The Devil's Due (The Blackwell Files Book 5) Page 3

  “No way. I’ve always wanted to go there!”

  “I know. I remember all the Pinterest searches you ran on it last year.”

  Mallory studied Alton again. “Seriously? You’re not tricking me again? We’re really going to Tahiti?”

  “I promise.”

  Mallory gave a whoop of elation. “Yes!”

  After a moment, the restaurant’s other patrons turned back to their meals.

  “I don’t suppose we have one of those huts over the water,” said Mallory, “the ones with glass panels in the floor?”

  “Of course. They were in half the Pinterest pictures you saved, so I knew that’d be your dream honeymoon.”

  “Okay, I’m officially in heaven. But wait, darn it…”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Alton.

  “I told everyone at the reception yesterday we’ll be cruising in the Caribbean. I even put it in our wedding announcement in the paper. No one besides Mom knows where we’re really going.”

  “They’ll find out soon enough,” said Alton with a chuckle. “Now, our flight leaves in three hours, so we should probably wrap up breakfast pretty soon.”

  “So…is our whole married life going to be like this—me not knowing what’s really going to happen until the last minute?”

  “Only as far as pleasant surprises are concerned—unless you want me to stop.”

  “You have my permission to surprise me whenever you want, Mr. Blackwell.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Divband motioned to Ghoyee. “Come into my chamber.”

  Once his subordinate entered, Divband glanced down the narrow, stone hallway to ensure their privacy, then pulled shut the full-length curtain that served as a makeshift door.

  “How many recruits are attending tonight’s gathering?”

  “Eighty-two.”

  The leader rubbed his hands. “Excellent. To date, we’ve converted just over half the recruits into followers. If forty convert tonight, our ranks will exceed two hundred.”

  “With all due respect, Master, that still doesn’t seem like many.”

  “Give it time, Ghoyee. We just started recruiting last month, and already our numbers have more than doubled. Plus, consider the nature of our membership. Yes, we’ve recruited some field laborers, but our followers also include politicians, doctors, attorneys, bureaucrats…those who stand to be disenfranchised by our country’s political turmoil and the Taliban’s resurgence.”

  “But do these professionals join us simply because they’re unhappy or worried about losing their position in society? If so, perhaps they don’t believe in the power of Iblis.”

  “Maybe some of them don’t at first, but I think they all will eventually. Didn’t you grow up hearing of the power of Iblis and the white and black jinnd?”

  “Of course—everyone did.”

  “That’s my point. We all know the old ways, the ancient rituals the Taliban and Al-Qaeda sought to suppress. Even the doctors and attorneys know of this. They may be skeptical at first, but they will understand the wisdom of our beliefs soon enough.”

  “But what if one of those doctors decides to tell the government about our…activities?”

  “It’s a necessary risk. They provide most of the funding for our organization, much more than the peasants can give. Plus, think of the advantage of having members of the Brotherhood of Stones inside the government and other professional ranks. If the government begins to plot against us, we will know from the moment it happens.”

  “And if a member decides to betray us?”

  “Then he will be the next to join Iblis, maybe as a servant instead of a wife. I think in that case, he would be our last traitor.”

  A hint of malice showed through Ghoyee’s smile.

  “Go,” said Divband. “Have our members prepare the satellite temple for tonight’s gathering.”

  That evening, a crowd of recruits filed into a smaller temple located roughly twenty kilometers from the Brotherhood’s central temple. There was no reason to give away the secret of their primary location to those who might not join their ranks. The satellite temple consisted of a large, circular chamber with two back rooms the size of walk-in closets. Cushions had been laid out around the perimeter of the room, and eventually most were filled by the recruits as well as a few current members of the Brotherhood. A circle of several dozen candles in the room’s center cast ominous shadows in the enclosed space.

  Divband surveyed the room. The attendees formed an eclectic group—farm laborers sat next to men wearing business suits, who in turn were joined by others in hospital scrubs and civil service uniforms. The cult leader knew he had a tough sell, but desperate people often turn to leaders who offer the right kind of promises.

  Divband stepped into the center of the chamber. “My friends, thank you for attending tonight’s gathering.” He began to circle the room, pausing frequently to look each man in the eye. “Let me ask you…how many of you are happy with the current state of our country and our government?”

  Only two or three hands raised in response.

  “We have endured years under the Taliban and their Al-Qaeda cronies, followed by another decade under the rule of foreign occupiers. And what has all this brought our country? Nothing but chaos, despair, and ruin. Our government is riddled with corruption and incompetence. Our factories lie empty, yet there is not enough work for the people, so they turn to producing illegal drugs. Our police forces are understaffed, underequipped, and undertrained to protect us. And our courts are dictated by bribes rather than the rule of law.

  “So what can we do? I’ll tell you. We begin by undoing the damage wrought by those who have attempted to rule our country these last twenty years. My friends, I know that, like me, you long for the old ways…not the blasphemy taught by the Taliban and Al-Qaeda, but the whispering of ancient charms…and curses.”

  “Curses?” exclaimed an attendee to Divband’s left. “My grandfather always told me to avoid the evil ways of the black jinnd.”

  “That is what my grandfather said, too,” replied Divband. “‘Beware the evil spirits.’ But why do you think our forefathers tendered such a warning? Because there is great power in the black ways—a power feared by both our ancestors and the Taliban.”

  “But why not use the white jinnd, as our ancestors taught?” pressed the attendee, a young man wearing hospital scrubs.

  “Did the white jinnd protect us from the Taliban and their perverse notions of Islam? No, they did not. Why do you think the Taliban prohibited our ancient charms? Like us, they fear the power of the black jinnd. Only Iblis and the black jinnd possess the power to expel the vile forces that continue to occupy our country.”

  Murmurs broke out throughout the room, and several attendees drew in their collective breaths. “You want us to align with Iblis, the evil one?” asked the hospital worker.

  “I want us to cultivate a relationship with the only entity capable of ridding our country of the corroding influence of the Taliban and coalition invaders. Iblis possesses this power, and I intend to form a partnership with Iblis that will restore the old ways. Maybe you do not remember the old days, young man, but in those times, the sacred ziarats and local shrines were places of worship, not idols to be torn down by the Taliban. The use of charms and ancient healing was respected, not banned. Singing and dancing to sacred music was encouraged, not prohibited. And the poetry of our Sufi mystics was revered, not forbidden.”

  Many of the attendees nodded to these words, seemingly mesmerized.

  Divband continued. “Like you, I have watched my family suffer under the Taliban and coalition forces. Who can look at the past two decades and see anything but a disaster? It’s time to force a return to the old ways. Iblis and the black jinnd possess the power to make such a change.”

  “How can they help us?” asked a grizzled-faced, elderly man wrapped in a thin sweater.

  “I’m glad you asked that, my friend. As we’ve all been taught since childhood, I
blis longs for brides to join him in the afterlife. In exchange for these brides, he provides special gifts: healing, insight, strength, wisdom, wealth, and countless more. How many of you would like to receive these gifts, and in doing so, rid our country of the yoke of oppression we have endured so long?”

  While some of the attendees remained clearly skeptical, others grew more animated and broke into nods and smiles.

  “To those who would join our fight, I invite you to sign your name to this record of Brotherhood. As a token of our mutual loyalty, I will present you with a sacred charm, a talisman possessed only by our members. If you do not join, I feel sorry for you—that you do not care enough about your family and your country to rise up. But unlike the Taliban, we will not punish you for refusing our offer. We desire only those who come of their own free will and accept the gifts Iblis and the black jinnd are ready to bestow.”

  Divband’s concluding statement, drawing a stark contrast between his organization and the Taliban, seemed to generate even more enthusiasm. Roughly half the attendees queued up to sign their names, while the rest wandered out of the temple into the chilly evening.

  Before stepping to the front of the line to greet his new followers, Divband leaned over to Ghoyee. “Follow the hospital worker and discover the location of his home. We may have to take extra measures to ensure his silence.”

  Divband stepped back to the front of the line and produced a radiant smile. “Welcome, son of Iblis. I present this talisman as a token of your initiation into the Brotherhood of Stones.”

  He handed across a necklace made of tightly-woven cord. On the end of the necklace lay an all-silver pendent depicting a pentagram inside a circle.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next afternoon, Mastana tucked the blanket around her mother’s sleeping form and kissed her forehead. An extra dose of the small, white pills had been necessary to lull Mother back into a drugged slumber. Her parent no longer experienced periods of lucidity, instead alternating between sleep and incoherent pain. Mastana gazed upon the unconscious figure and wiped the tears that had tracked down her cheeks.

  “Goodbye, my mother. I will see you again—in the life to come.”

  Kissing her parent one last time, Mastana left the room. She crept down the hallway and peeked into Uncle Dani’s quarters. Just as she hoped, he lay asleep in his traditional mid-afternoon nap, enjoying a warm respite from the chilly afternoon.

  Mastana tiptoed up the hallway and exited the dwelling, taking extra care to close the door in absolute silence. Uncle had forbidden Mastana to leave the house, but what of that? Saturday—five days hence—was market day at Camp Eggers, the day Uncle had commanded her to wear an explosive vest into the midst of the soldiers and initiate her own transition to the next life. At this point, her uncle’s commands hardly mattered.

  Dust swirled around Mastana’s ankles as she strode down the street. She turned into a dimly-lit store with an “Internet Club” sign fastened at an awkward angle above the door.

  “How much to use a computer?” she asked.

  “Twenty-five Afghani for the first hour,” replied the teller, who chewed a wad of gum as she fiddled with the dial on an antiquated radio.

  Mastana slid a pair of banknotes through the narrow slot in the teller’s cage.

  “Number eighteen,” said the worker, handing Mastana a piece of plastic in the shape of a credit card. “Insert this into the slot when you get there.”

  The teen made her way between two long tables on which rows of computers rested. Other customers occupied most of the spaces, and the monitors’ artificial radiance lit their faces with an eerie glow.

  Mastana reached her assigned seat and used her card to activate an internet connection. Upon seeing a “VoIP” icon on the computer screen, she breathed a sigh of relief. This was the functionality she had been counting on, the ability to place a telephone call via the computer.

  After double-clicking the icon, she withdrew a scrap of paper from the folds of her clothing and carefully entered a series of numbers. She pressed the “dial” button and held her breath.

  “This is Alton Blackwell.”

  “Alton, it is me, Mastana! I need—”

  “I’ll be out of the office until April third,” continued the recording. “If you need assistance before my return, please contact—”

  Mastana clicked the “disconnect” button and fought back tears of despair. April third—nine days from now!

  She couldn’t return home. Uncle Dani must have already sensed her reluctance to execute his devious plan. Surely he wouldn’t let her out of his sight before the hour of her mission arrived.

  Mastana had considered wearing the vest into the American base but leaving it undetonated, instead telling the soldiers of her uncle’s plan. But would they believe her? They may suspect her of complicity in the plot, only turning to them when she couldn’t figure out how to set off the explosives. That path carried even greater risk.

  Where could she go for help? Who should she call? She had no other family in all the country. Overcome with despair, Mastana rested her head in her hands and wept.

  CHAPTER 10

  Alton and Mallory’s plane touched down in Bora Bora’s Motu Mute Airport, a landing strip constructed on an island located in the middle of a pristine lagoon.

  Upon disembarking from the plane, the couple stood on the tarmac and gawked at their surroundings. Alton swept his gaze from the lighter, aqua shades of the lagoon to the rich, blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. “For the second time in as many days, words are letting me down.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Mallory, “This is…gorgeous.”

  “We should send a picture to your mom. After all, we wouldn’t be here if not for her.”

  “That’s a good idea. And if you talk to her, you can tell her I’m still in a state of shock.”

  “Ha! I think I’ll just text her. If she and I get into an actual conversation, I might not escape until dinnertime.”

  “True.”

  Alton pulled his cellphone from his pocket and snapped a few pictures of the airport’s tiny yet beautiful island location. He turned to Mallory. “I think I’ll wait and e-mail the pic when we have Wi-Fi in the hotel. I’d like to send it to the guys at Kruptos, too.”

  “Can’t you just text them?”

  “Normally I would, but Redmond told me his cellphone was stolen the day before our wedding, so I don’t know if he’d get it. I know with e-mail I’m good to go.”

  Mallory looked skeptical. “I hope this isn’t a ploy to check your work e-mail while we’re here.”

  “It’s not. I promise. You think they expect a guy on his honeymoon to check e-mail? I don’t think so.”

  The couple joined the rest of the airplane’s passengers and crew on a ferry headed for the mainland. They boarded a shuttle sent by their resort, the Four Seasons Bora Bora, and within minutes found themselves inhabiting a slice of tropical paradise. Standing in the lobby of the reception building, the couple engaged in a new round of rapt examination while studying the stunning hotel and its grounds.

  “Maybe you should send Mom a bunch of pictures,” said Mallory. “She’ll definitely want to see this.”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” said Alton. “Let me send the photos from the airport now, before I forget. And I promise—I won’t read any work messages.”

  A hotel employee offered a fruit tray while Alton connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi and sent several photos to Mallory’s mother, thanking her for the extraordinary honeymoon trip. He then sent the same set of pictures to his work colleagues with a brief salutation.

  Just before shutting down his e-mail app, an unusual message caught Alton’s eye. He tapped the message and frowned as he read the brief sentence.

  “Honey, they’re going to take us to our bungalow in a golf cart,” said Mallory. “Isn’t that cool?”

  “Really? Wow. I wonder how many other surprises are in store.”

  The couple arriv
ed at their over-the-water bungalow, and the driver deposited their luggage in the room.

  Reia, a hotel employee who had accompanied them, checked them into the resort using the desktop terminal in their bungalow. “Would you like a tour of the grounds?” she asked. “We can take you around in the golf cart again.”

  Mallory started to answer in the affirmative, but Alton cut in. “We’d love that, but can we ring for you to come back a little later? I’d like to settle into the room first.”

  “Of course, sir. Just let us know when you’re ready.”

  As soon as Reia left, Mallory turned to Alton. “I know that expression. What’s up?”

  “When I sent the photos to your mom and my Kruptos friends, I saw an incoming message I definitely wasn’t expecting.”

  “Alton…”

  He held up an interposing palm. “It wasn’t work. It arrived just a few hours ago. Take a look at this.”

  The message header indicated the sender was Mastana, the young Afghani Alton had befriended several years ago after rescuing her from a terrorist blast in a Kabul marketplace. The terseness of Mastana’s message matched its desperation: “Alton, help me.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Divband leaned his head into the cramped nook assigned to Ghoyee, his right-hand man. “Follow me.”

  Ghoyee obeyed, joining his master in the dimly-lit hallway. He cocked his head but left the question unspoken.

  “I would like to inspect the security points,” said Divband, who had recently ordered his followers to transform a circle of ancient, stack-stone guard huts into modern, fortified defensive positions. “We must verify their effectiveness against intruders.”

  “All of them? That will take a while.”

  “So be it. Ensuring the security and secrecy of our movement must continue to be a top priority. We can’t afford to let our guard down.”

  The two strolled into the darkness, heading for the site’s perimeter. Twelve guard huts surrounded a circular compound of ancient buildings, ranging from small, mud-brick shacks to the central building, a sprawling edifice of imposing granite walls, arched windows, and a huge ceremonial chamber. For illumination, the interior of all the buildings had been strung with hundreds of yards of florescent lights, a modern contrivance oddly out of place in the archeological site. Although the compound’s desert location lay only an hour’s drive from Kabul, ranges of mountains to both the north and south provided an effective measure of concealment.