Hellhole Read online

  Mercer let out a ragged sigh that was nearly orgasmic. Then he turned and walked quickly over to the car, approaching from what he determined was the blind side, and circled around to the driver’s side, effectively positioning the car between him and the corpse, drawing attention his way. He reached beneath his coat for the second weapon he’d brought with him. It was a small automatic, a Glock 42, with six rounds single-stacked into the magazine. As soon as the driver began rolling down the window, Mercer emptied the magazine into the man’s face. It was very loud and very messy, and the body flopped back with very little of the head left intact.

  “I love you for this,” Mercer told him. He dropped the pistol, went over to the briefcase and removed the book, giving it a loving kiss and a covetous lick before walking over to the pit.

  No one was left to see him step over the edge and drop into the mouth of hell.

  2

  Over Turkish Airspace

  I AM NOT a very nice guy. That’s not my job. They don’t call me when they want to make people happy.

  Same goes for the two guys sharing the ride with me—First Sergeant Bradley “Top” Sims and Master Sergeant Harvey “Bunny” Rabbit. Like me, they were ex-US military. Like me they didn’t work for anyone in the US of A anymore. Like me they weren’t all that nice.

  We’re good guys, but “nice” isn’t a job requirement. For what we do. All three of us were big men, though Bunny abused that privilege and towered over us at six and a half feet. Top was an even six and I was six-two. Bunny could bench press both of us and have some room for one or both of the Dakotas. Big moose of a kid from Orange County. Sandy blond hair, blue eyes, a surfer’s lazy smile and a good heart, unless you got between him and his mission objective.

  Top was the old man of the team, clocking in somewhere north of forty and lying about it. He wasn’t slowing down much that I could see, and the only evidence of all those hard years was the network of scar tissue—old and new—patterned across his dark brown skin.

  My girlfriend likes to tell people I look like the guy who played Captain America in the Marvel movies. I don’t. He looks like a pretty nice guy and I seriously doubt he’s ever drawn blood with bullets, blades or hands. I have. Sure, I’m a blond-haired, blue-eyed all-American boy from Baltimore, but when people look me in the eye their gaze tends to shift away. The ones who don’t are either bad guys making poor life choices, or fellow soldiers who have walked through the valley of the shadow.

  We were on my private jet crossing Turkish airspace on the way to Turkmenistan. I’ve been all over the world—all three of us have, separately and together—but none of us had been there. And we didn’t know why we were going there.

  There was a soft bing-bong and the pilot’s voice said, “Captain Ledger, the big man is on line.”

  Bunny reached over to the high-def screen mounted on the wall. The cabin was sound-proofed and we all had cold beers.

  A face filled the screen. Church is a big, blocky man with dark hair going gray. He wears tinted glasses because he prefers not to have people read him—and eyes are a common “tell.” His suits are more expensive than my car and he wears black silk gloves to hide severe frostbite damage from a previous case.

  Once upon a time Church was some kind of high-level field operator. A shooter and a spy. I don’t know all the details, but from what I’ve been able to piece together he was a true and legendary badass. He scares the people who scare me. So, even guys like us sit like school boys and pay attention.

  “Gentlemen,” Church said, “are you familiar with this?”

  The screen split so that a new image appeared, showing a large, round hole clearly blazing with fire.

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s a bathroom selfie of me after Rudy made that chili with ghost peppers.”

  A beat. Church said nothing. The weight of his disapproval was crushing. Bunny stifled a grin and Top gave me a slow, sad shake of his head. I am nominally the boss, but Top’s usually the adult in any given room.

  “No,” I said contritely, “I don’t know what it is. Other than a burning hole, what is it?”

  “It’s called the Gates of Hell.”

  “Sounds right,” said Bunny.

  “It’s also known as the ‘Door to Hell’,” said Church. “The official name is the Darvaza gas crater. It’s located near the village of Derweze in the Karakum Desert of Turkmenistan, roughly two hundred and sixty kilometers north of the capital city of Ashgabat. This pit is what’s left of a natural gas field that collapsed into an underground cavern. The collapse released clouds of methane. The team of geologists apparently believed that the methane could easily be burned off, and so they ignited it in hopes of reclaiming the natural gas deposit. That was one of a number of strikingly ill-considered decisions and the pit has been burning continuously since 1971. It shows no sign of burning out anytime soon.”

  “Well now, that’s a level of stupid all its own, isn’t it?” said Top sourly.

  “It creates a challenge to sympathy,” admitted Church.

  “All that said, why am I looking at...this? What do you want me to do with a giant fire pit? Shoot it? Try and piss in it to put it out?”

  Church reached out of shot and returned with a cookie. He always had a tray of cookies, mostly vanilla wafers. Once in a while he’ll add some Oreos or, if he’s in a particularly jocular mood, animal crackers. He bit a piece of the wafer, chewed it, studied me. Then he picked up his narrative without actually answering my question. “The site draws a fair number of tourists each year and has become something of a bucket-list item for world travelers.”

  “It’s not on my bucket list,” Bunny said.

  I nodded. “And you still haven’t told me why we’re going there.”

  “Three days ago, a key American diplomat, James Mercer, went missing at the site,” said Church. “He is ostensibly the senior aide to the ambassador but is actually with the Agency. His brief is to track illegal shipments of technology and other items passing though that region.”

  Top held up a hand. “Don’t mean to be contrary, but are we working missing persons cases now? Can’t the CIA mind its own missing sheep?”

  “The situation is much more complicated than that, First Sergeant,” said Church. “Two bodies were discovered yesterday at the rim of the crater.” He explained about the murders of a local guide and the diplomat’s driver. “The embassy’s security team was able to take ownership of the scene thanks to a little Agency bullying. They did a quick forensics workup on the knife used to stab the guide and the handgun used on the driver. Both had clear fingerprints, and both sets match those of James Mercer. And Mercer’s blood was all over the handles of each weapon, so it’s clear he was injured as well. There is no sign of a struggle in either case. Just clean kills.”

  “Um...” began Bunny, then shook his head. “Nope, got nothing.”

  “Have local police been involved in a search?” asked Top.

  “Yes. And the military police—theirs and ours. Bug and his computer team have done deep searches on Mercer. None of his credit cards have been used and facial recognition hasn’t picked him up on airport cameras. There are no traffic cams in Turkmenistan, and very few CCTV cams, so Bug is limited there. It seems clear, though, that Mercer has either gone to ground somewhere or—”

  “Or maybe jumped into the fire pit?” Bunny suggested, and Church nodded.

  “If he’s toast,” I said, “they don’t need us there. So, you’re thinking he’s in a bolt hole or safe house somewhere?”

  “We have to accept that as a possibility.”

  “Does the Agency think their man’s been turned?” I asked.

  “Unknown. I’ve pulled some strings to have the case taken away from them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of this.” A new image flashed onto the screen. It was of a large page that had been torn from a book. There was one ragged edge and a slit in the middle. Blood mostly obscured the page, thickest near the slit
. Church explained that the page had been pinned to the dead guide’s chest with the knife.

  We all leaned forward to study the page. I’m really good with languages, but it looked like chicken scratches.

  “What language is that?” asked Bunny. “It’s all Greek to me.”

  “It’s not Greek, Farm Boy,” said Top.

  “I know that. It’s just an expression.”

  “The language is part of the reason I asked for this case,” said Church quietly. “It is an extremely rare subdialect of Sumerian. An attempt by later writers to modify cuneiform.”

  “Really,” said Bunny again, “I got nothing.”

  “The page is believed to have come from this book,” said Church, and another image filled the screen. A very large book lay in a niche in a stone wall, its covers secured with heavy chains and ancient padlocks that looked to have been welded permanently shut. “The book was part of a private collection overseen by Islamic and Eastern Orthodox clerics. A very special kind of shared conservancy, and it’s a stewardship that dates back centuries.”

  I felt my heart go cold and sink to a lower and darker place in my chest. Top and Bunny came to point like hunting dogs, but not happy ones.

  I said, “You’re going to tell me that this is one of those books, aren’t you?”

  Church did not smile. He didn’t actually move.

  “The Unlearnable Truths,” whispered Top in a hollow voice. “Fuck me...”

  We logged a lot of silent miles before any of us spoke. The Unlearnable Truths was like a hex to us. They were books belonging to a very specific list of works that have been deemed “dangerous.” There was a larger list, the Index Librorum Prohibitorum, also known as the Pauline Index, named for Pope Paul IV back in 1559. Most of the titles on the Index were merely heretical or viewed as contrary to the politics and agenda of the Catholic Church. However, there was a second, shorter list that was never shared with the public. Word leaked out, of course, but secrets are like that. This second list became known as the Unlearnable Truths. Many of the titles on that list were individually known to the public, but once leaked there was a pretty effective campaign by church spin doctors to make people think they were entirely fictional. Books like the Necronomicon, which is widely believed to have been created by the pulp fiction writer H.P. Lovecraft, and is part of 20th century horror fiction history. Except it wasn’t. That book, and many others, are real.

  Now, whether these books are literally dangerous was an open question for a while. They’re supposed to be books of magic. Yup, actual black magic. Couple of years ago I’d have laughed at anyone who said that magic was a real thing. Not so much anymore, though I don’t believe much in the supernatural. What’s changed is that I’ve come to believe that a lot of what people called magic is actually some aspects of a science we haven’t really begun to understand. My lover, Junie, calls it the ‘larger world.’ I call it Freaksville.

  When we went up against a group using the Unlearnable Truths, very bad things happened. People I cared about died. And some stuff happened that hurt all of us. Top, Bunny, and me. Hurt us bad. Nearly destroyed us, leaving scars on body and soul and mind.

  “I’ve called in an expert to advise,” said Church, bringing me back to the moment. “Dr. Elizabeth Corbett, formerly of the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale.”

  “Corbett? I’ve heard that name,” I said. “Wasn’t she the one that found the Templar treasure a couple of years ago?”

  “A large part of the treasure, yes,” said Church. “She’s a rare book scholar of some note and an expert on ancient languages. She was in Syria working with a team to acquire and preserve artifacts targeted by ISIL. She’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “Does she know about the Unlearnable Truths?” asked Top.

  Church sliced off a thin sliver of a smile. “Yes,” he said, and disconnected the call.

  3

  Ashgabat International Airport, Near Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

  SHE WAS STANDING there at the bottom of the stair-car as we deplaned. Thirty-something, bookish, medium height, with lots of frizzy ash-blond hair that framed a pretty face. Big glasses, bright blue eyes and firm chin. If you didn’t look closely, and if you were the kind of lout prone to sexist and belittling assumptions, you might call her a nerd girl. And she probably was nerdish, but so what? So was Junie. So, in fact, was I at times. But as she stepped forward to offer her hand, I saw past the scholarly disguise of ubiquitous khakis, button shirt and many-pocketed vest, Hogwarts wristwatch, and New Age jewelry, and saw deep intellect in those eyes. It radiated like heat. Not just knowledge but the promise of wit and insight.

  And Church trusted her, so that spoke volumes.

  “Captain Ledg—” she began but cut herself off and flushed. In a whisper she asked, “Sorry, should I use some kind of code name?”

  I grinned and shook her hand, which was thin and strong. “I don’t think this is a combat callsign kind of gig. Joe Ledger, pleased to meet you.”

  “Lizzie Corbett,” she said, giving me a final pump before letting go.

  I introduced Top and Bunny, and she gave Top a longer and more lingering appraisal than she did Bunny. He has that effect on some people. He’s no Idris Elba, but he’s not a cave troll, either. The women who take particular notice of him tend to be more educated and more complex than the surfer gals who drool over Bunny. I noticed that Top dialed up the wattage on his smile. Not a lot, but it was there.

  “I have a car,” she said. “We can go directly to the site.” She glanced past me to where the flight crew were unloading several metal cases. “Luggage?”

  “Toys,” I said.

  Ten minutes later, we were driving toward the Door to Hell.

  Lizzie drove fast but not well. While the miles rolled past, she talked.

  “Mr. Church said that you guys know about the Unlearnable Truths,” she said, “so we don’t have to cover that ground. I have to ask, though...do you believe in what they are?”

  Bunny said, “We’ve seen some shit. Far as I’m concerned, I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “And a loaded gun,” added Top.

  “Hooah,” Bunny agreed.

  Lizzie studied them for a moment in the rearview mirror.

  “You have a problem with that?” asked Top.

  “Not as much as you’d think,” said Lizzie. “I’ve seen some stuff, too.”

  I smiled. “You were going to say ‘shit,’ weren’t you?”

  She gave me a small grin. “I won’t ask what you’ve seen because I assume it’s classified.”

  “That’s complicated,” I said. “It was classified while we were working for Uncle Sam. We don’t do that anymore. We’re building a new outfit. Unaffiliated and international.”

  “So I heard. Very hush hush. Very Mission: Impossible but without the politics.”

  “Close enough.”

  Cars whizzed by. Apparently fast and reckless driving was the standard here in Turkmenistan. Fun. Wish I had a bottle of Jack Daniels and a sippy straw.

  “The book,” I prodded.

  “The book,” she said, nodding. “The book itself has no actual title, though it’s informally known to certain scholars as the Book of Uttu, named for the Sumerian goddess of weaving, who is often depicted as a spider. The text on that page matches some on file.”

  “Wait,” said Bunny, leaning forward between the front seats, “I thought it was, like...bad...to even open those books. Isn’t that why those monks kept them locked up? The picture Mr. Church showed us was of that book chained up, and it didn’t look like anyone’s opened it since the tenth century.”

  “Close,” said Lizzie, jerking the wheel to avoid a goat standing in the middle of the road playing chicken with high-speed traffic. “That photo was taken four years ago, when the book was rescued from a temple overrun by ISIL. The monks were killed and many of the artifacts destroyed or sold to the black market. A Turkish black marketer named Ohan has a deal wit
h some ISIL leaders to discreetly obtain and sell certain items, with the profits going back to fund ISIL’s activities.”

  “Ohan’s not doing that shit no more,” said Top.

  She turned to glance back at him. “How can you be sure?”

  He grinned, showing a lot of teeth. “Reliable sources.”

  Lizzie thought about that, shrugged. “No great loss to humanity. He was a slimeball. Anyway, he sold the book before—whatever happened to him happened—and it went through several other hands. The photo of the book chained and sealed was taken by Ohan and used during his sales process. One of the people who had the book briefly, an Iranian, removed the chains and opened the book. He was a scholar of Sumerian and Babylonian history and had very noble intentions. He scanned the pages and put them on a scholarly site, with access only to select experts. His plan was to form an international team of language experts to decrypt and translate the text.” She paused and chewed her lip for a moment. “That’s where I came into this. One of my...friends...contacted me after translating a partial chapter. He knew that I was more comfortable with a variation of Sumerian used by Mesopotamian priests. My friend could read their entries, which were written in the margins as warnings to anyone who attempted to translate the original text.”

  “I do not like where this is going,” said Bunny.

  “No,” she agreed. “Reading the warnings in straight translation is moderately easy for an expert, but they are heavily couched in metaphor and symbology specific to their sect of the priest class. You have to get into their heads and know a lot about their culture and practices to understand the importance of the warning, which means it was written only for others of their sect to ever read.”

  “You’re taking the long way around the point, doc,” I said.