Gilman remained silent.
“What’s the matter, Major?”
“Lay off, Hopkins.” Borden swirled his scotch at Hopkins.
“I wasn’t addressing you, sir.”
Borden’s gaze zeroed in on the single line of ribbons on Hopkins’ jacket. “Never been in combat, have you, Captain?”
Hopkins stiffened, then smiled. “That’s why I’m asking the major. Maybe he can pass on some experience—tell us what real fighting is all about.”
“If you really want to know, Captain,” said Borden, “put in for a transfer. Go up on the line. Then you won’t have to hear it from old farts like me. You’ll get your experience firsthand.”
Hopkins went red. “Are you calling me a coward?”
“No... just out of line. Some men don’t share your zeal for war stories, old or new.”
Hopkins returned Borden’s stare.
You old bastard. I’ll take care of you.
Gilman polished off his scotch and stood up. “This meeting is adjourned,” he declared.
The others finished their drinks and filed out Hopkins took his time. Gilman studied him, wondering if his questions were as innocent as he had taken the trouble to make them sound. Hopkins finally tossed Gilman a smile and left.
Gilman shut the door and leaned against it. His mouth was dry and his palms were damp. He rubbed them on his trousers.
France. Window Hill. Second Battalion.
Gilman’s face screwed up. A wave of nausea sent him hurrying to the bathroom.
Chapter 8
Central Park was thickly carpeted in white after the first pre-winter snowfall. Loring Holloway huddled inside her thick camel’s-hair coat and braved the icy wind to get to the West Side. Cabs were scarce in wartime and after the first snowfall all but extinct.
Yazir was lecturing at Fordham University at 10 a.m. She reached the lecture hall at 10:30 and stood next to the radiator in the lobby drying out for a half hour. Yazir came out trailing students at each elbow, fielding their questions, looking tired and preoccupied. He spotted Loring and made his excuses, then hurried to meet her.
“Let’s go sit down,” he said, pulling a woolen scarf up around his ears and jamming a tweed cap over his head. He led Loring across campus to the faculty lounge, where they sat and had tea.
“Once a week, I do an hour lecture at Fordham, subbing for a friend of mine. I tell you, the exertion of getting around town in these times, and in this weather—Any more word on your German officer?”
“No. But I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Still set on going.” She nodded. He managed a smile and a frown all at once. Two slack-jawed, white-haired professors came by carrying trays and pausing to grunt at Yazir. He acknowledged them, then returned his full attention to Loring.
“I hope you understand that when we met before I was obliged to be skeptical. It would have been unwise for both of us to get carried away.”
Loring nodded.
“I have gone back into my research and talked with some colleagues—Islamic mullahs, holy men. As I indicated before, I had heard the story of Korbazrah but, like a lot of the folklore, thought it to be merely legend. You apparently discovered enough hard evidence to earn him a niche in the real world.”
“You believe me then?”
Yazir pursed his lips. “I believe your evidence. Whether it all adds up to a living, breathing demon is what we are here to discuss. If you go chasing after it, you must be scientific. You can’t just barge into a prisoner of war camp and tell the same story you told me. You’ll be back on the train in no time flat. You must devise certain tests to prove to yourself and to anyone else that the demon really exists. Of course, this may be impossible; you may find nothing, in which case it would be best to assume that the flask was lost at sea. You will look a bit foolish but at least your conscience will be eased.”
Loring wasn’t so sure of that.
“The Arabic belief in the djinn is mostly superstitious, but superstitions usually have their roots in reality. Once on this earth perhaps there redly were demons. Perhaps Korbazrah really did trap one, but he could have invented it, too. Realizing that Nebuchadnezzar would eventually succeed in capturing the city of Ur-Tawaq, and that he would be put to the sword along with everyone else, he might have convinced the king that he had captured a demon and could use it to disrupt the city, create a panic, and ultimately bring about a surrender. But, for the moment, let us say that you are correct and something supernatural was involved.”
Loring eyed him coolly. “Go on.”
“The mullahs that I spoke to, as I said, were aware of the story. One of them had in his possession a very old book in Latin which we spent much of last night translating. In it there is a section that describes the Babylonian sacking of Ur-Tawaq. The siege was accompanied by a general panic that came about because of a series of mysterious deaths. There was a man who killed his friend, believing the friend had slept with his wife. Another man was driven to hang himself. Another drowned in his own home when a nearby well flooded for no apparent reason. Others died by suffocation, by fire, beneath collapsing buildings. Another died of heart failure believing he was being pursued by imaginary beasts.... In many cases, they succumbed to their own worst fears, which magnified the fears of those who survived. Surrounded and cut off from the rest of the world by the Babylonian Army and terrorized from within, they were collectively isolated, virtually imprisoned in their five-walled city while something natural or unnatural preyed upon them.”
“The djinn,” said Loring.
“Perhaps. There is no mention of a demon in this Latin text.
The Light of Days,
which you have quoted to me, is pure folklore. The other texts on your list are of questionable authenticity but—”
“As you said, superstitions have their roots in reality.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“So let us make the leap for the time being and accept that the terror in Ur-Tawaq
was
caused by a demon that preyed on the fears and weaknesses of its victims. All of these incidents occurred at night, leading us to conclude that the demon is inactive during the day, probably lying dormant inside the host—whoever or whatever that happens to be. By night, though, it goes out and does its work. You suggested that it was working for Korbazrah. I find that unlikely. A demon has no need for employment. It does what it wants, when it is convenient. I think it is more likely that Korbazrah supplied it with a host—his assistant—who then remained under the sorcerer’s control. The demon used the assistant’s body. Korbazrah merely exploited the situation.”
Loring leaned back, awed. Yazir’s hypothesis made sense. “But the silver flask...”
“Yes, well, silver is one of the things that can be used to combat a djinn. Silver, salt, the mystical symbol of the pentangle—there are a number of reported deterrents, but it’s hard to know which if any have the desired effect —to banish the demon or capture it... or kill it.”
“Are you saying that it’s not known which of these things will do what?”
“I believe that you will have to apply certain tests— first to determine if the djinn is there, second, to discover how it can be affected. Certain of the djinn—the lesser demons especially, the relatively harmless ones—are known to hide inside inanimate objects such as trees, bushes, rocks. The larger, more fearsome, dangerous ones take up residence inside animals, and it is often impossible to determine if a beast is so possessed, unless you are present at the very moment when the djinn emerges to do its work. There is in the folklore an even more dangerous type of demon who will venture into a human being and become an unseen parasite, draining the host of energy and using him as a base from which to attack other victims. This would seem to be the nature of Korbazrah’s demon. And it is, as you can imagine, the most dangerous of all.
“Just why it stayed within the walls of Ur-Tawaq is difficult to determine. Also, what might have happened had Korbazrah not sealed it away in that flask....” Yazir shrugged. “It could have gone after the Babylonian Army, it could have devoured Babylon itself, and then gone out into the world and...” He gestured broadly and held his hand out for a moment to encompass the very room they were sitting in. His eyes bored into Loring’s with deep significance.
She shuddered.
Into the world. The entire world, devoured by a monster that she had loosed after a twenty-five-hundred-year enforced hibernation.
“It’s more than you want to believe, isn’t it?” Yazir said.
“I think I see what you’re getting at,” she said. “If I believe the smallest part of this, then I have to believe the worst.”
“Yes. If the djinn was ingested by Korbazrah’s assistant and lived inside him during the day and came out only at night, then that is what you must look for with respect to this German submarine officer. It won’t be enough to simply ask him what he did with the flask. Why should he tell the truth? Why would he if the very thing you are after has him under control?”
“Find out if it’s there, then find out what works against it.” She echoed his words.
“Yes. Now... the mullahs were concerned that someone with no religious training whatsoever would be going off to deal with a demon. But when I explained that even their vast knowledge and experience would be useless in handling a djinn of pre-Islamic antiquity, they came to this conclusion. A layman, such as yourself, might have a better chance than a holy man trying to do his duty. They are bound by their beliefs, by knowledge of the Koran. They would never in an emergency be able to separate themselves from their beliefs. Their tendency would be to rely on things that couldn’t work, and the djinn would then prevail. It would prey on the uncertainty of faith, shake their belief in God, and destroy them through that. But if a layman goes in with a clear mind and nothing but a simple purpose, he might have a chance. An awareness of what you’re confronting and a firm belief that it exists are in themselves great weapons.”
Loring nodded. She was firm and aware and convinced of what she was after. But she was also frightened and realized that for the first time. How would she survive going up against a demon that preys on fear?
“It will try to confound you,” Yazir continued, “to shake your belief in its existence, to foil any tests—because to do its work it must hide. No one must know it’s there. It’s hiding inside a mortal body that can be killed. Korbazrah did it, according to the stories. He slew his assistant, the host, and forced the demon to take refuge in the flask. If he did it, you might have to do it. But if you kill the host and fail to convince the people around you that there is a demon...”
She saw the picture without further elaboration. The steps were clear. Find Kirst, try to make him tell what he did with the flask, find out if the djinn is inside him and, if it is, convince the others, expose it, capture it, or kill it.
“The best advice I can give you about weapons is to search for a natural substance that will repel the djinn. There has to be something—that much is consistent in the folklore. The djinn are not invincible. Korbazrah found a way. He put something in the flask that attracted the djinn. Try everything. Salt, for instance, was known to the ancients as a cleansing agent for wounds. Its healing properties might very well repel a djinn, even kill it. Silver, iron, light—it might be sensitive to light since it operates only in darkness. Use your imagination.”
Yazir went on, detailing an endless list of elements that might be potential weapons against the djinn. Loring’s mind grew heavy with the possibilities. She wanted Yazir to shut up, to leave this to her. It was her mission, her purpose, her conscience that had to be played out on this journey. She selfishly wanted to hug the coming battle to her soul as she had never embraced anything else in her life.
She thanked Yazir, interrupting him. He stared at her, worried.
“What time are you leaving tomorrow?” he asked. She told him and he promised to be there. “Tonight I will be seeing the mullahs once again and, if they have any further ideas, I think you should hear them before you go.”
“Fine. But please be on time.”
He watched her slip back into her coat. He watched the fever in her eyes and thought of the terrible waste—that a woman as attractive as Loring Holloway would even think of throwing herself into battle with a centuries-old demon instead of into the arms of a man. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to recall her as a student sitting in his class. He remembered only their lengthy discussions in his office—her almost total preoccupation with the subject, her scruffiness and disinterest in her appearance, her dedication and single-mindedness.
Yes, perhaps she is the right person to do this.
He opened his eyes and saw her smile. “I have to go,” she said. “I have to pack.”
He stood up. “I hope that you find absolutely nothing.
She smiled, shook his hand, and hurried off, finding it strange that she hoped exactly the opposite.
Chapter 9
Corporal Kalmus was still shaken when he reported to Gilman after delivering Kirst