The Devil You Know

3

They smoke cigars in heaven?

It was an odd thought, since Kismet didn’t particularly believe in the afterlife. Nevertheless, the air was heavy with the sweet but acrid scent of burning tobacco. He started to open his eyes, but then a railroad spike of pain shot through his skull and he retreated into unconsciousness again.

“Cuban?” he muttered abruptly. He had no idea how much time had passed, but this time he wisely kept his eyes shut. It didn’t help much.

A dry chuckle rattled inside his head. “Why, Lieutenant Kismet, that would be illegal.”

Despite the incessant hammers ringing against the anvil of his skull, Kismet opened his eyes to investigate. He was in a small, relatively dark place, sprawled out on a couch upholstered in soft leather; it was, he realized, the interior of a limousine. Three men were sitting on a matching divan directly across from where he lay, surrounded by a halo of smoke, which issued from the phallic cigar jutting from the mouth of the man in the center. Of the trio, he was the most distinguished; his suit was a dark three-piece Saville Row, and a diamond studded Rolex encircled his wrist, but even if his adornments were discounted, the man still looked impressive, with chiseled features and a magnificent mane of silver hair. “Well, I guess you aren’t God,” Kismet said, at length. “He would know that I resigned my commission years ago. Which means I’m still alive, right?”

The man with the cigar laughed again then spoke in a deep basso profundo. “My apologies, Mr. Kismet. I wish I could say that my information about you was just outdated, but the truth is that I was hoping to appeal to your sense of esprit de corp.”

Something about the man was familiar, but Kismet’s mental energies were taxed to their limits just to stay conscious. He couldn’t help but notice the underlying accent, and the faint trace of a New Jersey accent, which was all the more incongruous when spoken in a voice so low as to be almost a growl. “I don’t follow you.”

“I was a soldier, too. A different war, but I fought for my country all the same.”

Kismet was beginning to feel like Alice, waking up in someone else’s dream. He forced himself to sit up. “What country was that?”

The man ignored his question, but seemed impressed at his resilience. “We thought you were dead-”

”So did I.”

“—but Sally just managed to pull you off the tracks before that train sliced you up for fish bait.”

It was the first thing he’d heard that made any kind of sense. “Tell Sally I said thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” grunted the man on the right, an imposing figure cut from the same cloth as the two men that had been shadowing Capri on the observation deck.

Comprehension washed over Kismet like the waves of a rising tide. “Okay, that was almost an introduction. What should I call you? Godfather?”

The two men on his flank bristled warily, but their leader raised a hand. “That’s not necessary. I am Giovanni Turino; most of my friends just call me Joe.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not real keen on getting into your social network Giovanni.” If Turino was rankled by his answer he gave no indication, but Sal and the other bodyguard seemed to turn purple in the low light. He ignored their ire and continued. “And while I appreciate you guys pulling my bacon out of the fire back there, something tells me your appearance on the scene wasn’t a coincidence.”

“You’re very astute, Mr. Kismet. Capri is my granddaughter.”

“Ah, well that almost explains everything.” He already suspected as much, based on the girl’s earlier reference. No doubt the mob boss had the resources to check up on all of his granddaughter’s social engagements. But as soon as he allowed that thought to sink in, a new can of worms was opened. He thought about the dark monk with the Satanic cross: Was that real? And what does any of this have to do with Prometheus? “So is this some kind of turf war?”

A corner of Turino’s mouth twitched, but rather than answer, he turned to Sal. “Get our guest something to drink. Something for the pain, eh?”

Sal twisted in his seat and opened the cabinet doors to reveal a well-stocked bar. “What’s your pleasure?”

Kismet almost demurred then reconsidered when he spied a sixteen-year-old single malt. Eager to show his independence, he took hold of the bottle and decanted a double portion for himself. There was a bucket of ice in the bar, but he took it neat and drained the glass in a long gulp.

Sal passed his employer a tumbler with equal parts of the amber liquor and water. Turino took a sip and smiled approvingly. “A good choice, but if you’re going to swill it down like that, you might want to stick with vodka. Less chance of a hangover.”

Kismet spent a moment enjoying the warm glow that spread from his chest to his extremities, before replying. “Thanks for the tip. Now, unless you’re going to tell me what’s going on, I’d appreciate if you could just drop me…” He glanced out the window, but saw nothing familiar in the endless urban landscape. “Just let me out at the next light.”

Turino regarded him through eyes that had narrowed into defensive slits. “You asked if this was a turf war; that’s exactly what it is, Mr. Kismet. And they’ve dragged my granddaughter into it.”

“You have my sympathy but, forgive me for saying this, I thought that sort of stuff went with the territory.”

“I don’t expect you to approve of, or even understand, my life,” Turino rumbled. “But Capri is an innocent.”

“Let me guess. She thinks you’re a successful…what, plumber? Building contractor? And you no doubt play the part of doting grandfather.”

“Capri has no illusions about me, Mr. Kismet. But she has earned the right to judge; her parents…my beloved daughter, God rest her soul, and her husband were killed when she was just a girl. She wanted nothing to do with the family business, and I made sure she didn’t have to.”

Kismet poured himself another scotch whisky. Despite his ambivalent facade, he was curious about Capri’s background, and eager for clues that might expose the identity of the men that had kidnapped her. “You got her a cushy job writing for that rag, the Clarion?”

“She got the job on her own merits. In fact, she is a much better journalist than they deserve. I’m afraid the editors at the Times were as quick to judge as you are.”

“Okay, so she’s innocent. I did everything I could to save her-”

”For which I am grateful.” The capo leaned forward. “You may not like what I am, but be sure of this: my gratitude means something.”

Kismet nodded. “Fine, but why am I still here?”

Turino started to answer, then sat back and took a long pull on the cigar. He closed his eyes as he exhaled. “He almost killed you, didn’t he.”

“What?”

“Negron, the dark priest. He was there, right?”

“There wasn’t exactly a formal introduction.” Kismet winced at the memory and his hands unconsciously went to his throat. “Negron, huh? He seemed a little theatrical for an up and coming mob boss.”

“He’s much more than that. Negron is no ordinary priest.”

“I kind of picked up on that. Let me guess: he worships the Devil?”

The bodyguards shifted nervously and Sal crossed himself. Turino squinted again. “Are you familiar with the Vatican archives?”

“I understand they have an unparalleled collection of erotica,” Kismet said with a straight face.

Turino barked a short, humorless laugh. “For centuries, the Vatican has hoarded the world’s largest collection of art, historical documents, religious artifacts and so on. For the most part, the catalog has remained a closely guarded secret, even to those within the Church. But back in the late 1800's the Pope decided to open the archive to examination by scholars and members of the clergy. One of those scholars was a Benedictine monk visiting from Bogotá who was researching the Holy Relics of the Crucifixion. His name was Brother Emilio Negron.”

Kismet bit back a skeptical reply. He remained curious as to the connection the Mafia Don would make between the Vatican archives and the kidnapping of his granddaughter, but more than that, the mention of the capital city of the Republic of Colombia had struck a chord; the kidnappers uniform racial characteristics could be indicative of a common Latin American background. Turino seemed to be waiting for a response, so Kismet nodded. “Go on.”

“You are familiar with the relics of Christ? You deal with that sort of thing, right?”

“Splinters from the True Cross; the nails that pierced Jesus’ hands and feet; burial shrouds.” He shook his head. “Among other things, my office deals with historic art treasures from ancient civilizations. Religious artifacts typically have a dubious pedigree, and if you’ll pardon my candor, they’re a dime a dozen.”

There was a noncommittal grunt. “Brother Emilio found several of the items you’ve mentioned. But there was something else buried deep within the repository; something that was never meant to be revealed. Negron called it ‘the Judas Rope.’”

“According to the Bible, Judas Iscariot committed suicide after betraying Jesus. The Gospel of Matthew says he hanged himself.” Kismet flashed back to the dark cord that had been tied like a sash around the monk’s cassock. “Somebody kept the rope?”

“There is no official record to support that; only Negron’s supposition.”

Kismet folded his arms. “On the other hand, the book of Acts records that Judas jumped off a cliff and splattered himself all over the rocks. No rope. It’s one of many contradictions in scripture.”

“I’m not here to debate apologetics,” snapped Turino. It was the first time he had shown the slightest bit of irritation. “Whether or not you believe in these relics, or even in the teachings of the Church, this man Negron does believe.”

Kismet was unbowed. “Fine. He was a true believer. Now tell me how he ends up working for the guy downstairs.”

“Judas was seduced by avarice, one of the seven deadly sins. He was stealing from the poor box, and when he decided to betray the Christ, it was for money. But after the crucifixion, he felt remorse. He was so distraught he decided to take his own life. He tried to hang himself, but the rope broke and his body fell onto the rocks.” Turino took a deep breath. “Now, that is what the apologists say. Negron came to a different conclusion.

“When Judas betrayed the Christ with a kiss, he was damned, beyond hope of forgiveness. Even so, when he realized what he had done, he wanted to take it back. He threw the blood money into the temple, but it wasn’t enough. So he took a rope, tied it to a tree and tried to kill himself, as if his suicide — a mortal sin by itself — might balance scales and erase his eternal damnation. But the Devil knows when you try to renege on your deal. The rope broke and Judas died an accidental death. He was denied absolution from his crime and his black soul stained the rope noose around his neck. Brother Emilio believed that rope had become an unholy relic, wholly evil. Anyone touching it would be seduced into the service of Satan. No one is sure why, but after he figured all this out, Negron took the rope and vanished. He was subsequently excommunicated and sentenced to death in absentia by the Inquisition.”

“And he’s still alive over a century later?”

“I guess Lucifer actually kept his end of the bargain. As long as the servant remains faithful to his master, he is blessed with unending life.”

“Longevity doesn’t seem to agree with Brother Emilio.” Kismet stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Did you know that the Church invented Satanism? No one was worshiping the Devil until the Holy Inquisition decided it needed a pretext for persecuting its political enemies. The Black Mass, the rites and symbols, backwards Latin…all trumped up by so-called witnesses in order to condemn people who didn’t conform to the narrow interpretation of the faith or bow to the absolute power of the Church. If Negron believed that rope made people want to worship the devil, then it was his own belief that made it happen.”

Turino gazed at him, his face unreadable.

“Let’s say I accept everything you’ve said,” continued Kismet. “How does this involve you? And Capri?”

“Greed, Mr. Kismet. The sin of Judas. It is what drives Negron, even today.” Turino stubbed out his cigar. “For over a hundred years, Negron has roamed the world looking for acolytes to join him on the dark path. In the last few years, he has returned to the nation of his birth, and embraced a new generation of followers.”

“The drug cartels.”

Turino nodded. “One by one, he has corrupted the cartel drug lords to the path of evil.”

“Not exactly a long trip,” observed Kismet.

“It is one thing to compel a man to break the laws of nations. But to make them forsake God? That is not so easily done.”

“So how did he do it?”

“With the rope. He doesn’t threaten them directly. Such a forced conversion would have no value. Instead, he threatens to kill their loved ones with the Judas Rope. If someone dies with the rope around their neck, they are eternally damned. The cartel barons were given a choice: swear allegiance to Negron, or their loved ones will burn forever. If they ever break their oath, the curse is binding. Once he ruled the cartels, Negron had an army at his disposal, and like any victorious king, set his sights on a bigger prize: the American syndicates.”

Kismet found this even less credible than the notion of a devil-worshiping immortal priest. “So criminals and murderers are worried about their eternal souls?”

“We care about our families, Mr. Kismet.” Turino’s voice had become as taut as a garrote. “I won’t waste my breath trying to explain our code to you, our sense of honor, but ours is a tradition that goes back hundreds of years. The Colombians may be animals, savage and vicious, but they still protect the ones they love. And we share something else: faith.

“You call us criminals, murderers…you have no idea. We have always walked a fine line between belief and damnation. Threaten my eternal soul…” He made a dismissive gesture. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe. Now, you make that threat against my beloved granddaughter and you’ll get my attention. Give me the choice between my own soul and hers, that’s easy.”

Kismet kept his expression hard. “Do you believe Negron has this power?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. He has her, and if I don’t do what he says, he’ll kill her.”

Then the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “You want me to rescue her.”

A guilty look softened the Mafioso’s countenance. “Negron is holding Capri at a house in Montauk. If I’m not standing in front of him by midnight, to swear on the Judas Rope to serve him and his master, he’ll kill her. That’s three hours from now, Mr. Kismet. My men told me what happened at the Empire State Building. And I saw you fight Negron with my own eyes. If anyone can help her, it’s you.”

Kismet looked away, gazing through the tinted windows at the streetlights and storefronts as they passed by. He realized with a start that the chauffeur had navigated through city streets to the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood where Kismet lived. The Don was giving him a choice. He turned his gaze back to Turino. “I’ll need to get a few things first.”

Kismet did not linger to watch the limousine continue down the wooded drive; his attention was already fixed on the task at hand, namely navigating through the dark pine forest at a brisk walk. After a few minutes, his eyes adjusted to the near total absence of light and he was able to increase his pace to a jog. At first, the muscle aches from injuries incurred earlier in the night were almost debilitating, but as he moved, exercising the stiffness from his limbs, the pain became more tolerable; the Motrin tablets he had downed probably helped too.

During the two-hour ride across Long Island, he had struggled to devise a strategy for rescuing Capri. Fortunately, the property currently being used by Negron and his minions was listed with a real estate broker, and floor plans and a full map of the estate were available on a realtor’s market listing service. It was a marginal piece of intelligence but Kismet knew he was going to need every advantage to survive the night.

The forty room mansion was situated above the Atlantic Ocean and separated from the main road by several hundred acres of woodland, through which ran an elaborate maze of horse trails. There were several satellite buildings, including a stable, an enormous garage with a coach house, and a full-fledged guesthouse, but Kismet felt certain Capri would be kept in the main residence, probably in one of the bedrooms that overlooked the surf. He had outlined his plan to Turino during the ride, and the capo had given a guarded blessing.

“I won’t be able to help you. I’m going to have to go in there like he’s beaten me, ‘cause if you fail, I’ll have no choice but to do what he wants.” Turino had grabbed his forearm meaningfully. “Don’t fail. Once you’re clear, call my cell phone; it’s set to vibrate, so no one will hear. When you give the signal, I’ll pull out. If necessary, I’ll come out shooting. And there’ll be two cars of my guys waiting just outside the gate. They have phones programmed for the same number, so they’ll move as soon as you make the call.”

Now, as he reached the edge of the woods, Kismet could see Turinos’s car as it rolled to a halt in front of the marble stairs leading up into the main house. Several men wearing casual clothes and openly displaying assault weapons surrounded the vehicle. Turino was ushered up the steps, while his bodyguards remained where they were. Kismet frowned, but this development was not entirely unexpected.

He skirted along the edge of the woods toward the east end of the house. His quick surveillance led him to believe that Negron’s men were not vigorously patrolling the grounds; they probably didn’t have the manpower, and confident in their leader's omnipotence, must have reckoned themselves secure enough with guards at the main gate and the front door. If he was wrong, and Negron’s men had state of the art video monitors and motion sensors, then he would find out very soon. He eased from the woods and moved smoothly across the open expanse between the forest and the house. Once safely behind the screen of topiary that ringed the perimeter, he hastened to the rear of the house, perched high above the roaring ocean. There was not a soul to be seen.

“So far, so good.”

The mansion had been designed to resemble a medieval castle, but the stonework on its mock battlements had sacrificed security for aesthetic appeal. The craggy surface presented no obstacle to Kismet as he climbed up to the level of the second floor balcony. Several sets of French doors opened onto the long terrace, but without exception, the glass panes were dark; no lights were visible in the bank of apartments where he expected to find Capri held hostage. After a quick reconnaissance, he returned to the first door and examined the lock. There was no keyhole to operate the mechanism and the bolt was hidden behind a thin strip of wood.

Frowning, Kismet reached into the black nylon waist pack-one of the items he had secured from his residence before making the long drive to Montauk, along with a change of clothes-and produced his kukri. The large chopping knife, which could almost be described as a short sword, was the signature weapon of the Gurkhas, a British infantry regiment originally drawn from a fierce Nepalese warrior tribe of the same name. The knife was a memento of war, given to him by one of the men that had fought at his side on the night of his initial encounter with the assassins of Prometheus, but was no less practical for all its sentimental value. The boomerang shaped blade, nearly fifteen inches in length, could be used like an axe, a shovel, or in this case, a pry bar. He slid the point of the knife under the fascia strip and twisted. The wood splintered to reveal the thick lock bolt underneath. The kukri made quick work of the bolt as well, and a few moments later, the door swung silently open.

He exchanged the knife for his Glock 17 automatic pistol, then moved inside. The room beyond was empty. A thin stripe of light peeked from beneath the interior door, and Kismet dropped to a prone position in order to peek through the tiny crack. There was no movement in the corridor beyond, nor any sound of voices, but his field of view was limited to the opposite side of the hallway. After taking a deep breath, he gently turned the door handle and eased the solid wood door open a few millimeters. The hallway, like the room, was as empty as a tomb.

The complete absence of any activity gave him pause; perhaps he had erred in assuming that Capri would be held in one of the apartments. If she wasn’t there, then his plan to rescue her without raising an alarm was out the window. He crept down the corridor and crouched at the end of an ornate balustrade, which partitioned the landing above a sweeping staircase down to the main level. Voices were wafting up from below and he strained to comprehend what was being said.

Turino’s baritone thundered above the others. His stentorian volume was intentional; it was his way of keeping Kismet abreast of developments. The mafia leader was presently stalling by making outrageous demands of his Colombian hosts. The thin voices of the men giving answers suggested that the dark monk was not present; there was still a chance to pull this off.

“I’m through with your games,” Turino roared. “If my granddaughter isn’t standing in front of me in two minutes, I’m walking out of here.”

Kismet’s frown deepened. He could just make out two of the Colombian’s conversing in Spanish. “Bring the girl out to the top of the stairs.”

Kismet scrambled back from the banister. So Capri was upstairs. But now he had about ninety seconds in which to find her and escape, at which point the alarm would be sounded. He swore under his breath and glanced at the uniform doors that lined the hallway. Reasoning that her kidnappers were too lazy to drag her unconscious form any farther than they had to, he crept to the door closest to the landing. There was a deadbolt lock on the door, but when he tried the lever the latch yielded and he hastened into the darkened room. In the instant before he closed the door, ambient light from without illuminated a motionless form, bound and gagged, resting against a wall. He had found her, but how long before the Colombians found him? He needed a diversion, something-anything-to distract the man presently ascending the steps.

Then it hit him. He dug out the cell phone, and without a second thought, punched the send button.

In the instant in which Turino abruptly announced that he was done waiting and turned toward the door, two Lincoln Continentals filled with heavily armed men, each fiercely loyal to the Family, burst through the wrought iron main gate in a shower of sparks and an explosion of gunfire. Although the Colombians in the gatehouse were armed with semi-automatic assault rifles and machine pistols, the Mafiosi had the element of surprise on their side. The gate guards went down under a hail of .38 and .44 caliber rounds without getting off a shot or making any kind of call for help.

Nevertheless, the thunder of gunfire echoed across the estate, raising the alarm as effectively as a klaxon. Negron’s men, wherever they were on the property, came instantly alert and brought their weapons to the ready, looking for someone to kill. On the steps inside the house, the man coming up to retrieve Capri paused and looked back to his immediate superior for further guidance. In those few indecisive seconds, Turino reached the front door, where he drew a snub-nosed .38 revolver from an ankle holster and broke into a run. The Colombians managed to throw off their confused hesitancy and rushed to stop him, but the moment they crossed the threshold, Turino’s limousine skidded to a halt in front of the steps, and the mobster’s confederates emerged with weapons cocked and locked. The war had begun.

Kismet sliced Capri’s bonds and removed the gag before trying to rouse her. He had no way of knowing if his premature signal to Turino had accomplished the sole purpose of distracting the man coming up the stairs, but there was no mistaking the sound of gunshots, both in the distance and nearby. As he shook the unconscious girl’s shoulder with his left hand, the Glock was fixed in his right.

She came awake in a narcotic stupor, alternately drowsy, shivering and nauseous. Her lethargy left Kismet feeling frustrated and helpless. “Capri, honey, wake up. We’re in trouble here.”

“Who…?”

“It’s Nick. You’ve got to pull it together, Capri. I need you back on your feet.”

Her reply was still groggy. “Nick… Kismet? I was… what happened?”

“Long story. The short version is that you were kidnapped and I’m here to rescue you.” He clenched his teeth to dam his rising ire. “Can you stand?”

He could feel her shaking in his grasp, but she answered in the affirmative. He guided her to the balcony doors and pushed through out into the night. The noise of gunfire was muted on the oceanward side of the house. Kismet approached the parapet cautiously, but there was no activity below. “I’m going to lower you down, okay?”

She nodded dumbly. Evidently the soporific in her bloodstream had left her numb to fear and anxiety. He lifted her onto the banister rail then grasped her forearms. At the last instant, she jerked like a live wire in his hands and slipped free, but Kismet has already lowered her to where she was only a couple feet above the manicured lawn and the springy grass gently received her without so much as a stumble. Kismet landed beside her then immediately caught her hand and steered her toward the woods. They had almost reached the dense forest when a new noise cut through the night: dogs.

Kismet snapped a quick glance over his shoulder. Four sinewy shapes bolted from the front of the house, emitting sharp barks and low growls as they ran. Their lean silhouettes and dark coats marked them as Dobermans, a fierce but loyal German breed and cousin to the beefier, but similarly colored Rottweiler. Dobermans were often used by police and security forces as patrol dogs, and as such were trained to attack. Yet it was not the dogs Kismet was most worried about, but rather their human handlers, who were no doubt closely observing where the canines were going. He debated making a stand, shooting the dogs as they charged, but thought better of it; he’d probably miss, and the shots would just draw more attention to their presence. But one thing was certain: if they went into the forest, the dogs would run them down.

“Change of plans!” He turned so abruptly that Capri, still clinging to his left hand, was whipped violently onto the new course. They now moved parallel to the wooded area, toward a cluster of small structures. Kismet racked his brain to remember which was the one he wanted. Meanwhile, the dog pack was closing. He decided the closest one was good enough.

As with the main residence, faux medieval was the dominant theme for the satellite buildings. A heavy door of vertical planks, studded with wrought iron strap hinges, secured the structure to which they now hastened. Kismet counted down his steps and when he reached zero, launched himself feet first at the door. The solid oak bounced him back without yielding a millimeter. He rebounded, landing on his feet, and whirled, with the Glock in one hand and his kukri in the other, to face the inevitable onslaught.

“Nick!” Capri screamed.

He ignored her. With four ferocious slavering beasts about to rip into them, the last thing he needed was to have to keep the nearly catatonic journalist apprised of every little development.

“Nick, it’s open!”

The words sank in with agonizing slowness, and his mute disbelief would have proved fatal if Capri had not grasped his elbow and yanked him through the open portal. He recovered his senses enough to slam the door shut and throw the heavy slide bolt. He could hear the Dobermans scratching at the planks.

“It wasn’t locked,” she explained in a more subdued voice.

He shook his head in amazement. “Looks like I owe you one.”

She offered a wry smile. Her eyes were still slightly glazed, but she seemed otherwise lucid. “I think it’s more like this evens the score, but if you want, you can buy me a drink later and explain just what the hell is going on. Just tell me one thing: is it Prometheus?”

“Nothing so mundane. This one is the devil you know.” As he led her away from the door, he quickly related everything he had learned from Turino. The first time he mentioned her grandfather, he sensed embarrassment but he did not give her an opportunity to posture herself as an unwilling member of the crime family, and when the tale turned to satanic monks and unholy relics, her discomfort was forgotten.

“Do you believe any of this?”

“I believe there are some pretty ruthless bad guys who don’t want to let us leave. And the guy leading them is…” He trailed off as they pushed through an interior door to reveal a vast garage, housing several recreational vehicles. In between a twenty-foot ski boat and a brace of Bombardier four wheeled all-terrain vehicles, was a Honda XR650R Enduro motorcycle. The Enduro was a street legal bike designed for off road use, which in simple terms meant that in addition to its heavy-duty suspension and knobby tires, it was equipped with head and tail lights. “I think we just got lucky.”

He had no sooner uttered the words than the harsh crack of gunfire broke the relative stillness inside the garage. Someone was shooting through the door. Capri grimaced at the sound. “You were saying?”