The Gods' Gambit (12 page)

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere in your affairs,” Colin
apologized.

“Good. Yet there is a grain of truth in your words. The man
we’ll hire has to be traceable. That’s why we don’t need an experienced hitman.
An expert would cover his tracks well. Our ideal candidate would be an
efficient criminal who is desperate for cash,” said the perfecty.

“That sounds about right to me,” said Roger.

“So we’re close to the strike. It means that the digging
into our targets’ personal life has been completed,” said Colin.

“Yes,” the perfecty confirmed. “There’s been no
complication. Soon we’re going to get down to real business.”

“I don’t understand why we don’t just get rid of him
straightaway,” said Roger.

“He’s not as easy a prey as he may seem. We must weaken him
first,” the perfecty explained. “We must smash his heart.”

Algiers, Algeria

The headquarters of the Algerian National Central Interpol
Bureau in Algiers was housed in a three-storey French colonial-style building.
Stopping the black car at the entrance barrier, Halil lowered the window and
casually greeted the on-duty police officer, who saluted and lifted the
barrier.

Halil turned back to Irina and James, who were sitting in
the rear seats, “Here we are, like one big family.”

Halil, a local police inspector, had met them at the
airport. He had presented himself as their personal guide, appointed for this
task by chief commissar Mohamed Cassim. Halil had informed them that the chief
commissar wanted to meet with them first thing on arrival at headquarters.

The secretary showed them into a large office fitted out
with shiny restored nineteenth-century French furniture. The chief commissar
was sitting behind a massive writing desk. He was a slim middle-aged man with a
sharp face dominated by a big crow-black moustache. He rose and came out from
behind the desk to greet them and invited them to sit at a low, varnished
dark-wood coffe table. The secretary served coffee and cold water before
leaving them to talk in private.

The chief commissar began by talking about the weather and
the sightseeing in Algiers. But when he had finished his coffee, he stretched
the front of his tunic and said in a harder tone, “Tell me, why are you
interested in something that happened a year ago?”

“We’re investigating a similar murder in the UK,” said
Irina.

“You think that the two cases may be related?” the chief
commissar asked.

“Possibly. We hope our visit will help us verify this
hypothesis.”

“You do not hold an official Interpol mandate.”

“The Bulgarian Interpol Bureau works with the English
police. Mr Whiteway is their representative.”

James joined in the conversation. “I’m impressed by the good
work of the local police force. Thanks to your people, we had a chance to link
both cases. I believe we’ll learn other valuable things here. This will speed
up our homeland investigation.”

“Hmm. If you think so,” the chief commissar said in a
softened tone. He was silent for a while, tapping the table with the fingertips
of his right hand. “We work hard here,” he continued eventually. “As a result
the city is peaceful and quiet. I want to keep it that way while you’re here.”

“That is our intention, too,” Irina reassured him.

“You should not do police work here without consulting with
me first. You can talk to Halil about your requirements.” The chief commissar
got up, went to his desk and returned with two thin grey files. “The material
you need is here, all translated into English,” he said, and handed the files
over to them. “Inspector Halil will show you a place where you can read it. The
case hasn’t been solved completely. I expect to be informed if you come across
something.”

“Of course,” said Irina.

“I wish you a pleasant stay in Algiers.”

Halil took them to a room containing a table and chairs and
left them. Irina and James immersed themselves in the files’ contents. There
were several photos, autopsy data, a few witness statements and the
investigating officer’s report. The name of the victim was Knut Vebber,
thirty-three years old, a German national. He had visited Algeria several times
to study the teaching and practices of the local Sufis. He had befriended the
leader of one of the Sufi brotherhoods – sheikh Mussa Hussein. In his brief
testimony, the sheikh confirmed that Knut had been his follower and friend. The
last, fatal visit of the German had occurred in turbulent times. There had been
street demonstrations and unrest in Algiers and other cities, partly due to the
increasing political demands of Islamic hardliners. The report concluded that
Knut Vebber fell victim to radical Islamists. A group of men ambushed him after
he had left the Sufi teaching place. The attackers dragged him to a building
nearby, tortured him and then killed him with a single shot to the head. A
swastika had been carved on his chest. A police patrol surprised the group and
gunshots were exchanged. The police shot one man; the rest fled. The man who
had been gunned down was twenty-four years old. His relatives and acquaintances
described him as a deeply religious person. The other attackers had never been
found.

Irina pushed her chair back. “I’m becoming disappointed,”
she said. “The likelihood that this was just xenophobic cruelty now looks much
greater. It doesn’t overlap enough with our case.”

James looked at her thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure of that,”
he said and turned his attention back to the papers.

Irina justified her opinion. “The swastika is the only
resemblance, and also partly the fact that both men were murdered by a group of
people. Those may well be coincidences.”

James showed her one of the photos. “Look carefully.”

Irina took the photo and looked at it closely. “The swastika
… shirt torn on his chest …”

“His left sleeve is torn and rolled up.”

“Probably because he resisted.”

“There might have been another reason. The veins on Costov’s
left arm were cut. Perhaps they were preparing Knut Vebber for the same
treatment.”

“You think that the police interrupted the gang before they
were able to fulfil their plan?” Irina seemed intrigued.

“Yes. The attackers simply didn’t have time to complete the
murder ritual.”

“Your assumption makes a lot of sense.”

“That’s what scares me. Actually, I came here convinced that
this would be a fruitless journey. Now I’m not sure what to think.”

Irina looked at him in surprise. “You wrote in your report
that more victims of that cult are likely to be found.”

“What initially made me sceptical was the fact that Knut
Vebber was shot in the head. The cult needed him killed in a ritual way. Now I
see a possible explanation for that difference."

“Knut Vebber could have been killed by accident. Even the
police could be responsible. What’s most probable is that somebody from the
cult lost his nerve when the police interrupted the rite and shot him,” Irina
interrupted.

“I would go for the last. It fits the psychological profile
of those murderers. They bare strong hatred of their victims. The Costov case
clearly showed that.”

 “So we may have come across an old pagan cult
operating inside official Islam. It may have spread to the UK, too. Maybe some
of the symbols from Costov’s murder could backup such an assumption.”

“It would be difficult for such a cult to stay hidden within
the Islamic environment, but not impossible. If our assumptions are correct it
may exist.”

“This cult could be very well disguised, then.”

“It’s not uncommon for so-called crypto religions to coexist
within major religious forms, but worshippers of Sumerian gods?” James sounded
doubtful.

“There are questionable points here. What if the cult
followed Knut Vebber in Algeria? They may have hired local people to help them.
The Algerian police may have killed one of the mercenaries by chance.”

“A ritual murder cannot be fulfilled by laymen. Members of
the cult must be involved,” James objected.

“OK. It’s also unlikely that the killers were foreigners. A
group of foreigners would have attracted attention at that troubled time. The
crime was perpetrated in a residential district. Everybody knew each other
there, most probably.”

“Well, we’ve narrowed down the possibilities.”

 “In fact, we’ve established a probable link between
the two cases. It looks as though the same cult’s probably behind both
murders,” Irina summarized.

“Interpol would have an official case if we were right,”
said James. “Unfortunately, not much comes out of this to help resolve Costov’s
murder.”

“We’ve just begun. We need to do more. I want to talk to
sheikh Mussa Hussein. Judging by the report, he was the only person with whom
Knut Vebber had some kind of friendship.”

“The chief commissar may not be happy to hear this.”

“He’ll have to live with it,” said Irina.

USA

1920

Sanctum
– the ship on which Batka had sailed to
Karachi and back – dropped anchor in the Port of San Francisco a month later
than scheduled. Semeon Laptin, as part of a small welcoming party, was already
at the dock rented by Batka’s company. Batka did not allow members of his
family to be present on such occasions, only business associates and old
friends. The group waited in silence. Their faces showed signs of tension and
worry. Strange rumours had circulated among Batka’s inner circle. Something had
happened during this latest journey.
Sanctum
’s captain had kept the
headquarters in San Francisco informed of the situation via radiograms.

Batka had personally decided to delay their return journey.
The cargo from the mines and the bandit spoils had arrived intact and on time
in the Port of Karachi, but without Batka, his son and a small group of
personal guards – they had stayed in Pamir. The people who had accompanied the
cargo had conveyed Batka’s order: “Load the ship and wait ready to sail.”
According to them, Batka had stayed in the mountains ‘to meet some hermit who
lived in a cave not far away from the mine’.

The story had begun when the elders of a few villages that
supplied workers for the mine asked Batka to mediate between them and the
sorcerer-hermit who interfered in their affairs and whom they feared. Batka
agreed. He met with the hermit and gave conciliatory gifts from the villagers.
From that day onwards, he started to visit the cave frequently together with
his son. When the cargo caravan was ready, Batka ordered his people to leave
without him.

In one radiogram, the captain mentioned that the long wait
and the lack of news about what was going on in the mountains had undermined
the morale of the people. Rumours were already circulating amongst the crew
that Batka and his son had been bewitched.

Batka was the first to climb down the ladder lowered by
Sanctum
’s
sailors. He had lost weight and his complexion was bronzed. Twenty men followed
him – some of his Russian bandits, the others were ship officers and crew
members. His son, Alexander, was not amongst them.

In one hand, Batka held a long staff, which was broader at
one end, wrapped in a brown cloth. The broad end was partly uncovered, and
Laptin saw that the wood was carved in the form of many snapping snakes. It
reminded him of the mythological Gorgon Medusa.

Laptin was surprised how cold Batka was when he greeted the
waiting people – he gave them a brief handshake and a few words, but seemed
bored and distant. However, another thing startled him to such an extent that
he had a nightmare about it the following night: the man who shook hands with
Batka before Laptin did was the chief accountant of the shipping company. He
knew Batka’s family well and he spontaneously asked him about Alexander. For a
fraction of a second, Laptin saw Batka’s eyes change from blue to dark green.
At the same time, something like freezing electricity emanated from Batka.
Laptin felt it in his bones.
My mind’s playing tricks,
he thought. But
when he glanced at the pallid chief accountant, he knew it had not been his
imagination.

Batka moved from the startled man as if he had not heard his
question and shook Laptin’s hand.

Later, he announced that his son had chosen to return to
Russia and live there and that he had given him his blessing.

The young man’s decision to return to a land suffocated by
Bolshevik terror was incomprehensible, and it made even less sense that Batka
had allowed him to do so. But nobody dared bring this up. Without saying a word,
Batka had made everybody around him understand that the subject was taboo.

The news devastated Alexander’s mother. Laptin frequently
saw her walking aimlessly around Batka’s enormous house in San Francisco with
eyes swollen by constant crying. One day she was found hanging in the basement.

It would be no exaggeration to say that Batka did not notice
her death. He did not even go to her funeral, which was carried out on the
quiet as if she were some kind of uncomfortable burden he needed to be rid of.
This attitude was not at all typical of the Batka Ivan that Laptin knew. The
Batka Ivan that had arrived with
Sanctum
was a different person. This
was the opinion not only of Laptin but of all Batka’s long-standing associates.
None of them voiced their concern, but it could be read on their faces and in
their behaviour towards Batka. The spontaneity of the contact between Batka and
his commanders and business partners was no more. Laptin saw deep fear in their
eyes when they were in Batka’s presence. This didn’t surprise him. He felt it
himself. From time to time, Batka emanated an icy coldness that paralyzed the
heart. He started to give jobs and establish close relationships with people
almost unknown to him, some of whom repelled even inveterate Russian thugs.
Amongst them were psychopaths and sadistic killers.