Killing Faith: The Complete Gabriel De Sade Box Set

By Eric Meyer

The complete box set of bestselling 'Faith' novels. Gabriel de Sade is a tough NYPD detective and former Special Forces operative. Teamed with FBI Special Agent Faith Ward, their methods are always unconventional, often brutal, at times mystical.

When dismembered bodies start to appear in New York City, the search for a serial killer begins. Leading the hunt is Gabriel de Sade, a tough Manhattan detective. What should be a straightforward murder investigation escalates when yet more dismembered bodies are found. A very sick, psychotic murderer is loose on the streets of the city. Yet the case is to become more complicated than he could imagine. The nightmare is just beginning for de Sade, a Delta Force veteran of Afghanistan.

The FBI are also hunting for the serial killer and their evidence points to a Russian Mafiya baron, Grigory Gordieva. The pursuit leads Gabriel to Moscow with an FBI partner, Special Agent Faith Ward. They find themselves pitted against political interference from both American and Russian governments. Yet when they ask for help from the Moscow Militia de Sade finds them both corrupt and on the Mafiya payroll.

Their only assistance comes from an unexpected quarter, a Russian Orthodox Bishop. With his help, de Sade reaches the heart of the Gordieva’s Mafiya operations. The Russian retaliates by kidnapping Faith Ward. With only a discredited Militia detective to help him, he takes on the Moscow Mafiya. De Sade adapts his Delta Force tactics to wage a secret war on the Moscow streets. The action builds to a climax that is shattering and extraordinary.

This stunning box set includes all four books in the unique and highly original 'Faith' series. They include:

Killing Faith - Book 1
Loss of Faith - Book 2
Death of Faith - Book 3
Tomb of Faith - Book 4

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Feb 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370024179

Eric Meyer

Eric A. Meyer started working on the web in late 1993. Since then, he's been a college webmaster, one of the original CSS Samurai, a standards evangelist at Netscape, the author of many books and online resources, an occasional code artist, the technical lead at Rebecca's Gift, and a cofounder of An Event Apart. He lives with his family in Cleveland.

Book preview

KILLING FAITH

By Eric Meyer

PUBLISHED BY:

Swordworks Books

Killing Faith

Copyright © 2011 by Eric Meyer

CHAPTER ONE

'We cannot resist the fascination of sacrifice, since a passion for sacrifices is part of a chess player's nature.'

Rudolf Spielman

Jennifer Collins caught sight of herself in the store window. She didn’t look too bad, she considered. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and slim, she sure didn’t look like the hookers she’d seen giving her vicious glances, as if she was invading their territory. For a girl from Topeka, Kansas to make it all the way to Manhattan, that was way cool. Even if she did have to break some of the promises she’d made to Mom and Pa. Like being careful about which men she dated. It wasn’t easy making ends meet. The Big Apple was expensive, and her salary as a clerk for a housing charity on Second Street didn’t stretch far enough, not by a long way. Her apartment share, Wanda, had introduced her to these dates, kind of dates, anyway. No, she knew she was fooling herself, and that she was doing it for money. Just because she didn’t stand on a street corner in a micro skirt and six inch heels didn’t make it any different. Wanda’s friend, Miguel, was a New York cab driver, and people knew he was ‘the man’ when it came to finding a girl for the night. They had to give him a percentage, of course, but that was fair enough. He wasn’t a pimp, absolutely not. Miguel was just a middleman, like an agent for actors and actresses. He’d phoned her earlier and told her to meet this guy for a drink in the Village. Was it okay to go back to her apartment afterwards? Sure, Wanda said she’d be out tonight anyway, staying with her boyfriend Eddie at his apartment in the Bronx. Tonight’s fee was great, too, double what she usually got. She could treat herself to some new shoes tomorrow.

Jennifer?

She turned around, startled. She hadn’t heard anyone approaching. Her first feeling was relief. Some of these guys, well, they weren’t every girl’s dreamboat. But this one, he looked good. He had pale blonde hair, baby-blue eyes, and sported a neat blonde mustache. He sure was a looker, probably in his late thirties. He wouldn’t have had any trouble getting dates. He looked wealthy, too, and his clothes had that high-end look to them. This was a guy who had it all. He was probably married, yeah, that explained it. The good ones always were. These guys liked the excitement, the risk, and the thrill of something different from the same face they saw everyday when they got home.

Yes, I’m Jennifer.

He took her by the arm. It was kind of old-fashioned the way he did it. She liked it.

Shall we go for a drink first? I know a rather nice bar.

That’s fine.

His accent was weird, and he sounded as if he was Russian.

My name’s Greg, by the way. Tell me about yourself, Jennifer. Are you religious at all?

That was an odd question. Maybe he was one of these born-again types or even a minister. She giggled to herself. Those TV evangelists often seemed to wind up doing the mattress tango, even the ones who got up on the God Channel shouting about obeying the Ten Commandments, repent and you’ll be saved. Yeah, right. She didn’t want to be saved. She wanted a new pair of Jimmy Choos. The bar he took her to was expensive, dark and richly furnished. They took a discreet booth at the back, and he spent time listening to her. He seemed genuinely interested and wanted to know all about his ‘date’. That was fine by her. She was happy to chat with this decent looking guy. He made her feel important, wanted, real good. They downed two drinks, and he walked her back to her apartment on Bleecker Street.

Don’t look at the mess, she smiled, I share it with my girlfriend, and she hasn’t learned to put things away yet.

She’s not here at present?

No, she’s gone for the night, and she won’t be back until breakfast. She's staying with her boyfriend.

That’s nice.

Would you like a drink, Greg? I’ve got cold beer.

Thank you.

She brought two cans of beer. He’d sat down on the couch, so she sat next to him. He sipped his beer, then put it down, and placed his arm around her neck, pulling her near him. She turned her head to kiss him. The kiss was firm, very passionate, and she could already feel the heat inside him. He was very aroused.

Shall we go through to the bedroom? she asked him.

Yes.

She lay on her back, spread-eagled on the bed. He knelt over her, and then put his hands around her neck. She closed her eyes, ready for him to lean down and kiss her again. But he didn’t, and the pressure on her neck started to increase. Jesus, it hurt.

Would you ease up? You’re hurting my neck.

I know, he replied.

Her eyes flew open. The pleasant, good-looking guy had gone, and what stared down at her was the face of a monster. The eyes gleamed, and the pupils looked like red-hot coals. His face was stretched, white, as if he was in the throes of some kind of religious ecstasy, half pleasure and half pain. He removed one of his hands, but he was still strong enough to hold her and squeeze. His free hand appeared with a knife, and it looked razor sharp. Oh God, no, not this. Oh please, no, Mom, someone, help me!

Help! she screamed, a long, desperate cry, but it was strangled by her lack of oxygen. She began to see stars in her eyes, and everything was going black. She was only half conscious when she felt herself being carried into the bathroom.

When she opened her eyes again, she was lying in the bathtub. She felt dazed, weak, and her neck hurt, too. Christ, he’d cut her, and she was bleeding badly. The blood loss made her so weak that when he started to cut off her right arm, she had little strength left to fight with. Jennifer lapsed into merciful oblivion just as she saw her arm completely removed. She didn’t see him cut off the left one. By the time he started cutting the legs, she was dead from a massive heart attack, brought on by the extraordinary trauma and blood loss. The guy, named Greg, carried the severed limbs through to her bedroom and started on his next grisly task, the most important. Jennifer had to be displayed properly, so that it was clear for all eternity why she had been killed and dismembered. He arranged the limbs on the bed cover. When he was satisfied, he went back to the bathroom. The blood had drained away. He laid the torso on the floor and started on the last part of the ritual. He bent down to cut the mark into her breast. She was his, the anointed victim to his special desires. Greg knew that no one would understand why he did it, but he didn’t care. He was powerful, wealthy, and influential. It was enough for him that he enjoyed doing it. It filled a need, which made it reason enough. He checked his clothes and noticed his shirt was bloodstained. That was no problem. He always made certain the clothes he wore for these ‘occasions’ were consigned to the furnace as soon as he got back to his house. He went around the apartment and cleaned away any traces of fingerprints. He’d been careful to only put his hands in a few places. It was a simple system, so afterwards he knew exactly what and where he needed to wipe clean. He let himself out of the apartment and walked along the street, looking for his driver. He felt as if he was floating on air, as he always did. Nobody could ever know that special experience. It was like taking a powerful drug, but a thousand times better.

* * *

He knew he was going to be murdered. The Russian was too good for him. Veteran of a thousand battles, the man had a reputation for being ruthless. De Sade knew he would get no second chances. He had to take a gamble. It was the only way, and a huge gamble that could finish him. But what else could he do? He was as good as dead anyway, and no one was coming to help him, to bail him out of this situation. This wasn’t Afghanistan where you were part of an elite Delta Team, probing behind enemy lines, pursuing your target, and then destroying it. Where a mistake could put your life on the line, unless your Team arrived in time to save your ass. They always had, otherwise he wouldn’t be here now. The Taliban didn’t take too many prisoners. Three times he’d been helped out of situations when he’d been trapped in bandit country, pinned down under heavy fire. They’d come in hard and fast, two teams, his Team Bravo together with Team Charlie. He remembered the last time, and the terrorists had managed to get within fifty yards of his position. He was sheltering in some rocks a few klicks outside of Jalalabad. Returning from a mission, he’d taken a bullet in the leg that forced him to take cover and call in the cavalry. De Sade had been rescued that time. They’d bundled him into a Chinook and airlifted him back to base. It had been a near thing. This time it was anything but a near thing, and he made his move. It was a sacrifice, but it was useless. He was finished, and it was over. The other man carried out the coup de grace.

Checkmate.

Samuel Aaronssen was a lean, elderly gray-haired Jew. A long gray beard that gave the appearance of a biblical prophet complimented his face. He looked at de Sade with a deadpan expression. You should practice more, Gabriel. You spend too much time running around this city, chasing shadows.

They were enjoying the sunshine in Washington Square Park in the shadow of the famous arch. Samuel was just too good a chess player for him. In fact Samuel was too good for most opponents he played against. He was a Russian immigrant and a fugitive from the pogroms. De Sade had gravitated toward him because of their shared knowledge of the Russian language. Taught to him by his Russian mother, she’d been determined that he would speak the mother tongue.

Those shadows you’re talking about, Samuel, they kill people. That’s why I chase them.

As long as you find time for the occasional game of chess, I suppose it’s all right, he grumbled as he wiped his thick glasses, We Russians have a reputation as fine chess players, and you should remember that. Do you have time for another game, Gabriel?

De Sade was about to reply when his cellphone rang. He checked the display, excused himself, and walked away to find out what the Precinct wanted him for.

De Sade, where are you now?

He told the Precinct Captain where he was. I’m due back in an hour, Captain.

Don’t come here. We’ve got another one.

The day seemed to chill. Another one could mean only one thing, another victim of the serial killer who was on the loose in New York City.

Where is the crime scene?

Hector is there now. It’s an apartment in Bleecker Street.

He gave him the address and hung up. Gabriel looked up from the chessboard.

We’ll have to take a rain check on that game, Samuel. And by the way, I’m an American. I was born here. The Russian part of my ancestry was a long, long time ago.

Aaronssen smiled. It’s always there, my friend. You still belong to the Russian Orthodox Church?

That was a long time ago, too. I’m a confirmed atheist these days.

Perhaps that will change. Religion is good for a man. Where are you going now, more shadows to chase?

Yeah, it’s a bad one, so they say. I’ll catch you again.

Hector Lopez was in the victim’s apartment, a third floor walk-up next to a Korean grocery. His face was grim, but that was not unusual for de Sade’s Latino partner, whose face was permanently set in a dour expression. Maybe with a lawyer wife and three kids at home, it wasn’t conducive to a bright outlook on life.

Bad one, Hector?

It’s worse than the last two. Do you want to look?

De Sade nodded, and Hector showed him the bathroom. The crime scene techs were still taking the photos, and a tech stood waiting to begin collecting forensic samples. The woman was lying on the white ceramic floor tiles. Like the others, she’d been killed in the bathtub and her blood left to drain. Her torso bore the familiar knife wounds. The killer had hacked off her limbs, both arms and legs. The last time he’d arranged them in the bedroom in a macabre representation of a Russian Orthodox Patriarchal Cross. De Sade doubted this time it would be any different. What was left of the woman lay on the floor in front of them, just the bloody torso. She had a Patriarchal Cross tattooed on her right breast. They had determined it was the killer’s trademark. A series of bloodied ropes lay on the floor.

What about the limbs? Exactly the same as before?

Hector nodded. The MO is identical. The killer copied his previous kills exactly.

It was hard to fathom what lay in the mind of the homicidal lunatic. Was it some kind of a ritual sacrifice? One thing was for sure; the perp was a bad one, the worst, a one hundred percent certifiable sicko and a candidate for the lethal injection. First, they had to find him.

What about the ring finger?

Hector closed his eyes briefly and nodded. You’d better take a look in the bedroom, but yeah, it looks the same to me.

His fleshy face looked more mournful that ever. Gabriel had noticed lately the big Latino was slowly putting on extra weight. Married life, probably.

Do we know who she is?

Yeah, her purse and ID were lying on a coffee table in the living room. She’s Jennifer Collins, no criminal record, worked for a housing charity at an office on Second Street.

They walked out into the living room, crowded with cops, crime scene techs, and two newcomers, a man and a woman. Smart suits, polished shoes, and polished faces. He wondered what the FBI wanted here. They could introduce themselves when they were ready. He ignored them for now. They went into the bedroom and de Sade fought down the impulse to vomit. The impulse struck him the second he looked at the ghastly scene. Four limbs lay on the bedcover, arranged like the Russian Cross. One of the hands was missing the ring finger, just like the other two victims. Hector crossed himself, probably force of habit. De Sade knew he wasn’t a devout Catholic. Baptisms, First Communions, marriages, and funerals, anything else was strictly for the religious nuts.

Was she cut like last ones?

The same butchery, throat slashed, Hector replied, No sign of the knife.

Anything you can tell us about this one? a voice said from the doorway.

De Sade turned. One of the smart suits stood there, the guy.

And you’d want to know because, why? Who the hell are you?

The man smiled and produced his badge. FBI Special Agent Davies, New York Field Office. It looks like we’re hunting a serial killer here.

We? De Sade knew he was on shaky ground if it came to a jurisdictional fight. Serial killings often became the province of the FBI. Davies understood the situation, too.

Look, Detective, I don’t want a pissing contest with you over this.

That was encouraging, de Sade thought. So what did they really want? The second victim, Emily Johannsen, had pointed them in the direction of a Russian connection. He’d been assigned the case with Hector, and they had already put together a sizable murder book, as well as a suspect board with eight names. They were closing in, and the last thing they needed was to have their work trampled on by the Feds so that the investigation went back to the beginning.

So what are you doing here?

We want to help, that’s all. The Director has assigned us to this case. Any FBI resources you need, we can give them to you. We need to work this together, de Sade. It’s a bad one.

If his previous experience of the FBI hadn’t been so negative, he might have believed him.

That’s fine. Give me your card, and I’ll give you a ring when I think of something.

Davies sighed. I’m trying to play it fair, de Sade. If you don’t like it, we can take the case off you, just like that. He clicked his fingers.

Yeah, right. How many more women would you allow to be killed before you manage to solve it, Davies? What would your Director say about you screwing with my investigation and getting more women killed? What would the New York Times have to say?

Davies glared at him. Fuck you, de Sade. We’re only here to help. He stormed away. De Sade turned back to his partner.

What have we got, Hector? Is anything at all different about this one?

Not really. You know about the timescale, four weeks between each of the first two vics, but only two weeks since the last one. He needs his murder fix much quicker. But there are no clues, nothing. Crime scene will go over the apartment with a magnifying glass, but this guy doesn’t leave clues. It’s almost as if he understands our forensic procedures.

De Sade looked up sharply. Could he be a cop?

Could be, but Christ, I hope not.

He may not be a serving officer. He could be an ex-cop.

A woman’s voice, she’d come into the bedroom. The two detectives looked at her appreciatively.

I’m FBI, and you met my partner. I’m Special Agent Ward.

She had one heck of an advantage over her partner. A petite, slim, elfin-faced brunette, and her dark brown hair was cut in a razor-sharp pageboy cut, framing her glistening brown eyes. She had clear, smooth, creamy skin and full red lips. They were just made for kissing, de Sade thought to himself. Her expression was intelligent and knowing. She wore a smart, two-piece dark gray suit over a crisp, white cotton blouse with plenty inside it. What a women, a very classy, very shapely lady.

This is Detective Hector Lopez, de Sade introduced his partner.

She shook hands with both of them. Her handshake was firm and cool. Everything about her was firm and cool.

Why do you think it could be an ex-cop? he asked her.

He was prepared to give this agent more latitude than her partner. A face and figure like hers would open a lot of doors, and neither of the two men could argue with that.

Because I’ve looked at the NYPD files for the last two murders. This guy is able to kill these women in a particularly gruesome and messy way and yet leave no traces. It could be someone with experience in law enforcement.

De Sade was immediately concerned. Who gave the FBI authorization to look at NYPD files?

Captain James Kruger, your commander. He’s anxious for the NYPD to cooperate with the FBI and solve this one before any more women get killed.

He decided to talk to Kruger about that later. He could have mentioned it and saved any misunderstandings.

Look, Agent Ward, we’ve been all through this. We came up with the possibility of it being someone in law enforcement before, but we’ve run it through every database we have, and there are no hits. There’s no indication that it’s a cop.

What about foreign databases? It could be an immigrant, someone that worked in law enforcement before they came here. Maybe even a foreign intelligence agency.

Hector looked angry. Look, Miss, we’ve been over that, too, and all of our searches came up with nothing, zero, zilch, okay? If you think you can do better, why don’t you go back to Federal Plaza and play with your fancy computers, and leave us to do some real police work here?

She looked angry, but she couldn’t snap out a sharp retort. They were both from minorities and always had to tread carefully not to upset government anti-discrimination guidelines. She nodded curtly. Contact me if you need anything. Then she walked out.

You were a bit heavy on her, Hector. Have you had a bad day?

When I see something like this, I always have a bad day. I want to get on with the job and find the killer, not play games with the Feds. Do you have any theories, Gabriel?

Nothing new, only what we’ve discussed already, but I’m still running it all down.

Captain Kruger says that we have to follow the Russian connection. It’s the only thing that makes sense. That’s what that Fed was trying to tell us, too.

It was why de Sade had been called in at the start. The only thing they had to go on was the Russian Orthodox cross, the Patriarchal Cross. It was sensible to have someone who understood the culture and language to work the case, but if they thought he had any direct contacts with the Orthodox Church, they were probably wrong. That was a long, long time ago. He made a mental note to contact Special Agent Ward and see what she’d got from the international databases. It would be an excuse to speak to her again too. They hadn’t really given her a chance. It could be worth seeing what she had.

I think we’re finished here, so we should get back to the Precinct, and start slotting this into what we already know.

De Sade nodded. Before they left the crime scene, he looked around the apartment again, trying to picture the violence that must have taken place. He thought again about his last mission. He’d heard the Chinook coming from more than a thousand yards out. The Taliban had heard it too, and the fire intensified. They hadn’t noticed the Apache gunship coming in behind the twin rotor noise of the Chinook until it was too late. The Apache launched a hail of Hydra 70 air-to-ground rockets and gunfire from its M230 chaingun. The ground in front of him erupted, boiling with impacting bullets and exploding rockets. While their heads were down, the Chinook dropped low, and the two teams deployed through the rear ramp almost before the wheels touched ground. They stormed over the Taliban positions, overrunning them and wiping out the enemy force.

There’d been no Delta teams to come in and save this woman, or the previous two. He wondered what it was that made him keep thinking back to his war service. Maybe it would come to him later, but something was nagging at a tiny corner of his mind.

They parked the unmarked outside the gray block building on 321 East 5th Street. The 9th Precinct of New York’s finest, a grim, gray building propped up on either side by brownstone houses in various states of repair and disrepair. Next door was a record shop, long since closed when the market for good music on vinyl died. De Sade remembered when it had been open, and they’d tracked down several Sonny Boy Williamson albums for him. They dated from the time when music was sold on physical media, and not spirited across the internet as if by magic, with an attached credit card. He still had his record collection, but the card was maxed out to the limit. Cash didn’t work with downloads. Up on the second floor, the detectives’ floor, Captain Kruger was waiting for them. He didn’t look terribly happy, not that he ever did.

I want you both in my office, now!

The other detectives looked up and smiled at them. One of them shouted over, Hey, Marquis, who’ve you been roughing up this time?

De Sade ignored him. In the early days, he’d roughed up a Bronx gangster rapper to get a confession to rape and attempted murder. Since then, he’d had the reputation of being heavy handed with suspects, and there’d been several further incidents. His fellow cops called him the Marquis de Sade. Some, not all, of the brass tried to ignore the fact that one of their detectives did not follow the rulebook. The underbelly of New York City was a hard place, and de Sade was a hard man, but he got results. Because of that they left him alone, within reason, but there were some who’d like to see him dumped. He knew he trod a fine line between success and the unemployment queue.

The Marquis de Sade, Donatien Alphonse Francois, was a French aristocrat and writer best known for his view on sex. He was also an advocate of extreme sexual freedom, unrestrained by morality, religion or law. Most famously, he was said to have beaten his sexual partners for his own personal pleasure, with the result that the word ‘Sadism’ came into being. It was a burden that Gabriel de Sade had carried for most of his life. The truth was he saw himself as just a regular cop. If he did push a little harder with some of the scum and filth he picked up off the streets of the city, it was no more than they deserved. Most of his fellow cops saw it that way too, even the ones who didn’t want to risk their own badges by getting too physical with suspects. Captain Kruger was not one of them.

I’ve had a complaint from the FBI. They said you refused to cooperate with them.

Neither of them replied. The rivalry between the NYPD and the FBI was not exactly a secret.

Kruger’s eyes narrowed. Will one of you tell me what went down? Hector, is it true?

Of course he’d ask Hector. With a wife and three kids, he had to be careful about keeping his nose clean.

Well, not exactly true, Captain. They never made it clear what they wanted, or what they had to offer.

I see. I’m not interested in your rivalries. I’ve got the Mayor chasing me, and half the women in Manhattan afraid to go out at night. I want you to cooperate with the FBI on this one. We’ll share the investigation with them and share the credit as well. No arguments. Just get it done!

The Feds left the crime scene and went off somewhere, Hector said, Do you want us to give them a call, or what?

No need, they’ve sent over one of their agents to act as a liaison. She’s waiting downstairs at the counter, right now. Get together with the FBI and catch this killer before the city tears itself apart.

They left the office and walked through the long line of jeering detectives. In this case it was innocent, cops having some fun, strictly non-PC these days but impossible to stop in the NYPD. But it reminded de Sade of a time in Afghanistan when it wasn’t so innocent. He’d accompanied a State Department diplomat to a meeting of tribesmen. Some of the tribesmen spoke Russian, learned during the years of Soviet occupation, so he was able to converse with them. The diplomat spoke Pashtu, the language of some of the Afghan tribes. Between them, they’d been able to have a dialogue of sorts. De Sade was aware from the start that they didn’t have any intention of keeping an agreement. He’d gone along under protest, as an interpreter and bodyguard. The tribal leaders had agreed to everything, cooperation with the Americans and a halt to the IEDs, in return for aid. But as they walked out, they’d jeered. Just like these detectives.

Three days afterwards, the diplomat had been killed when his car was blown up by an IED in the area he’d been assured was now safe. De Sade had carried a hidden camera to the meeting and managed to record every face that was present. Working with his Afghan Special Forces counterparts, they’d put names to faces and addresses to names. The rest was history. They’d slipped out of the base one dark night, faces blacked up, black clothing. Even the stocks of their M4 carbines were black, as were the hilts and blades of their combat knives. They’d swept through the rebel town, and in the light of dawn, the women began wailing when they saw their menfolk had paid the ultimate price for betrayal and murder.

He recalled that operation with grim satisfaction. It was as well that his fellow officers didn’t know what he’d been thinking. Besides, most of them were good men, as far as he knew. He could take a few smirks and jeers. It was the sticks and stones that hurt. He switched his mind back to the investigation. It was possible that it was a law enforcement officer. Yes, he’d do well to remember that the blows didn’t always come from the enemy.

The FBI agent assigned to liaise with the NYPD was Faith Ward. She was waiting at the counter when Gabriel de Sade came down to greet her. She thought of the file she’d read at the Field Office, and he was something of a minor legend in law enforcement circles. He’d fought in Afghanistan, taking part in a number of successful missions for the American Special Forces. In the NYPD, he’d had more than his share of success, too. Some said his unconventional approach had much to do with it. He had a reputation for rough handling of suspects who refused to cooperate, not a way to gain advancement in these politically correct days. He was a good-looking guy of slightly above medium height, almost six feet tall with a face that had the slightly higher cheekbones betraying his Russian heritage. She’d spent a year in Russia after graduation. He would have blended in perfectly on a Moscow street. His eyes were almost black, and his head topped by dark hair that was cut short and looked as if it could do with a comb. His suit was well cut and had seen better days. But underneath the battered exterior, she sensed the raw, physical power that Special Forces all seemed to possess, the capacity for extreme violence at very short notice. He carried his slim, wiry body with an unconscious self-possession, a quiet confidence. Like a big cat, stalking its prey.

De Sade shook hands and led her up the stairs to the detectives’ room. She frowned at the envious glances and wolf whistles of the other detectives as he showed her over to the desk he shared with Hector. Clearly, these detectives were unaware of the new rules on sexual harassment that governed behavior in all government departments.

Hector nodded a greeting at her, not blaming his fellow detectives for the fuss and the wolf whistles. There was much for a red-blooded Latino to appreciate. She was genuine eye candy. Not something they saw much in in this precinct. He’d noticed her grimace at the behavior of the other detectives.

I’m sorry about them. They’re just jealous. We don’t usually get females that look as good as you do in here.

Perhaps they could do with some further training in how to avoid sexually harassing fellow law enforcement officers.

Before he could reply, de Sade interrupted, Yeah, if they weren’t so busy running down every scumbag rapist, murderer, and drug dealer in the city, I’m sure they’d all love to spare the time.

She half smiled at him. Point taken, Detective de Sade. Touché.

Before we go any further, Miss, it’s Gabriel. And this is Hector.

Fine, my name is Faith. Now, how can we go forward with this?

FBI Special Agent Ward was a girl in a league of her own. She had a face and a figure that would turn men’s heads wherever she went, except perhaps in a gay club. Gabriel fought down his natural desire and had to remember she was FBI. Their different priorities and agendas could easily become minefields in this investigation. Did they want to catch the perp, appease the Mayor, and produce some good headlines for the Feds, or satisfy the bleeding heart liberals that they weren’t treading on people’s constitutional rights?

De Sade walked across to the murder board.

This is a timescale of the crimes we have attributed to the killer. There are three definite so far, as you know. We have eight possible suspects, but so far we can’t pin it down any further.

She went to the board and stabbed a finger at one of the photographs. We think it’s this guy. In fact, we’re certain.

It was a grainy, washed-out color photo of Grigory Gordieva, aged thirty-eight, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was a Russian who’d appeared in the US only eighteen months ago. He was a reputed Mafiya figure, the Russian mob. He earned a living from crime, principally drug shipments from Asia but also a string of prostitutes. Many were under aged who he’d smuggled into the country from Eastern Europe. He was known to be utterly ruthless and sadistic in every possible way. His reputation was for mutilation and murder of anyone who had the misfortune to cross him.

He’s a nasty piece of work, de Sade said, but why him, particularly? The evidence linking him to the crime is largely circumstantial. There are better candidates than him.

She counted off the reasons on her fingers. Firstly, the religious angle. When he left school, he trained in a seminary to be a priest in the Russian Orthodox Church. Hence the connection with the Patriarchal Cross.

Are you sure he trained to be a priest? Hector asked in shocked tones, Surely that would be a reason to exclude him as our perp. It seems unlikely for a man to go from the priesthood to the Russian mafia. It’s a bit of a jump.

As a young man, Joseph Stalin trained to be a priest, she replied, Stalin was expelled from the seminary for certain illegal activities, and no one is quite sure what they were. He went on to graduate from murder and bank robbery to the slaughter of millions of Russians in the purges of the 1930s. If he could do it, why not Gordieva?

They waited for her to go on. She counted the second of her fingers. Next, he was KGB. During his military service, he was good enough to be seconded for training in Spetsnaz, their elite unit, similar to our Delta Force.

Hector looked at Gabriel, a Delta vet, but said nothing.

When he left the army, he was a natural for the KGB, a psychopath and a ruthless killer, if his activities in Afghanistan are anything to go by. His specialty was kidnapping the wives of suspected Taliban leaders and torturing them to give him information about their husbands’ activities.

De Sade recalled the brutality he’d encountered in that Godforsaken country. They were not all committed by the enemy. The commander of the Afghan Secret Police told his men, ‘You must become so notorious for bad things that when you come into an area people will tremble in their sandals. Anyone can do beatings and starve people. I want you to find new ways of torture so terrible that the screams will frighten even crows from their nests, and if the person survives, he will never again have a night's sleep.’ De Sade wondered what Agent Ward’s liberal minded colleagues would make of that particular American ‘ally’.

Look, Agent Ward, Gabriel interrupted, I spent time in Afghanistan, and believe me, the Russians have no monopoly on torture.

It’s Faith, she said impatiently, I know it’s not just the Russians who torture people, but hear me out. People with a history in law enforcement, they could be from anywhere in the US or anywhere in the world, for that matter. That includes Russia.

Gabriel didn’t reply. She counted the third of her fingers. Third, his reputation amongst the gangs here in New York is that he enjoys torture, welcomes it even. He is the ultimate psychopath, sadist, and sociopath. You name it. He ticks all the boxes. He’s a man more than capable, and ready, to murder and mutilate those women for enjoyment.

Hector looked exasperated. Hey, look, we’ve got our share of homegrown sickos in the US, and it could be any of them. Sure, he’s capable of doing it, but so are several others I could name.

She held up her hand, the fourth finger. Number four, he won’t put his name to any document. He signs it like this.

She picked up a Sharpie pen and drew on the whiteboard, a Patriarchal Cross. De Sade again fought back a qualm at the connecting of a symbol that had once been sacred to him, to the vile murder and mutilation of women.

He’s our man, Detectives. We just need to locate him and book him.

How about some evidence, Faith?

She glared at Gabriel. Look, Detective, I spent two years in Quantico studying this kind of crime, and I’m convinced it’s him.

Behavioral Analysis Unit?

She nodded. I know this is our man. Everything about him fits the crime, and the crime fits him. He’s an organized type of offender, you know, and someone who leads an orderly life. He isn’t going to make mistakes. This guy is no street bum. She hurried to cut them off, Yeah, I know he’s a scumbag drug dealer and pimp too, but he runs his empire like a Blue Chip company. It’s the way he commits his crimes, too. You know the characteristics of the organized serial offender are, that he is of average to high intelligence, socially competent, and more than likely to have skilled employment. They are more likely to plan their offenses, use restraints on their victims, and to bring a weapon with them to commit the murder. Then take the weapon away with them from the crime scene.

Hector interrupted. Miss, we know it’s an organized serial killer, but that still doesn’t necessarily point to Gordieva.

It’s Faith, she glared at him, Apart from the Patriarchal Cross, and that sure points to him.

The Latino detective shrugged. Well, that is a possibility. It’s a bit of a stretch, him almost putting his signature on the victims’ bodies. I mean it’s not part of the profile for a serial killer to sign his name to the body. It’d make our job a lot easier if they all did that.

De Sade smiled and worked hard to keep a straight face at his partner giving this Fed the basics of homicide 101.

I know it’s him, so we need to track him down and bring him in. She stood stubbornly waiting for them to respond. Both men sighed.

How do you want to play this? de Sade replied.

I want you to get the DA to write out a warrant to search his house. He owns a brownstone on the Upper East Side. And bring him in for questioning if you can find him. I want to be there when he’s brought in, so make sure you call me. I have to get back to Federal Plaza now. I’ve got some loose ends to clear up there.

She gave her card to de Sade and left the detectives’ room. A single wolf whistle escorted her out through the door. They could have all of the sexual awareness programs they wanted, de Sade thought with a smile. But they’d have to work hard to overcome human nature, especially with a girl as pretty as Special Agent Faith Ward.

Hector wrote up the paperwork for the search warrant while Gabriel looked through the computer databases for more information about Grigory Gordieva. He’d been on their list of suspects, but nothing had linked him directly to the murders. His history was mostly a blank before he came to the States, so the rest would be on the Feds’ computers. It was standard procedure to assemble data from overseas for their foreign target suspects. Since arriving in New York, he was suspected of a number of crimes, everything from human trafficking to importation of illegal narcotics, even protection rackets. So far, he hadn’t even been indicted for a single offense, let alone prosecuted. So, Mr. Gordieva was a very clever man, but a serial killer, too? That remained to be seen. Hector came back from the DA’s Office.

They’re taking the warrant in front of a judge first thing in the morning. They can’t do it before. I’m going home unless there’s anything else I’m needed for.

De Sade shook his head. No, I’m okay. You take off, and we’ll toss this guy’s place in the morning. At least we’ll see how the other half lives.

The Upper East Side was a neighborhood in Manhattan between Central Park and the East River. Bounded by 59th Street to 96th Street, and the East River to Fifth Avenue-Central Park, it was once known as the Silk Stocking District for obvious reasons. It was the most affluent area of New York City, home to diplomatic missions from all over the world. It was also the home of the ultra-wealthy, including certain successful criminals. Only the most prolific crime barons lived there, making sure they avoided the living hell of poorer areas ravaged by their venal enterprises. The most lucrative of these was, of course, drugs. Human trafficking was a close second. The demand for new, young girls was never sated.

Hector went off home. Gabriel assumed the poor bastard would again be lashed by his lawyer wife for not taking a better-paid job. When he’d got past that particular minefield, he’d be harassed by his three kids. Like de Sade he was ex-military, a Marine NCO, and he’d used army cash to fund his way through college to a law degree. His wife was a criminal defense lawyer, and she earned big bucks keeping the slimeballs they arrested out of jail. Every month she compared her paycheck to his. Then she would remind him to get out of the police force, and find a ‘good’ job as a lawyer. Good for her meant well paid; the question of vocation or principles had no place.

The trouble was Hector hated lawyers, or at least, what many lawyers did. Like most cops, he despised them for the endless underhand tactics they used to prevent the guilty from being punished. The idea of joining their ranks did not appeal to him, although he accepted the fact that some people, like his wife, had to do the job. De Sade looked up as someone was calling him.

Hey, Marquis, there’s a guy here to see you. Says he’s from the Feds.

Brent Davies was standing in the doorway of the squad room. Reluctantly, Gabriel waved for him to come through. They shook hands.

Faith is working through our databases, and she’s collating all the available information we have on Gordieva. I came here to look over the NYPD files and see if there’s anything you have that we don’t know about.

Sure, you’d better take a seat. Hector’s gone on home, so you can use his terminal.

He ignored the FBI man and carried on looking through Gordieva’s record himself. His interest was piqued, but there was very little there he could use. Whatever else, the Russian had kept his criminal enterprises under the radar.

Do you have a printer I can use? Davies asked.

Sure, just hit the print button, and the machine is over in the corner, de Sade replied absently. He’d just found some information that connected Gordieva and the Patriarchal Cross. It was a news-clipping showing the Russian at the launch of an art gallery. The gallery was off Broadway and called The Patriarch Gallery. Maybe it belonged to the Russian gangster, so that would be worth checking out. There was a photo in the article of Gordieva with a beautiful young woman on his arm, his daughter, girlfriend, or maybe his next victim? Behind them was a poster advertising the gallery opening, and the Patriarchal Cross was prominent at the top. De Sade felt irritated as Brent Davies got up to retrieve the printed copies and came to stare over his shoulder.

Yeah, we’ve seen that one. You’ve got to admit that it is a connection.

I don’t know, Special Agent Davies. Agent Ward mentioned it earlier. You’re suggesting that he signs his own signature to the murders. That’s quite a jump. Kind of like holding up his hand and saying ‘look, everybody, this is my handiwork’. It’s too pat, too easy. I don’t buy it.

Wait until you meet him. He’s an arrogant son of a bitch. He thinks he’s cleverer than all of us, and he can do whatever he wants. Look at Dennis Rader, another arrogant SOB, and he was undone by his arrogance. After avoiding capture for almost thirty years, someone wrote a book about the murders and named some other guy as the prime suspect.

De Sade remembered the case. Rader couldn’t stand someone else taking his credit. He wrote a letter to a local TV station on a computer that belonged to his church.

How did you get him?

Our forensic investigators linked the letter to the computer, and surveillance cameras placed Rader at that computer at the time the letter was written. That was it, bang! The BTK serial killer was captured. They’re arrogant, serial killers, it’s so fucking depressing. They get this huge kick from the fact they have done harm to others. If Rader can be so proud of his work, why not Gordieva?

De Sade wasn’t certain. He’d studied a lot of serial killing cases at college. Maybe it was him, and maybe not. When they tossed his place tomorrow, they might turn up some clues. Until then, he’d reserve judgment. He declined the Fed’s offer to join him for a drink and made his way home.

His apartment was close to the Precinct, above a deli on the corner of Avenue B and East 5th Street. He checked the time and decided to call into the deli. It was past nine o’clock, and he didn’t look forward to jostling with the evening restaurant crowds to get something to eat. Lee Fat was behind the counter as always. He greeted him with his usual broad smile.

We have good offer on the pastrami today, Detective.

Yeah, I’ll take a few slices.

He found some fresh bread, still hot from the oven, and added a six-pack of Schneider Kristall beer. Lee made sure he kept a small stock especially for him. It was one of his few luxuries. He remembered his first taste of the amber nectar in Afghanistan.

He’d run into some Germans during an operation mounted by ISAF, the International Security Assistance Force. The Taliban had ambushed them before they reached their objective, a remote village. Under intense fire, the Germans had fought back heroically, driving back the rebel fighters and inflicting heavy casualties on them. The Germans were hard fighters, and the operation had been a success. The Taliban ambush team had been decimated. They’d gone on to complete their mission, the rescue of a Medecin Sans Frontiere medical team. Later, they’d driven back and the dead bodies of the Taliban had disappeared, but they weren’t ambushed again. They’d learned their lesson, for now.

Afterwards, his team had been invited back to the Germans’ quarters to share a case of Schneider Kristall. Since then, he’d never drunk anything else if he could get the German beer. Perhaps because it reminded him of the shared camaraderie of tough, highly trained professionals. Maybe it was because he liked it.

He gave Lee a fifty-dollar bill and waited for his change.

You find man who come see you in afternoon? Lee asked in his usual mangled English.

Which man is that, Lee?

The shop owner shrugged. He not leave message. But I not like him. He shivered, Look like thug, criminal. You able to deal with him, Detective?

Gabriel smiled, Sure, I’ll deal with him. Did he leave a message?

He say he leave note in mailbox.

Okay, I’ll check it out. Thanks, Lee Fat.

The mailbox was inside the front door to his hallway. The message was in there, lying on top of a couple of envelopes, the usual bills from MasterCard and the telephone company. He opened the slip of paper. There was one line written in the center of the page.

‘Any man can be nailed to a cross.’

In the top right corner of the piece of paper was a small Patriarchal Cross. He folded the paper carefully and put it into a cellophane evidence envelope. He went up the stairs and let himself into his apartment. Staring at him on the wall of his hallway was a Patriarchal Cross. It was his. His family home had always had something similar in the hallway, so he’d put it up automatically when he moved into this apartment. Now he wasn’t so sure. It was defiled, but he thought again. No, it wasn’t the cross that was defiled; it was the killer who defiled himself. He smiled. It was all superstitious nonsense anyway, wasn’t it time people realized what kind of a con trick this religious stuff was?

But now the perp had come to his home. While he was preparing his supper, he thought about the note. He’d been working the case for several weeks. It seemed it was heating up, so was he getting any nearer? Either the note was from the killer, which given their reputation for arrogance was very possible, or it was from a lunatic! In that case, he could discount it, but he had to be sure. He made a note to check with Lee Fat in the morning as the store had CCTV cameras. Maybe he could see an image of the guy who had brought the note. It was all he could do for now.

He finished his food and started work on the six-pack. He turned on the TV, but there was nothing of any note on the news. Not for the residents of New York, anyway. For the people of Afghanistan, the news was bleak. Even so, the news anchor managed to sound upbeat, which annoyed him. They were talking about people’s kids, brothers, daughters, wives, and husbands.

‘Thirteen people died and twenty others were wounded in a suicide bombing today in the Afghan city of Jalalabad. According to a spokesperson for the authorities of Nangarhar province, Zia Abdul Ahmadzai, a suicide bomber, drove a car laden with explosives straight at a minibus carrying police cadets and detonated the charges. A Taliban spokesman, Zabihullah Mujahid, claimed the attack for his organization. Jalalabad is located along the freeway that connects Kabul in Afghanistan to Peshawar in Pakistan. More details to come."

There would be body parts scattered over a wide area. De Sade had seen it happen when innocent civilians got caught up in these attacks. The news anchor went on to relate a piece about arguments in Congress over military funding. Many Americans wanted their boys back on home soil, alive. That was understandable. The cost in lives, quite apart from billions of dollars in military expenditure, was vast and stretched almost to breaking point. But what would happen when they did come back? Who would protect those police cadets who were training to do a job similar to his in Kabul and Jalalabad? And if you didn’t care about them, then who would police the would-be bombers who’d like nothing better than a second go at the attacks on 911?

He turned off the TV, bored with the politics and the posturing. He spent an hour on his mini-gym, working up a sweat. It also took away some of the tension of the day. De Sade finished off with a hard twenty minutes on the treadmill and rinsed off the last of the day’s woes in an ice-cold shower. Then he settled in his armchair with a book and another Schneider Kristall beer. It was a book about chess, or rather about a chess player. It was time to beat Samuel Aaronssen at his own game, so maybe Fischer had some tips for him. The book was entitled ‘Endgame, Bobby Fischer’s Remarkable Rise and Fall’. Supposedly it unlocked the mind of the chess wizard, what made the eccentric genius tick, and more importantly, what his winning secrets were.

Eventually, he turned off the light and tried to sleep. It was long past midnight. Sleep didn’t come easy as he had a lot on his mind. Gordieva, was he the serial killer that had terrified New York City? Was he crazy and arrogant enough to sign his crimes with his personal stamp? Had that note come directly from the serial killer? Or was it someone else? Maybe some nut that knew he was involved in the investigation. A religious nut, maybe? He’d once interrogated a captured Taliban chief, a devout Muslim, who had proudly described how he kept discipline in his town.

‘Basically, any form of pleasure was outlawed, and if we found people doing any of these things we would beat them with staves soaked in water. It sounded like a knife cutting through meat, and the room would run red with their blood and sometimes their spines snapped. Then we would leave them with no food or water in rooms filled with insects until they died.’

The man had smiled cruelly then as he remembered his victims. His teeth had gaps in them. Dental care in Afghanistan was non-existent for most people. ‘We would put some of them standing on their heads to sleep, hang others upside down with their legs tied together. We would stretch the arms out of others, and nail them to posts like crucifixions.’

He’d refused to give de Sade the information he wanted, and the Delta Force man had gone to work on him. There was no need to leave marks, to maim or crucify. If you knew where to apply the right pressure, a man would wish he were dead by the time de Sade had finished with him. He didn’t normally approve of torture, despite his reputation and his nickname. But these were animals, way beyond any possibility of re-entering normal society. In the States they were monsters. They’d have been caught and imprisoned for life, or sent to death row.

In Jalalabad there was no possibility of putting a man away for life, save one. That was the way he did it. The official verdict of the army post mortem was suicide. It was a fair verdict. Any man who pitted himself against Team Bravo was committing suicide sooner or later. It was just a matter of timing. That was the creed they lived by. Those who exceeded the norms of society, the torturers, killers, and child murderers don’t cross swords with Team Bravo. It was a death wish.

De Sade finally fell asleep, still torn by the contradictions of what they’d had to do in that brutal, terrible country. Was it right to murder the murderers? Who the hell knew? It’s just that the world was a happier place without some of those people. In his dreams, he was screaming in agony. A man had taken him, and he couldn’t see his face. Other men held him down while the man nailed him to a cross, a nail through each hand and a long nail through his crossed ankles. As his head thrashed around, tortured by the agony of the nailing, he realized that it was a Patriarchal Cross he was fastened to. Then they lifted it up, and he screamed even more as the weight of his body was carried on the nails. The agony and the torment were indescribable. Suddenly a face appeared in front of him, his captor and his torturer. He was staring at a face he’d seen earlier that day on his computer screen, Grigory Gordieva. The Russian was smiling and laughing at him. Then everything went black. The ringing of his cellphone woke him.

De Sade? A woman’s voice, and he didn’t recognize it at first. Then he realized it was the FBI Special Agent, Faith Ward.

Yeah, what is it?

It’s Faith. We had a flash from Home Security about Gordieva. He’s gone.

Gone where?

Aeroflot, it’s the only airline with a direct flight to Moscow from JFK. He’s already over the Atlantic.

So there’d be no way of doing anything about it. Even it they had a warrant, which they didn’t, the Russian airline would refuse to divert one of their own aircraft. Fuck it!

What was that?

He must have mumbled aloud. Sorry, I was thinking of something.

I read you, Detective, loud and clear. What do we do now?

Struggling to get his tired brain into gear, he looked at the clock. It was just after four, so no wonder he wasn’t thinking straight yet. He’d had little more than two hours sleep.

I’ll get into the Precinct first thing in the morning and chase up that warrant, but we can’t move until the DA puts it in front of a judge.

Silence. Faith, you still there?

Yes. I was just thinking. I’ll contact the FBI Director’s Office. Maybe we can get the wheels rolling a little quicker. I’ll be at the Precinct, too, at about seven o'clock. I’ll see you there.

De Sade clicked off his cell. He couldn’t imagine the FBI Director’s Office being too thrilled at being tackled in the early hours, but maybe they did things differently over there. He smiled as he thought of the reaction of the Commissioner’s Office if he did the same thing. He’d be manning the gate at the New York Mounted Police Stables within a day if he tried it. It was too late to try and get back to sleep. He climbed out of bed, made coffee double-strength, and turned on the early news. It was some story about a heroin dealer claiming police brutality, threatening to sue the city for several million dollars.

Why did all roads seem to lead him back to Afghanistan? The innocent-looking fields of poppies waving in the breeze, and the start of a long trail that led to a slow tortured death. And all the time, the purveyors of that sick, evil product shouted abuse and threatened retribution for real or imagined slights. He’d fought them over there, the murderers, the torturers, and he was still fighting them here. He was tired and sick of the evil scum that were a cancer on the country, and the city he loved.

He attempted to kick-start his circulation in the gym, but he couldn’t concentrate. He settled for a muscle wrenching, energy-sapping sprint on the treadmill. Then he took a shower and dressed for work. Another double shot of coffee, and he set out to walk to the Precinct. It was still early. Lee Fat wasn’t open yet,