. Then, when the guard was down, they struck and faded away into the chaos of the murder scene, often calling for help for the dying man and holding him like the friend they were supposed to be.
“Does any of this sound familiar? It ought to. It is the story of Judas, or at least a version of it, after all. Even his name Iscariot is interpreted by some scholars as a Hellenized transformation of sicarius. The suffix — ot could be interpreted as denoting his belonging to the Sicarii. Of course, it’s only a theory, but it is a theory that is supported by the knowledge that Menahem ben Jair and his brother Eleazar, the last known leaders of the Sicarii, were the grandsons of Judas. And, interestingly enough, the brothers died together at Masada in AD 73 when the entire sect committed mass suicide rather than be captured by the Romans. So why wouldn’t Masada be the perfect place for the first Disciple of Judas to be reborn? There’s a certain sick symmetry to it.” He shook his head.
Orla didn’t really understand half of what he had said. She had stopped listening halfway through when something the toad had said had derailed her train of thought. Something wasn’t right about this.
“Mabus has been their mouthpiece for the last five years. He is the one obsessed with taking terror to a new level in this country. He makes hate films and distributes them via the Internet. They call it Viral Fear. In them he claims responsibility for attacks in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Gaza and along the West Bank. He taunts us openly. He goads our investigators as we hunt his people. Last year they instigated a one-of-them-one-of-us policy.
“After we captured their two men, they snatched two of my men, good men, and showed their beheadings on the Internet. It makes me sick what this man does. I watch the filth he spreads, and it makes me want to crush his windpipe with my bare hands, Miss Nyren. As I am sure you appreciate, I am not a violent man. For Mabus I would make an exception. For Mabus, I would get blood on my hands. What frightens me most, though, is not the films or the beheadings-we all know the risks when we enter this line of work. No, what frightens me most is he knows us; he knows how we think, because he was one of us.”
Orla understood that all too well. No one wanted an enemy who shared their mindset and knew the ins and outs of their protocols. It meant he could anticipate every response, every action, and compensate for it. It wasn’t just that it gave him an advantage; it was as though he could reach into their minds and pluck out each and every measure and countermeasure even before the first strike had been made. It made their enemy omnipotent. Godlike. But what she didn’t understand was how the toad knew it was him.
Gavrel Schnur reached down and opened one of the drawers in the pedestal legs of his desk. He pulled out a dossier marked “Mabus.” He flipped it open and laid it down on the desk between them. “We never found the man responsible for my old friend’s death,” the toad said. “But now,”-he tapped the photograph on the table with a thick stubby finger-“I think we have. I think I am finally beginning to understand a lot of things that have bothered me for a long time, Miss Nyren, and for that I thank you.
“Now, I believe I have upheld my end of the bargain and told you all we know of the Shrieks.” He pushed the folder across the table toward her. “It should prove interesting reading, if nothing else. This is every last scrap of information we have gathered on Mabus and his people. It’s yours. I wasn’t sure what arrangements had been made for your stay, so I took the liberty of booking a junior suite for you at the Dan Tel Aviv. It’s one of the nicest hotels in the city, with a stunning view of the water. And I really do mean stunning. I’m not just quoting a line from the sales brochure.” He chuckled at that. “I don’t know about you, but I appreciate a little space when I travel.” The toad cupped both sides of his pendulous belly with his hands and wobbled it. It was an oddly self-deprecating gesture. “But, don’t get me wrong, there’s ng quite so enjoyable as a little bit of indulgence, either.
