Evil Ways (36 page)

"Well, why
—"

El-Ghaffar held up his hand, palm out like a traffic cop. "Please! I would enjoy discussing this issue with you at length, but our time grows short. We must be ready to begin by midnight. So let me ask you this: have you seen that famous movie about the shark,
Jaws?"

A shrug from Stark. "Sure."

"Then I ask you to consider what you would do if you were in the position of the marine biologist in that film, as he was being lowered into the sea in a shark cage. This water, remember, contains an immense Great White shark, to which you would be little more than an appetizer, if it could reach you. Now, you are in the cage, you trust the cage, the manufacturer claims that it is proof against any shark in the world. But, as you are about to be lowered into the water, someone asks you if you would like a tube of shark repellent, just for a little extra protection. Tell me, Senator
—would you refuse it?"

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Then Stark shrugged. "You draw a nice analogy, Doctor, although I'm not sure you've established your premise." He sighed once, then said, "All right, no more questions for now. We'll stay in our circles until you say otherwise. Right, MM?"

Mary Margaret Doyle had been silent throughout this contest of wills. "Of course we shall," she said now, with utter seriousness. "I never contemplated anything else."

Stark looked at her sideways for a moment, but said nothing. El-Ghaffar checked his watch and walked quickly over to the altar, saying, "There is still time, if we hurry."

There was a steamer trunk on the floor about fifteen feet behind the altar. El-Ghaffar opened it, reached in, and brought out a garment of black cloth with red adornments sewn onto it. With a quick, practiced motion, he slipped it over his head and passed his arms through the armholes so that the robe fell into place, its hem exactly one inch above the floor. Stark noticed that the symbols on the robe were the same as those on the altar cloth; only the color scheme was reversed. El-Ghaffar bent over the trunk again and came up with a skullcap in the same scarlet color as the altar cloth. As the Arab carefully positioned the cap atop his head, Stark noticed that it bore the "infinity" symbol in black, exactly in the center.

Hassan el-Ghaffar took his position behind the altar, making sure that both his feet were well within the circle. He opened the ancient-looking book to a page that had been marked with a black ribbon. Looking over at his guests, he said, "I will perform the ceremony in Arabic, since my
grimoire"
—he reverently touched the book—"is
written in that language. Also, it is my native tongue and I am least likely to make any mistakes that way. It will be incomprehensible to you, but be patient. You will find things becoming interesting before long."

From the depths of his robe, el-Ghaffar produced an ordinary Zippo lighter and lit the altar's two candles. Then he passed his left hand over them several times, reciting something in a language that Stark assumed was Arabic, although the words themselves meant nothing to him.

El-Ghaffar suddenly stopped speaking, drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, and blew it out forcefully through his mouth.

Seems pretty fucking stupid, blowing out the candles,
Stark thought,
after just going through all the trouble of lighting the damn things.

But the candles were not extinguished by el-Ghaffar's vigorous exhalation. Instead,
something
appeared to flash through the air from the altar candles over to where the pentagram had been drawn in the floor. An instant later, the five candles at the pentagram's points sprouted tiny blossoms of flame and were soon burning brightly.

Stark stared at the newly ignited candles for a second, then, on a hunch, shifted his gaze just in time to catch the glance that the Arab sent his way.
Yeah, I thought so. Wants to see how well the conjuring trick is going over. Well, it's not bad, although I think I saw something as good last year in Vegas. You're going to have to do better than that, buddy-boy, if you want to impress me.

Nothing very intriguing happened over the next half-hour or so. El-Ghaffar read aloud from what he'd called his
grimoire,
rang the bell from time to time
—always for five strokes on each occasion—made mysterious-looking gestures in the air and generally bored Stark half to death.

Then, finally, he lit the brazier.

He first dropped in powders from the ceramic bowls. Stark noticed that each substance was of a different color: first there was blue, followed by green, then brown, then, finally, red. After adding the last ingredient, el-Ghaffar held his hands, palms down, over the brazier, read another few words from the book, then clapped his hands together, hard.

The material in the brazier burst into flame. It burned brightly for a few moments, then subsided to a glow that gave vent to a rather thick, gray smoke.

Stark had been watching the procedure closely.
That's a little better,
he thought.
I didn't see anything drop into the bowl while he was clapping. Of course, some substances will spontaneously combust when you combine them. Or maybe there's a heating element hidden inside that brazier. But it's a pretty good trick, anyway.

El-Ghaffar's voice was louder now, and had taken on the rhythmic quality of a chant. Among the incomprehensible Arabic words, Stark was starting to hear one that he recognized. He had seen plenty of news footage of various Arab crowds around the world denouncing America as "the great Satan," so the word
Shaitan
was familiar to him. El-Ghaffar was using the word frequently now.

There were no windows or ventilation ducts in the basement, but, even so, the smoke from the brazier was moving now, flowing inexorably toward the pentagram some twenty feet away.

Now you're talking,
Stark thought.
I can't figure this trick out at all. Wonder if MM knows how he's doing it?

He glanced at Mary Margaret Doyle and saw that her expression was serious, verging on grim. Her eyes were narrowed, and a vein in her neck was visibly pulsing in response to the pounding of her heart. Stark decided to save his smartass question for later.

The gray smoke was gathering in the center of the pentagram now, and had grown noticeably thicker. El-Ghaffar's chanting was reduced to one word, and he was saying it over and over, louder and louder: "Sargatanas. Sargatanas. Sargatanas. Sargatanas! Sargatanas! Sargatanas!! SARGATANAS!"

The smoke in the pentagram's center was swirling, congealing, forming and reforming, and finally took on a shape that was vaguely humanoid. Then the gray mist began to dissipate, soon leaving the figure in plain view.

Stark's suspicion that he had been watching a crudely produced magician's illusion disappeared
—not unlike the smoke that had been shrouding the pentagram. His skepticism has been replaced by a blend of awe and fear and disgust.

The center of the pentagram was occupied by a rotting corpse. At least, it
should
have been a corpse, except that it was standing, apparently under its own power, and the head was questing back and forth, as if it could see all three of them even though the eye sockets contained nothing but a steady stream of maggots that seemed to be issuing forth from the putrescent skull cavity.

The figure was naked, which gave Stark ample opportunity to observe the precise condition of its decaying flesh, to note the places where the flesh had disappeared completely to reveal white bone matter, and to consider the number and variety of necrophages (beetles, worms, and the maggots, among others) that were finding the unquiet corpse a tasty treat.

The grotesque sight had been present only for a few seconds when its odor hit them like a great polluted tide. It was a smell that the liberators of the Treblinka death camp would have recognized all too well
—an amalgam of rot and filth and shit and decay that almost made Stark and Mary Margaret vomit.

Hassan el-Ghaffar appeared displeased, but not especially surprised. "Hearken unto me, disobedient one!" he said sternly, in English now. "Thou wert summoned, as per agreement, and bidden to assume a pleasing form. Do so
—now!"

Despite the lack of both lips and tongue, the thing in the pentagram answered, in a voice that was both deep and cultured, rather like James Earl Jones at his most charming. "My form is pleasing to
me,"
the voice rumbled.

"Well, it pleases neither me nor my companions," el-Ghaffar said. "Change now, lest I smite thee!" He picked up the long, curved sword from the altar and held the blade an inch or so above one of the candles.

"Peace, peace, I hear and obey. Act not in haste."

For Stark, it was the height of incongruity to hear that voice, so alive and vigorous, coming from something that you might expect to find buried deep in a Mafia-owned landfill.

Then, in an instant, the image of decay and death was gone, replaced by something that was manifestly, defiantly alive. The sculptors who ornamented the Parthenon could not have envisioned a figure of human perfection to rival what now stood in the center of the pentagram. The man stood about six feet, with a cap of tight black curls that matched the eyebrows, which, in turn, perched elegantly above piercing blue eyes. The body was literally perfect
—muscular, tight, tanned, and toned, without a scar or blemish. This was not the extreme overdevelopment of a bodybuilder, but rather strength and speed and flexibility brought to the epitome of grace and form usually associates with statues of Ancient Greece's athletes.

And since the man was naked, it was not difficult to observe that his sexual endowment was entirely consistent with the rest of his physical perfection. Indeed, even as confirmed a heterosexual as Howard Stark found it difficult not to stare at the large, erect penis that protruded from below the flat, muscular stomach.

"Thy form is now much more pleasing to the eye, not to mention the nose," el-Ghaffar said. "Whilst thou art briefly among us, great Sargatanas, I will ask of thee certain simple tasks, well within thy powers to perform." He gestured toward Stark and Mary Margaret Doyle. "These companions of mine would know of thy power, thy wisdom, thy knowledge of this world's affairs, even of those things which certain kings and princes regard as their most closely held secrets. In return, I shall reward thee as promised in our bargain, made freely and duly signed by us both, in mutual obligation."

"
I
don't think that will be necessary."

The voice was Mary Margaret Doyle's, the first time she had spoken in almost an hour. Both men stared at her in amazement, which quickly turned to shock as
—almost casually—she stepped outside the circle.

Stark was mystified. She had appeared to be taking this business seriously from the beginning, whereas Stark's suspicion had evolved into tentative belief only in the last few minutes.
Is she trying to debunk this whole thing? Is el-Ghaffar a fraud, after all? Did she notice something that I've missed?

If Stark was confused, el-Ghaffar looked stupefied. He gaped, openmouthed, as Mary Margaret Doyle walked briskly over to the pentagram. The demon trapped inside it seemed to be the only one who did not find her behavior unusual. Instead, he appeared to be watching with great interest.

She approached one of the candles burning at the pentagram's five points, and, with a quick sideways move from her left foot, kicked it over.

This brought Hassan el-Ghaffar out of his shocked silence. "You stupid cow, what are you
doing?"
he screeched. "Put that back where it was, immediately! Quickly, before it goes out! Do it now!
Do you hear me, you fucking cunt?"

Mary Margaret Doyle turned to look at el-Ghaffar. Instead of the shocked and angry expression that Stark expected to see as a response to the Arab's obscene insults, there was only a wide smile on her face. The smile remained in place as she glanced down to check the tipped-over candle's position, raised her left foot again
—and, in one quick motion, stomped the flame into extinction.

What followed, an instant later, was a sudden release of energy that knocked all three of the humans off their feet. There was no sound of detonation, no flying debris, just a force of immense power that burst from the center of the pentagram, and if there was any noise from it at all, it was something that resembled a cry of triumph, although it was a sound that had never issued from any human throat.

El-Ghaffar was the first to regain his feet, although he did so slowly, awkwardly, like a punch-drunk boxer determined to answer the bell for the last round.