prominence whose imperial ambitions masquerade as humanitarian compassion. Men
who seek to outmaneuver righteous resistance through preachments of peace—who
will do whatever they can to suppress the violence that ultimate justice
requires.”
Maghur nodded slowly. “Your discernment as well as your tactical genius will
guarantee your place in the history books, and the ultimate triumph of your
struggles on behalf of ummah. I understand whom you speak of. He is indeed a
true enemy of revolution. Alas, our attempts to strike at him have so far been
futile.”
“I cannot forget that he was once my prisoner.”
“And yet he slipped from your clutches. He is as slippery as the serpent in the
garden.”
Ahmad Tabari’s face tightened at the memory. All his reverses could be traced
back to that humiliating blow. The jewel in his crown had been stolen by a thief
in the night. Until then, nothing had marred Tabari’s aura of inexorable triumph
and serene confidence: his followers believed that Allah had himself blessed the
Caliph’s every move. Yet just a day shy of Id ul-Kebir came the shocking
invasion of the Caliph’s newly claimed stronghold—and the seizure of his
legendary captive. Nothing had gone smoothly since.
“The serpent must be hunted and killed before progress can resume,” Maghur said.
Tabari’s gaze was distant, but his mind was furiously engaged. A movement like
his depended upon the sense that ultimate success was inevitable: the event had
shaken that air of inevitability. The diminishment of morale was subsequently
exploited by the incursions of the Republic of Anura’s troops—and every
successful raid of theirs compounded the loss of confidence among the Caliph’s
followers. It was a vicious circle. A bold act was essential to break out of it.
The Libyan understood that. Now Tabari looked at him closely. “And you will
provide support?”
“My position in my government is such that I must operate through many veils.
Tripoli cannot be connected to your activities. There are others, however, whose
hospitality can be turned to your advantage.”
“You refer, again, to the Islamic Republic of Mansur,” the gimlet-eyed guerrilla
said. Mansur had originated as a secessionist movement within Yemen, spearheaded
by a charismatic mullah: if the breakaway was not fiercely contested by the
Yemeni forces, it was because nothing of value was being lost. Confined largely
to the shifting sands of the Rub’ al-Khali desert, Mansur was a desperately poor
country, with few exports other than khat and some paltry handicrafts. The
government itself had little to offer to its citizens save a Shiite version of
Sharia: piety in medieval garb. Yet if its material exports were scant, it had
begun to make a name for itself as an exporter of radical Islam, and the
revolutionary fervor it entrained.
Ibrahim Maghur smiled. “On certain occasions, the holy men of Mansur have spoken
to me of their security concerns. I have taken the liberty of telling them that
I have identified somebody who is both devoted to Allah and truly expert in such
matters. You will accompany me to Khartoum, where I have arranged special air
transport for you. You will be received in the desert town they call the capital
and will, I believe, find them a welcoming people indeed. At that point, you can
write your own ticket.”
“And they will help me find the serpent?”
Maghur shook his head. “7 will help you find the serpent. We will remain in
close contact, you and I. Your Mansur hosts will merely provide you with the
official identity and mobility you will need. In short, Mansur will be the
stalking horse upon which you will ride.”
A gust of desert air whipped at their loose-fitting garments.
“They say if you strike at a king, you must kill him,” the Caliph mused.
“Your enemies will soon learn the truth of that,” the Libyan said. “Through his
hirelings, Peter Novak struck at you—but failed to kill you. Now you will strike
at him … ”
“And kill him.” The words were spoken as simple fact.
“Indeed,” Maghur said. “Allah’s own justice demands it. Yet time grows short,
for the thirsts of your revolutionary followers are great.”
“And what will slake that thirst?”
“The blood of the infidel,” Maghur said. “It will flow like juice from the
sweetest pomegranate, and with it your cause will regain its life-spirit.”
“The blood of the infidel,” the Caliph repeated.
“The only question is whom you can trust to … extract it.”
“Trust?” The Caliph blinked slowly.
“What surrogate will you dispatch?”
“Surrogate?” The Kagama warrior appeared faintly affronted. “This is not a task
to be delegated. Recall, it was the Prophet himself who led the onslaught
against Khaybar.”
The Libyan’s eyes widened with what seemed to be even greater respect for the
rebel leader.
“The blood of the infidel will indeed flow,” the Caliph said, and he held out
his hands. “These palms will brim with Peter Novak’s blood.”
“And it will bear the blessings of Allah.” The Libyan bowed. “Come with me now.
The stalking horse must be saddled. Mansur awaits you, el Caliph.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
With supreme reluctance, Gitta Békesi finally agreed to let them enter the
decaying farmhouse where she now lived alone with her savage dog. The dog’s
reluctance seemed greater still: though it obediently stood back, one could tell
from its rigid posture that, at the slightest signal from its mistress, it would
throw itself at the visitors in a frenzy of bristling fur and snapping teeth.
The old crone shared the decrepitude of her lodgings. The skin hung loosely from
her skull; pale, dry scalp showed through her thinning hair; her eyes were
sunken, hard and glittering behind loose snakeskin-like folds. If age had
softened what had been hard, it had hardened what had been soft, turning her
high cheeks gaunt and hollow, her mouth into a cruel slash.
It was the face of a survivor.
From the many articles Janson had digested, he knew that Peter Novak was eight
years old in 1945, when clashing forces commanded by Hitler and Stalin
essentially liquidated the farming village of Molnar, his place of birth. The
population of Molnar had always been small enough—under a thousand, in the early
forties. Nearly all perished. Even aside from her age, could someone have
experienced such a cataclysmic event and not still bear the impress of the
trauma?
In the large sitting room, a fire burned slowly in the fireplace. On the wooden
mantel above it, a sepia photograph in a tarnished silver frame showed a
beautiful young woman. Gitta Békesi as she once was: a robust peasant girl,
exuding rude health, and something else, too—a sly sensuality. It gazed upon
them, cruelly mocking the ravages of age.
Jessie walked over to it. “What a beauty you were,” she said simply.
“Beauty can be a curse,” the old woman said. “Fortunately, it is always a
fleeting one.” She made a clicking noise with her tongue and the dog came over
and sat at her side. She reached down and rubbed its flanks with her clawlike
hands.
“I understand that you once worked for the count,” Janson said. “Count
Ferenczi-Novak.”
“I do not speak of these things,” she said curtly. She sat in a caned rocking
chair, the webbing of the seat half torn. Behind her, resting against the wall
like a walking stick, was her old shotgun. “I live alone and ask nothing more
than that I be left alone. I tell you that you are wasting your time. So. I have
let you in. Now you can say that you have sat with the old woman and asked her
your questions. Now you can tell everyone concerned that Gitta Békesi says
nothing. No, I tell you one thing: there was no Kis family in Molnar.”
“Wait a minute—’everyone concerned’? Who’s concerned?”
“Not me,” she said, and staring straight ahead, she fell silent.
“Are those chestnuts?” Jessie asked, looking at a bowl on a small table by the
woman’s chair.
Békesi nodded.
“Could I have one? I feel so rude asking, but I know you just roasted those,
’cause this whole place of yours smells like it, and it’s just making my mouth
water.”
Békesi glanced at the bowl and nodded. “They’re still hot,” she said
approvingly.
“Makes me think of my grandma somehow—we’d come to her house and she’d roast us
some chestnuts … ” She beamed at the memory. “And it made every day seem like
Christmas.” Jessie peeled a chestnut and ate it greedily. “This is perfect. Just
a perfect chestnut. This alone was worth the five-hour drive.”
The old woman nodded, her manner noticeably less aloof. “They get too dry when
you overroast them.”
“And too hard when you don’t roast them long enough,” Jessie put in. “But you
got it down to a science.”
A small, contented smile settled on the old woman’s face.
“Do all your visitors beg you for ’em?” Jessie asked.
“I get no visitors.”
“None at all? Can’t hardly believe that.”