Savas nodded. “But where does that lead us with this group?”
“Where? Honestly, Agent Savas, I couldn't tell you that. But it might be telling you something about who these people are.”
“How?”
“Ragnarök, my friends, is the end of the world, as I told you. But it has a special Norse quality that makes it contrast sharply with your typical end-of-the-world religious event. In short, all the Norse gods, including Thor and his allies, the heroes waiting in Valhalla for the final battle, what you might call the “good guys” in our Western lexicon — they lose. They all die. They are annihilated.” He took his pipe out of his mouth and leaned forward for emphasis. “In the Norse mythos, the gods lose, civilization is destroyed, and chaos reigns supreme. From the broth of chaos, it is prophesized that a new creation will arise. But to be enjoyed by others! This organization, whatever they are planning, has chosen a most curious mythology as a symbol. If they take the mythology seriously, and everything you've shown me convinces me that they do, they don't believe their side is necessarily going to triumph and be welcomed into Heaven. No virgins, no pearly gates and harps. Nothing.”
“I don't understand,” said Savas. “Why do all this, go through all this, without a final expectation of victory?”
“Because they should,” said Cohen, looking thoughtful. “It's like Frodo going into Mordor. There was little hope that he had the strength to finish the quest. But it was right that he tried.”
“Exactly, young lady. Top of the class,” Styer said and winked at her. He then leaned back and stared out the window, looking over the small garden they had recently passed. “They do this because they believe it's the right thing to do. The gods and heroes of the Northern legends did not despair or, following a more modern sentiment, switch sides, even though through prophecy they knew they were going to be destroyed, that chaos would triumph. No, they fought anyway, not to win, but because fighting for good even in the face of defeat was the right thing.”
Cohen raised a question. “Even if this is true for this mythology, Professor, how can we be so sure it applies to this organization?”
The old man leaned back toward the desk and looked shrewdly at Cohen. “A good question, and, of course, the answer is that we cannot be sure. But someone with this level of sophistication, to organize in this way and then choose these symbols, down to correctly using the writing system and language of an ancient people, is someone extremely invested in this symbolism, Agent Cohen. Anyone with that level of knowledge of Norse mythology would likely understand its curious nature. This theme of Northern courage, a hard courage, grounded not in any hope of victory but only in standing for what is right, has been a powerful force in Western culture, for good and evil. This character influenced generations who knew the Norse legends, from Tolkien's archetypal Lord of the Rings heroes you just mentioned to Adolf Hitler's perversion of those ideals during the Third Reich.” Professor Styer focused sharply on the FBI agents. “Courage to fight no matter what, requiring no hope of reward, only conviction. My friends, that makes them a group of a most dangerous kind.”
Professor Styer insisted on walking them back to their car. He walked with even more difficulty than when he had first greeted them; the efforts of the day clearly draining him. When they reached the car, Cohen thanked him with a smile and got into the backseat. As Savas moved to follow, the old man grasped his arm.
“Agent Savas, I do hope you know what you have there,” he said in a low voice, motioning with his eyes toward the car. “I would keep her close to you.”
Taken aback, Savas started stammering something unintelligible. The professor interrupted him. “Oh, I don't mean that! Although, let me tell you, at seventy-eight, there are many more things I regret not doing in life than I regret doing. A lady like that doesn't come around often. But that is not what I meant. She's smarter than you are, in case you didn't notice. Don't take that personally. I've taught generations of students, and I know a good mind when I see it. She's got one. You will need her in this. Keep her close.” The professor smiled, winked at Savas, then bent toward the car and waved once more at Cohen before turning back toward the building.
Savas gazed forward at the intersection for a moment. I knew I didn't like that guy.
20
"Rebecca, do you buy all that?” asked Savas distractedly, his gaze outside the car window as the vehicle began its trek downtown, his mind wrapped in the words of the last half-hour. Cohen was thoughtful as well, but she answered confidently.
“I'm sure everything we heard about the language and writing was accurate. What you're really asking me concerns the speculative portions, the extrapolation of the symbolism to the psychology of the group.”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “It sounded very reasonable. John, you called it a cult at first, and that is unlikely to be right — who would believe in Norse gods in the twenty-first century? Especially a group as sophisticated and practical as the one you are proposing — a group that has orchestrated the assassinations of more than ten radical Islamic leaders in the last six to nine months.”
“And the bombings.”
Cohen paused. “The evidence is weaker on that, John; you know it. You only have your intuition, based on your own painful experience and response to 9/11. That's a strength and a weakness — I think you know that. Let's just limit it to the assassinations for the moment.”
Savas nodded. “Thanks.”
“For what?” she looked at him curiously.
“You're the first person who has taken what I feel seriously, even when you don't feel it. You're at least giving me the benefit of the doubt.”
She pursed her lips. “John, I've watched you struggle with this for many years now. Everyone knows your anger, Mad John. Some of us also see the struggle. And the pain.”
He looked outside the car again, not daring to engage her eyes.
She coughed. “Anyway, what I was saying is that we have ruthless professionals, not religious fanatics. These guys way outclass al-Qaeda operatives. So, if they aren't religiously invested in this Norse stuff, then they must be invested in another way to have gone to all this trouble. Who learns a dead language and appropriates its culture's symbols? Someone who sees something in it, has extracted something from it, and needs that symbolism in their lives.”
“Northern courage?”
“It's the noblest idea of pagan Europe. But I think he's spot-on with the other thing — the contrast to Islam. Whoever started this, there is something driving them. I think you are right about it, John. There's a deep hatred of Islam in all this.”
“Then who? People of western European descent, almost certainly, or why all Norse stuff? The killer we encountered was American, so I assume many others are as well. But not the crazy idea of death squads from the CIA.”
“Not crazy, John, they existed,” noted Cohen. “But you're right. This symbolism, this crusade almost, doesn't smell of a government plan that spun out of control. But it does smell of money.”
“Sorry?”
“How on earth do you get the skilled personnel, equip them, train them, send them out all over the world for orchestrated assassination work, without enormous capital resources?