Angel City (3 page)

And when the fighter offered the cup again, the knight did not resist. There was a bitter taste, warmth, falling into light.

And now . . .

. . . the knight was healed, standing in the courtyard of the battered fortress. He looked down at himself, saw he was wearing a plain wool tunic and coarsely woven leggings. He thought he looked very much like one of the folk, then wondered which of the dead folk's clothes he was wearing. He pulled the tunic away from his neck, saw the bloodied scraps of linen bandages tied around his chest. A voice called:

“So it's true. You're alive.”

The knight looked up to the battlements, saw a shadowed form at the ramparts.

“Who's there?” the knight said.

“Jean de Combel, best crossbowman in the fortress, that's who. Come up, the air is fresh up here.”

For a moment the knight was taken aback by the crossbowman's familiarity. Then he remembered that was the way within the fortress. Nobles and peasants, knights and infantrymen, men and women even; all were equal before the Pure God of the Cathars.

“What about the others?” said the knight.

“What others?”

The knight had difficulty remembering who “the others” were. He tried to see them in his mind. Soldiers of France, arse-lickers of the Pope; yes, that's them. He nodded to the walls.

“The ones beyond the walls, the French.”

“Oh, them, the Crusaders. They're far too busy roasting a boar to care about fighting. Besides, there's been a truce for two weeks.”

“A truce?”

“From the day you were wounded.”

“It's been two weeks?”

“It has. We fought them back to the barbican, as you commanded. But we couldn't drive them off the mountain. It went back and forth all night. At dawn, we'd had it and called for a truce. The Crusaders could have stormed the courtyard and slaughtered us all; but they were in a hurry for their breakfast and accepted the truce instead.”

The knight looked around the courtyard again. The fortress appeared to be abandoned.

“Where is everyone?”

“In the tower, watching the remaining folk and fighters receive Consolamentum. The ones that stayed, anyway. I was asked to keep an eye on the Crusaders, make sure they keep to the truce.”

“Did many leave us?”

“More than half.”

“Half?”

The crossbowman shrugged.

“Can't blame them. The King offered safe passage to all who promise to become good little Frenchmen.”

“Fighters, too?”

“Fighters, too, including you and the rest of the Avignonet assassins, if you choose.”

“Avignonet?”

“You remember; you and your merry band, slaughtering those seven Inquisitors in their beds last year. The very deed that brought us to this happy day.”

The knight tried to remember it. He looked at his hands.
Yes,
he thought,
the hands of an assassin.

“What are you thinking?” Jean de Combel said.

The knight looked up.

“Has there been any word from those who left? Have the Crusaders kept their word?”

“Some of the folk were paraded around the fortress this morning. The Inquisitor ordered them to sew a yellow cross to their tunics, to show the world they are heretics returned to the teats of Whoring Mother Church. There was a priest with them—one of the Inquisitors, I'm sure. A fat slob of a Dominican, he was. He called to me. Promised the wearing of the yellow cross would be the extent of my punishment if I would surrender to him.”

“And will you?”

“I showed him the crack of my backside and shouted,
‘Vai t'escoundre!'”

The knight laughed. Jean de Combel certainly would shout
go fuck yourself
to a priest. And he would shout it in Occitan, refusing to even curse in the tongue of the French King.

“How many of us are left, then?” the knight said.

“Fighters?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty-six. Many with wounds.”

“And folk?”

“One hundred ninety-two Cathars.”

The knight stood still a moment.

“So, it is true. We are defeated in this place.”

“Yes, we are defeated. Come up and take the air, enjoy the truce while you can.”

“Yes, I will,” the knight said. “I'd like to see what a truce looks like. I don't recall ever seeing one.”

He climbed the stone steps, used his left arm to balance himself against the wall. There was some pain still, but he felt almost disconnected from it. As if it were happening to someone else, not him. Closer to the ramparts, he had a better view of Jean de Combel. The crossbowman was wearing a bloodied gambeson over a linen shirt. His leggings and shoes were bloodied as well. The crossbowman reached down, gave the knight assistance up the last steps.

“I was told you had died three times,” Jean de Combel said.

“I'm not as fast on my feet as I used to be, if that makes you any happier.”

The knight stepped onto the ramparts and he felt the warm sun on his face. He looked beyond the battlements to see the lands of Occitania. Mountains like citadels, thick forests of pine and oak, meadows of poppy. Farther were sunlit rivers winding through maquis scrublands; and above it all, great winged vultures soared in loping circles. He closed his eyes and breathed. He smelled wildflowers, sage from the maquis, snow and ice from Mont Canigou. And Jean de Combel was right; there was the scent of roasting meat. The knight saw fifty or so French soldiers at the end of the summit. They wore swords at their belts, but appeared relaxed.

“So, this is what a truce looks like,” the knight said.

“It is.”

The knight sniffed at the scent of meat.

“Smells good, doesn't it?” he said.

“What are you saying? Only the French could waste perfectly good boar over a spit. I've half a mind to march down there and make those bastards a proper
sanglier
stew. We still have a few onions and garlic in stores. Some carrots, too. And the French have the boar. And the fat Dominican is with them, see him? Probably has a boy under his robes, pulling at his fat dick. I promise you,
that
papist will have a skin of wine for the sauce.”

The knight looked at Jean de Combel.

“They might toss you a foot if you beg.”

“Perhaps. But as the Pure God would have it, it's too late.”

“Why too late?”

The crossbowman laughed.

“Because I've received Consolamentum.”

“When?”

“With you, two days ago.”

“Me?”

“Yes, well, you were delirious with fever. Not surprised you don't remember it. Your fellow assassin de Lahille was there, too. Took us some fakery to get you through the ceremony. We held you up and poked you in the back when you needed to reply. None too coherently, but you grunted well enough, and the good men took pity on you.”

“You tease me, de Combel.”

“Not at all. I speak only truth now. I have to. Comes with receiving the one and only sacrament of the Cathars. And a serious business, it is. It means that for the rest of our lives, there is no meat. Has there ever been a troubadour with a more woeful tale? Locked up with these pacifist vegetarians for ten months; not a scrap of meat to eat for the fighters. Do you know how hard it is to do battle without meat in your stomach? What am I saying—of course you do. Anyway, look out there. Crusaders cooking boar, so close we can smell it. And yes, they probably would toss us a foot. A hairy back foot, if we begged. But alas, it's forbidden to us both now.”

The knight tried to imagine the sight of receiving Consolamentum in a delirious state. He didn't remember it—he had lost touch with the real world after someone held a cup to his lips.

“Something amuses you?”

“Twice so.”

“Tell me.”

“I'm amused that I've become one of the good men through the fakery of my brothers in battle.”

“And good at fakery we were.”

“I'm sure of it.”

“And your other amusement?”

The knight smiled.

“I'm amused a killer like me can now be considered one of the good men.”

“And good at killing you were.”

The knight looked at the French soldiers on the plateau, then beyond to where the shadows of hills began to creep over the land.

“Do you believe in the faith of the good men, de Combel?”

The crossbowman sighed.

“I believe that these good men believe it, and I believe it is a comfort to these gentle folk.”

“So what is to happen to them?”

“You don't know?”

“You're the first person I've seen since I woke up, or the first I can remember seeing. I'm not even sure how I made it to the courtyard.”

The crossbowman chuckled.

“You'd best come with me, see for yourself. Make your own choice about going or staying, now that you're on your feet. It's still not too late to leave the fortress and become a good little Frenchman.”

The knight followed the crossbowman along the ramparts, careful not to trip over rubble and spent missiles in his path. At the southwest wall, Jean de Combel leaned through the battlements and pointed down.

“That is what happens tomorrow.”

Five hundred meters down, in a clearing at the edge of the forest, hundreds of French soldiers appeared small as ants. They were busy as ants, too, carrying tinder and buckets of pitch to a large square palisade. There were wooden ladders at the walls and the soldiers took turns climbing the steps to empty their burdens. Soldiers inside the walls spread the stuff over a thick flooring of straw.

“They will burn us, as heretics,” the knight said.

“They will.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, at dawn. And that will be the end of Montségur and the good men, I think. And a foul end it is. I'd hoped we could do more for them. But, alas, there is no choice but to watch them marched to their deaths.”

The knight looked at Jean de Combel, never before having heard such a sadness in the crossbowman's voice.

“How do you mean, de Combel?”

The crossbowman's eyes betrayed a secret knowledge, one he tried to conceal with a mocking smile.

“Why I . . . why I only mean these Cathars are a gentle folk, they deserve better than extinction.”

The knight stared at the crossbowman.

“You fought bravely as anyone to defend them, de Combel. You will burn with them at the dawn, will you not? What more could you do as a fighter?”

The crossbowman turned his eyes from the knight, looked down on the palisade. The French soldiers were done with their work and drinking wine from skins. After a long silence, the crossbowman looked at the knight.

“You said it yourself before the last battle. Pope and King wish to wipe all memory of this place from the face of the Earth. I feared your words as you spoke them. I fear them now more than any words I've heard from a man. Shall I tell you why?”

“Yes.”

“Because more than battle, more than what will come at the dawn, I fear a world without the Cathars.”

The knight nodded, looked up to the sky. There was Saturn, there was Mercury, there was Mars hanging at the edge of the falling dark.

“Fear not, de Combel. It cannot end here; it must not end here.”

GO, SET A WATCHMAN, LET HIM DECLARE WHAT HE SEETH

I

R
ADIO
I
NTERCEPT,
P
ARIS:
S
EPTEMBER 9, 2013, 19:30 HOURS.
Groupe d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale: Code Red Alert.

“. . . Batobus
Manon
dockside at Musée d'Orsay. Several bodies seen floating in river.
Manon
heading east on river. Anonymous tip reports area of Notre Dame to be target of attack by Muqatileen Lillah. This is a GIGN Code Red Alert. Engage Operation Dragon Fortress. Repeat: This is a GIGN Code Red Alert. Engage Operation Dragon Fortress. Level A terrorist strike in progress. Six men wearing black jumpsuits and balaclavas, carrying light automatic weapons have hijacked Batobus
Manon
dockside at Musée d'Orsay. Several bodies seen floating in river . . .”

Harper's mobile reconnected to Operations Control in Berne.

“Did you copy that transmission, Mr. Harper?”

“The enemy tipped off the police.”

“Indeed, they plan to make a show of it. The world's news media will be all over the story in a few minutes.”

“You're sure the bomb is on board?”

“Affirmative.”

“How many goons?”

“Standard kill squad of six.”

“Time to target?”

“Tactical gives it eighteen minutes at present speed and course.”

“Can the mechanics shift the time warp?”

“Negative. It's locked over Saint-Sulpice.”

Swell,
Harper thought. Plan A looked great on paper. Goons attack, Inspector Gobet's time mechanics drop a warp over Saint-Sulpice. Harper sorts the goons, cleanup crew secures the bomb. Just another night in paradise. None of the Parisian locals the wiser as they take aperitifs in nearby cafés.

“Then now's the time for suggestions, Inspector.”

“Tactical is transmitting a counterattack to your mobile as I speak.”

A map of Paris appeared on Harper's mobile screen, zoomed in on the border of the 6th and 1st arrondissements. Two dots appeared marking Pont Alexandre III and Notre Dame; a third dot triangulated Harper's position at Rue de Mézières, then a line appeared marking a track to l'Académie française on the Left Bank.

“Double-time it, Mr. Harper, and you'll reach the river ahead of the
Manon
. From there you'll have an opportunity to intercept.”

“Just how am I supposed to get aboard, swim?”

“Tactical suggests something more along the lines of flight.”

“What?”

“Old tricks being what they are, Mr. Harper.”

The map zoomed into a footbridge above the river Seine, directly in front of l'Académie française.
Manon
's course would bring her directly under Pont des Arts. The map flipped to side view and an arrow marked height from bridge to river. It was a thirty-five-meter drop; winds: southwest at nine klicks per hour.

“You can't be serious.”

“In the last few minutes, SX sweeps have popped hot with chatter on the Internet. Signals decode the chatter to read the bomb is worse than suspected.”

“Define ‘worse.'”

“The enemy has successfully bonded the Ra-226 with agony potion.”

Harper worked the chemistry. Ra-226: radium, rare earth metal. Number 88 on the periodic table of elements, highly toxic. Pack enough of it with explosives, you've got a dirty nuke. Bond it with agony potion, you've got a fucking nightmare.

“Christ, they'll turn the center of Paris into a dead zone.”

II

T
HE PILOT OF THE
M
ANON
FELT THE BLADE SLICE ACROSS HIS
throat and he watched his blood spill down his chest. In the last moment of his life, he heard voices and screams . . .

“We bring you forever death!”

“No, please!”

“Oh, God! Help me!”

“Get the skins together!”

The hostages fell atop one another as they were herded to the center of the cabin. They huddled between the benches and watched six hooded men move quickly to take control of the boat. Four of the men squeezing the hostages together, another carrying a large backpack and rushing to the outer deck at the stern, one more taking the helm and hitting switches to kill the cabin and pilot lights. The
Manon
was cast into darkness. Abu Jad, at the outer edge of the hostages, held his daughter close to his chest to hide her from the hijackers. It was her ninth birthday and this was to be her present: a trip to Disneyland Paris and a night cruise of the river Seine to see Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. It was all the little girl dreamed about since seeing
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
on DVD last year in Beirut. She knew all the songs from the film. She was singing her favorite of the songs to her father as the boat docked near Musée d'Orsay to take on a family of German tourists. That's when the hijackers appeared from the shadows. Long knives in their hands, machine guns strapped across their chests. And though Abu Jad heard the hijackers' leader shouting his commands in Arabic, there were French and Americans and Asians on board, too, all of them seeming to understand the leader's commands.

“Get down on your knees! All of you!”

The hostages sank to the deck. Abu Jad felt his daughter's face against his chest; her eyes squeezed shut, her voice singing quietly:

“But suddenly an angel has smiled at me, and kissed my cheek without a trace of fright.”

Abu Jad stroked his daughter's hair. He whispered in her ear.

“Yes, my darling Rima, God will send an angel to protect us.”

Abu Jad felt the tip of a bloodied blade under his chin, forcing him to look up into the leader's eyes.

“Perhaps you should pray to me, little man.”

“I . . . I pray only to God.”

“Hal ante muta'aked wa ana al lathy mumsek bi rouh ibnaitka alkhalida ayuha al rajul?”
the leader said.

“I hear your words as Arabic, but you are not speaking Arabic. How can this be? Who are you?”

The leader moved the blade from Abu Jad's chin and traced it through Rima's long hair.

“Aren't you the clever little man?”

Abu Jad pulled Rima to his chest.

“I beg you to have mercy on my child.”

The leader set the tip at Abu Jad's throat.

“Tell me who I am, clever little man, tell me and I will be merciful to the little skin.”

The black eyes staring at him, Abu Jad thought, were not even human. No, they were the eyes of the evil jinn.

“You are not a man, you are a demon escaped from hell!” Abu Jad cried. “May God send an angel to crush you and protect the innocent!”

The leader's evil eyes glared with hate.

“Tsk, tsk, little man. Haven't you heard? There is no heaven, there is no hell. There is only this place.”

By the time he finished the words, the demon had buried his blade in Abu Jad's throat.

III

H
ARPER RAN UP
R
UE DE
S
EINE, CRASHED THROUGH THE TABLES
at Café La Palette. Just after Place Gabriel Pierné, he cut through the passageway off Rue des Écouffes and came onto the esplanade of l'Académie française. At first sight things were as they should be of an autumn night. Traffic speeding down Quai de Conti,
bouquiniste
stands along the embankment walls, people crowding around. Traffic lights turned red and cars and buses stopped. Pedestrians hurried to and from Pont des Arts, the footbridge stretching above the river to le Louvre.

Harper checked his watch: four minutes to intercept.

He moved into the shadows along the limestone façade of l'Académie. He stood motionless and unseen, watching Pont des Arts. The footbridge was one of the city's favorite gathering places. And tonight, hundreds of locals had come to sit on the wooden planks and picnic and wave to the tour boats passing below. Words flashed through Harper's eyes. Words he'd read somewhere . . .
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

A local wrote those words,
Harper thought.
A poet, maybe.
Harper reached under his coat, unhooked the lock straps of his killing knives. He drew his SIG Sauer, loaded a 9-millimeter hollow-point into the firing chamber. He pulled the decocker, eased down the hammer, imagining what he'd tell the poet over a pint:
It's the war, mate, eternal and forever . . .

“But it wasn't supposed to be this way.”

An EC135 police chopper dropped from the sky with a growl, skimmed the heads of the locals on the bridge before racing downstream. It hovered over Pont Alexandre III, searchlight switching on, lighting up the dark river below.
Airborne French coppers,
Harper thought,
searching for the
Manon
.
Another chopper roared in from over the Tuileries, searchlight already blazing. It circled above Pont de la Concorde, drifted slowly upriver toward Musée d'Orsay. The locals on the Pont des Arts fell quiet, all eyes following the two shafts of light like moths to flames.

Sirens.

Harper looked upriver, saw the spinning blue lights of police vans turning onto Pont Neuf. The vans skidded to a stop, doors burst open, and a company of GIGN deployed across the length of the bridge. Snipers armed with M82s took positions in the downstream bastions. The rest of the company draped a curtain of heavy chains over the bridge's arches. The chains reached down into the river.
And that would be Operation Dragon Fortress,
thought Harper. Meaning no matter what, Batobus
Manon
was not getting beyond Pont Neuf.

He checked his watch again: three minutes.

“Right then.”

He stepped from the shadows, marched toward Pont des Arts. He saw a platoon of French police storm Pont des Arts from the Right Bank. They were decked out in body armor and helmets with blast shields. They were armed with PSR assault rifles. The locals on the bridge made way for the platoon, many of them capturing the action on their mobile phones. The platoon's lieutenant raised his mask and yelled through a loudspeaker:

“Évacuez le pont! Évacuez le pont!”

The locals were hesitant to leave the bridge till the lieutenant pulled his sidearm and double-tapped the sky with warning shots. Civilians ran without thinking, bodies were pushed back onto Quai de Conti. Tires screeched as cars and buses plowed into one another trying to avoid the crowd. One taxi lost control and ran onto the sidewalk. It crashed into the embankment wall and rolled. A man and women, too slow to escape, their terrified faces caught in the headlights, were crushed. Panic took hold, and the locals stampeded straight at Harper. He pushed against the mob, headed for the dead and dying. He pulled his mobile, connected to Control in Berne.

“Casualties on the Left Bank at Pont des Arts, Inspector. Request comforters on site.”

“Negative. All comforters have been evacuated from the target zone.”

“Say again?”

“We cannot afford to lose comforters in the blast.”

Harper looked up, saw long shreds of black mist race through the sky. They caught the high turrets of the Louvre and slithered down the limestone walls.

“The devourers already smell death,” Harper said. “They're closing in.”

The inspector's voice was steady. “You are ordered to disregard casualties and continue with intercept. You know how it is.”

Harper watched shreds of black mist claw their way over the river, following the scent of dying souls.

“No choice?”

“None. Good luck, Mr. Harper.”

Harper saw the lieutenant setting his platoon across Pont des Arts. The barrels of their rifles balancing on the guardrails, taking aim at the
Manon
.

“Hate to tell you this, Inspector,” Harper said, “but good luck just got harder.”

He dropped the mobile in his pocket, raised his SIG above his head, and forced his way through the locals.

“Move! Get out of the way!”

He jumped onto the hood of a crumpled van, looked downriver again. Searchlights on the police choppers had found the
Manon
. The boat's speed now cut to a crawl. Good news: Slowing down buys a couple of minutes. Bad news: It gives the police on Pont des Arts plenty of time to lock sights on the target. The lieutenant took his position behind the firing line, his voice screeching through the loudspeaker:
“A mon ordre, ouvre le feu pour éliminer!”

“For Christ's sake, wait!”

Harper fired a round into the sky.
CRACK!

The lieutenant turned to see a man in a beat-up coat, pistol in hand, jumping from the top of a van and running toward the bridge. The lieutenant turned, raised his sidearm, drew a bead on Harper. So did three police with assault rifles. Harper froze in his tracks, slowly pointing his SIG Sauer to the ground. He spoke calmly.
“Écoutez, Lieutenant, il ya une arme nucléaire à bord.”