Hellblazer 1 - War Lord by John Shirley Read Free Book Online Page A

assassin approaching. I feel him—and now I see him. He is driving a large American vehicle up the mountain pass. He stole this vehicle from an American intelligence agent, after murdering the man. He knows that at this hour I walk in the garden of stone outside the monastery. He is getting out of the vehicle now . . . he conceals himself behind a boulder. He loads his rifle . . . I have asked the guards of our retreat to stay away from the garden today. No one sees him. He waits for me . . . he waits to liberate me . . . I must go to him . . .”
    Constantine shook his head. The Blue Sheikh didn’t show his true nature to people most of the time. But Constantine had seen it once—and he was sure the world needed the Blue Sheikh. “Bloody hell,” he murmured.
    Standing up from sitting cross-legged on the floor is difficult to do with grace, but the Blue Sheikh did it. He gazed down at Constantine—and his eyes grew to fill Constantine’s vision . . .
    Constantine looked away.
    “I cannot help you with what you must do, John Constantine,” the Blue Sheikh said, his voice softly hoarse, “and I must go. You will take the road back down the mountain, toward Rasht. There is someone for you to meet on the shores of the Caspian. I cannot see who. I see only that you must go to the Caspian Sea.” He broke off, as if listening. After a moment he added, “Perhaps there is something I can do for you—I can give you a warning. It is whispered to me that when you see a man who cuts the throat of a bird, watch for your enemy—he is within reach. And remember, John Constantine: reflection, words, deeds.”
    Constantine nodded. Feeling he wanted to say a great deal and for once unable to speak.
    “And John . . . say nothing to the others here about where I go now.”
    The Blue Sheikh went to the doorway, walking with simple deliberation. He stopped for a moment, turned back with a mischievous smile on his face. “Oh, by the way, I am glad you didn’t tell me who gave you the cigarettes. I believe the expression is, ‘No one likes a fucking snitch,’ eh?” He tugged meditatively at his beard. “And as for that girl delivering the milk, don’t feel bad—she had a good time. I almost took her to bed once myself. But she was too young for me.” He winked, and then he slipped through the curtained doorway and was gone.
    The old servant returned, dropping Constantine’s clothes, laundered and folded, on the floor beside him. “Now,” Bahktiar said, snatching the hookah hose from Constantine’s mouth, “he tell you, you are here enough. You can make dressing in those, and you get out. You have brought bad things here. You go.”
    Constantine stood up, feeling awkward as he shrugged out of the robe, and began to pull on his clothes: boxers, white shirt, black tie, black trousers, black shoes, trench coat. It had been a while since his trench coat had been so clean. “You hear where your master’s going, Bakky?”
    “My name is not Bakky!”
    Reaching for patience, Constantine buttoned up his shirt, and repeated, “Did you hear him say where he was going?”
    “No. He does not tell me where he goes.”
    So it’s true. The old bastard doesn’t know his master is slated to be shot dead in a few minutes.
    He had been asked to say nothing about the assassination. But he couldn’t just stand by. He could interfere with the assassination himself. Could be the Blue Sheikh might change his mind, given the chance . . .
    Constantine danced into his socks and shoes, elbowed Bahktiar out of the way and headed for the door.
    “You leave this place! Do not come back!” Bahktiar called after him.
    “You can kiss my arse,” Constantine growled at him, pausing in the doorway. “You’re just a bloody hanger-on here, Bakky. Hanging around for fifty bloody years. Never learning a fucking thing.”
    Bahktiar looked crushed—Constantine had struck a nerve. And he regretted it. Reflection, words, deeds. He’d already cocked up