Brooklyn Knight (31 page)

“It worked for Patton.”

Harris stopped what he was doing for a moment as he considered the obvious compliment. Deciding the FBI man had meant it
as such, Harris gave the agent a slight but appreciative nod, answering him with humility, “General Patton had good men.”

“And how are your men, sir?”

“They’re some of the best.”

Klein returned the major general’s smile. The fact that the officer did not overly brag about the merits of his command or how he had “made them the men they are,” et cetera, impressed the agent greatly, giving him an even more secure feeling that Harris had exactly the kind of competence needed for their situation. The commander had devised a strategy with which the FBI man could find no flaws. Considering that the terrorists had been able to employ whatever this new, hellish weapon they had used against the police station in the middle of a city was, the major general saw no additional safety being offered by placing the Dream Stone within any of his own buildings. Thus he decided on moving the block out onto Drum’s extensive testing range.

The fort controlled an incredibly vast spread of open acreage, hilly, twisting land, dotted with trees and trenched with ravines, all of which his troops knew intimately. Setting up three separate defensive points, all several miles apart in a rough triangle, the major general explained to the agent that the target would be placed in one of a trio of similar locked boxes. Thus even the men defending the positions would not know which one actually held the Dream Stone.

“I’m doubting this Morand character of yours can mount overwhelming attacks on three separate positions,” Harris told the FBI man. “It’s almost assured he’ll have to pick a single target and start on it. This way, even if in some manner I can’t imagine at this time, he does manage to somehow overwhelm one of our strongholds, those men will have two heavily fortified points to which they can either retreat, or from which they can summon aide.”

“And, of course,” offered Klein, you have the entire fort from which you can reinforce any of the positions as well.”

“You catch on quick, Mr. Klein,” offered the major general. Giving the agent a slight nod of approval, Harris added, “I like that. Yes, we already have close to a thousand men on short alert. Gear assembled, weapons to the ready. We can mobilize them in hundred-man units and have them in the field in ten-minute intervals if need be.”

“Looks as if everything is under control, sir,” answered Klein, unconsciously nodding back as he did so.

“Looks that way to me, too,” agreed Harris. “So why is it the hair on the back of my neck is standing at attention?”

“Pardon me, sir?”

“There’s a turd somewhere in the punch bowl here,” answered the officer. Looking up from his map, he slowly rolled his lips back and forth across his front teeth, then asked, “Don’t you think so, Mr. Klein?”

“In all honesty,” admitted the FBI man, “I do, sir. But I haven’t the slightest idea where it is.” The agent paused for a moment, then added;

“I will say, though, sir, that … and I beg the major general’s pardon for doing so … I think there’s something weird going on here. Voodoo weird, UFO weird, haunted house, noise-in-the-night, walking-dead weird … ah, sir.” Harris regarded Klein for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he studied the agent. After only a brief pause, he responded, admitting;

“So do I. And thanks for being honest, Mr. Klein. Trust me, it helps.”

The agent nodded, saying nothing in response as Harris turned back to his preparations. It had taken a lot for Klein to reveal his true impression of their assignment. Such statements could end a man’s career overnight. He was glad he had done so, however.
The entire affair gave him a sour feeling. Everything connected to the Dream Stone—especially Professor butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth Piers Knight—gave him a sour feeling. He was relieved to hear that the officer felt the same way he did. Although, as he told himself;

He could just have easily picked up his queasy feeling from us. Meaning you’d better be right about this shit, Martin, my boy, or your career could be headed for the most spectacular Dumpster dive of all time.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the immediate, Klein returned to studying the activity around him. Following the major general’s hands, he watched as the officer moved them over the map unrolled on the table before them, pointing out the various stages of what he had planned. Klein found it interesting that despite the fact the command center from which they were operating was equipped with a sophisticated electronics system that would have allowed the officer to simply display the necessary maps on a variety of screens—to then zoom in, do split-screen comparisons and the such—that he preferred to work with paper instead.

What intrigued Klein so was the fact Harris was not an older man. In fact, he seemed to have barely reached an age suitably advanced to have attained the rank he held, let alone to have been entrusted with such a sizable command. Still, there was nothing about the man that indicated he should not hold either his rank or his assigned duty.

Stop worrying about idiot details
, Klein told himself.
Better to stay focused on what’s heading our way.

And, oddly enough, as wicked Fate would have it, it was at that precise moment the first alert came streaming in from one of the three defensive outposts. The captain taking the radio call turned to his commander, telling him, “First Post Able, sir—they’re under attack.”

“Damnation,” growled Harris.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you think, Mr. Klein?” The major general snarled, extending his hand to the captain who had fielded the report, demanding the headset in his hand. “Your terrorists are here already, and they somehow picked the right target.”

Klein clamped his mouth shut, holding in his own set of curses. Knowing the gathering of intelligence was the most important thing they could do right then, he remained quiet, listening intently as Harris demanded;

“Speak to me, soldier. Just what kind of attack’s being mounted out there? Small arms, mortars? What’d those bastards manage to pull together on such short notice?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, sir,” came the voice on the phone. The major general strained to hear the tone of the man on the other end of the line. Harris could tell the officer in the forward defensive post was more confused than frightened, although he did not know of what. Not pressuring the man, however, Harris allowed him the seconds he seemed to need. After his brief pause, the man swallowed hard, then continued, saying;

“It’s not any kind of standard attack, sir. It’s, it’s … it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before.” The captain on the other end of the phone excused himself and started snapping orders to others in his unit. As the major general listened, he could hear commands being given to film whatever constituted the reported attack and to broadcast the feed back to their headquarters. In the background he could hear a continually growing barrage of weapons fire. Finally, after an extended moment, the captain came back on the line, telling Harris;

“Sorry for the delay, sir. We’re throwing everything we have at whatever it is, but it’s having no effect.”

“On what?” The commander paused for a split second, reining
in his temper, then demanded calmly, “What is it they’re throwing at you?” And, as he asked the question, an officer at a receiver across the room said;

“We’re getting a feed from their video team. We’re patching it in now, sir. Monitor A.”

All eyes followed the officer’s pointing hand to the television screen in question. And as the device quietly warmed, then came into focus, everyone in the room fell silent as their minds tried to comprehend the images coming across the display before them.

“UFOs and voodoo, indeed,” muttered Harris. Unable to look away from the monitor, the major general asked;

“Klein, what the hell is that? Is that what did the damage to the police station?”

Agent Martin Klein stared wide-eyed at the screen, in much the same manner as everyone else in the room. Suddenly he understood why the rifle, mortar, and cannon fire he could hear erupting from the room’s speakers was having no effect on whatever it was that was approaching Post Able. His mouth hanging open, the FBI man continued to stare at Monitor A, unable to make any comment on what he was seeing whatsoever while the sounds of explosions and hideous screams continued to fill the room all around him.

“Bakur!” exclaimed Knight, accidentally revealing how completely the terrorist’s arrival had caught him off-guard. “What in the devil are you doing here?”

“Making certain that your interference with my plans has come to an end, Piers Knight.”

The terrorist walked across the lawn toward Knight, LaRaja, and Bridget slowly, casually, his body language as relaxed as if he were doing nothing more than joining the trio for some sort of midnight picnic. He appeared unarmed—his hands held no weapons, at least. But there was something in his stride, the sauntering deliberateness, the calm measure of it, that sent the nerves of all in the trio racing toward caution. Behind them, the spirit of Jimmy Dollins shifted back and forth, not so much drifting on the breeze as appearing to be phasing in and out of existence. Coming close to the professor, the continually diminishing wraith seemed to disappear altogether.

“
My
interference with your plans?” Knight touched
his chest with his hand, his pose that of one thoroughly confused. Straightening slightly, he added, “And how have I interfered with your plans?”

“By existing, Piers Knight. Worse—by thinking, by believing you have any
right
to exist.”

“Well,” answered the professor slowly, trying to keep his voice from revealing how truly tense he felt, “that response was certainly both vague and nonsensical. Whatever the case, I did not mean to upset your secret little applecart.” Spreading his hands wide, Knight offered;

“Perhaps if I had some idea of what these plans of yours actually were, I’d be better able to avoid interfering with them in the future. You know, in the name of smoother international relations.”

Bakur’s forward motion ceased then with an odd, robotic-like suddenness. He did not halt normally, like a man deciding to stop because he had gone as far as he wished, because he was suddenly trepidatious about continuing onward, or because of any other reason that might cause a human brain to give the command to cease moving. He simply stopped, fast and cold, freezing in a somewhat stiff position to study the three before him. As he did so, he smiled thinly, his eyes reflecting light from a source none before him could identify.

“I must admit you are a most amusing man, Piers Knight. You are still searching for an answer, are you not? Uselessly continuing to struggle forward toward comprehension, a finned slug, flopping upward onto a nameless beach, hoping for the miracle of mobility.”

“Is that bastard just goddamned nuts?” LaRaja’s whispered question went unanswered save for a timid shrug from Bridget. The two of them, both instinctively realizing that Bakur’s attention was completely focused on Knight, took the moment to take
a backward step. Aware that the terrorist had taken no notice of their motions, they both took another.

“My,” the professor answered Bakur, his brain racing, “you’ve certainly become quite the loquacious fellow. But, suddenly wordy or not, I’ll admit, yes, I would like to know what’s going on—very much so. What has been going on. And, I must admit, I’d certainly like to know how I, a simple museum curator, could possibly be any kind of impediment to a man who commands the kinds of resources that you do.”

At first the terrorist remained silent, his eyes continuing to stay focused on Knight. In the far distance one could still hear the sounds of the evening, the noise of the night insects, the rustle of small creatures moving about in the well-manicured brush. But for yards in every direction around the professor and Bakur, a dread and dampening silence lay across the land. No mosquitos buzzed about them; no frogs croaked; no birds or bats dared the air around them.

Taking advantage of the situation, LaRaja used the pair’s fascination with each other to keep Bridget moving away from what he sensed was going to be trouble. Part of the detective’s mind questioned his actions—saw no sense in them. He was the one who was armed, after all. Bakur might have a weapon hidden on his person, but the officer was certain Knight did not. By rights he was the one who should be confronting the terrorist.

Yeah
, thought LaRaja, his hand now around Bridget’s arm, moving her along at an even retreat,
Knight brings us out here to talk to ghosts, then keeps us from being fried by lightning. And then this certified creep shows up. I’m sure that’s all the freaky shit we’re going to see here tonight.

The detective felt no shame in retreating. His main concern was to be able to move Bridget to his car, to give her his keys along with a chance to escape to safety. After that he could turn back to see if there was anything he could do.

Whatever goddamned little that might be.

The thought chilled LaRaja. What, he wondered, what could he actually do? And about what? What exactly was going to happen next? What could happen? For all intents and purposes, the scene from which he was retreating was just two men standing on a lawn. What in the name of God, the surface levels of his mind screamed at him, was he so worried about?

But that was the rational part of his brain, the cop, the everyday fellow who still liked John Wayne movies, the tea drinker, the piece of him that still believed a two and another two could be reasonably assembled into a four no matter what. The part of him that was almost always in control, that had steered the ship of his actions nearly every second of his life.

What had him so worried, he knew, was that there were more voices within his head than that one guiding force. And after what he had seen that evening, those other voices were stirring, flooding his mind with dread warnings and whispered possibilities, most of them beyond his immediate comprehension. Normally he could dismiss such thoughts easily, locking them back in their cells where they belonged.