The Joshua Stone

by James Barney

  “They’re still a good five hundred yards ahead of you,” reported Admiral Armstrong over the radio. “Looks like they just entered the Grand Mosque. You should start seeing it any minute.”

  “Yeah, I see it now,” said Califano. He pointed Ana toward the nine minarets that could just now be seen towering over the crowd in the distance. Ana nodded that she saw it, too.

  The Grand Mosque in Mecca was the largest mosque in the world, covering an area of more than eighty-eight acres. The three-story, colonnaded exterior of the mosque enclosed a massive courtyard designed to accommodate more than a million pilgrims at once. At the center of this courtyard was the Kaaba, the holiest temple in all of Islam, the exact spot on earth where a quarter of the world’s population oriented themselves to pray each day. Facing the qibla during Muslim prayers literally meant turning toward the Kaaba.

  The Kaaba itself looked like a giant cube that, during the hajj, was draped in a ceremonial black fabric with gold ornamentation and Arabic writing. It was an impressive and incredibly moving sight for devout Muslims, who were required to visit the Kaaba at least once in their lives. For most, seeing the Kaaba for the first time was the most memorable moment in their entire lives.

  “We can’t move any faster,” said Ana. She and Califano were pressed tightly against the thousands of other hajji around them. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to back.

  “I know,” said Califano. “How are we going to make up five hundred yards?”

  Armstrong’s voice suddenly crackled over the radio. “You can make it up during the tawaf.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Califano.

  “The pilgrims circle the Kaaba seven times, but they do it in tightening circles. Everyone moves counterclockwise, so as soon as you enter the Grand Mosque, you need to start pushing as hard as you can toward the left. If you can punch through to the faster traffic on the inside, you can still catch these guys.”

  Several minutes later, Califano and Thorne approached the west entrance of the Grand Mosque. “Check that out,” said Califano, pointing to a green neon sign perched high above the west entrance. In Arabic, it said: GO.

  “Like a traffic light,” said Ana.

  A damn good idea, thought Califano. As he watched, the green light suddenly went dark and was replaced with a red neon sign that said STOP in Arabic. Shit. “Where are they now, Admiral?” he asked over the radio.

  “Inside the Grand Mosque. They’ve already completed one revolution, and they’re just starting their second. You can still catch them before they reach the Black Stone. Remember, push left. Always left.”

  Five minutes later, the light above the west entrance turned green again, and Califano and Thorne were quickly swept along in the great throng of hajji that were now crushing their way through the west entrance and into the massive courtyard of the Grand Mosque.

  As soon as Califano and Thorne entered the courtyard, they understood what Admiral Armstrong had been trying to explain. The entire mass of humanity inside the courtyard was circling counterclockwise. Everyone. In unison. And Califano and Thorne were on the very outer radius of that circling motion, practically scraping against the courtyard walls.

  “This is incredible,” Ana whispered, although nobody could hear her. The noise inside the Grand Mosque courtyard was deafening, as more than a million devoted Muslims shouted out prayers and lamentations over the sustained roar of two million shuffling feet. Above all this, dozens of booming loudspeakers along the perimeter were delivering singsong messages in Arabic.

  For more than an hour, Califano and Thorne struggled through the crowd, constantly pushing left, slowly working their way toward the inside of the swirling sea of white circling the Kaaba.

  Suddenly, Ana was shoved rudely from behind. She lost her grip on Califano’s hand and instantly felt herself being swept away to the right, away from him. “Mike?” she said into her microphone as the jostling and pushing intensified.

  “I’m here,” Califano replied. “Just keep pushing left. Push hard.”

  “I am,” said Ana through gritted teeth. But she wasn’t the only one. Everyone, it seemed, was pushing at full strength toward the center of the mosque—toward the Kaaba. Ana dropped her left shoulder and redoubled her effort, finally succeeding in pushing through a trio of fat women in burkas who had tightly linked arms to avoid being separated. This was a common tactic among the hajji, which made punching through to the middle even more difficult.

  “You guys are getting close,” said Admiral Armstrong over the radio. “They’re straight ahead of you, about fifteen yards.”

  “How close are they to the Black Stone?” asked Califano, screaming to be heard over the tremendous cacophony of grunting and shouting near the Kaaba.

  “They’re close, Mike.” Armstrong’s voice suddenly got very tense. “Whatever they’ve got planned . . . it’s about to happen.”

  Shit. Those words hit Califano like of shot of adrenaline. He immediately lowered his stance, stiffened his shoulders, and barged through the swarm of hajji like a Sevillian bull, pumping his legs in linebacker fashion as he slowly plowed through the sea of sweating bodies.

  Behind him, Ana was doing the same but with much less success. “Mike, I think I see you now,” she said into her microphone. “I’m about ten feet behind you.”

  Califano heard nothing. He continued muscling through the crowd using every ounce of his strength. Finally, he looked up.

  And there it was. The Black Stone. Just as he’d seen in pictures. It was encased in a silver frame and embedded directly into the eastern corner of the Kaaba. Just as Akeem had described, it was a cornerstone . . . both literally and figuratively.

  Califano looked up and noted a guard standing on a platform about six feet above the Black Stone. He was shouting directions to the fervent hajji below, all of whom were desperately jostling for a chance to kiss the stone. Every few seconds, the guard jabbed a long pole into the side of some hajji who dared spend more than half a second with his lips on the Black Stone.

  “Mike,” said Armstrong over the radio with great urgency. “You’re standing right behind one of them! He’s directly in front of you!”

  Califano glanced all around and quickly spotted a man a few feet in front of him who clearly looked out of place. And what’s that he’s holding? A split second later, Califano realized the man was holding a small chip of black material between his thumb and finger. It was from the Tunis stone that Haroldson had delivered to the Russians, the same one Fulcher had used for his demonstration in the White Sea. Now, the man was extending it outward, straining to touch it to the Black Stone. Of course, Califano realized. He’s trying to create a time dilation.

  “No!” Califano shouted. At the same moment, he hurled himself like a human battering ram through the remaining rows of hajji between himself and the other man. As he did, he extended his arms and leaped into the air toward the man. The guard above the stone reacted immediately, shouting angrily in Arabic and attempting to push Califano away with the long pole. But the momentum of Califano’s body carried him through the painful jab and straight toward the man with the tiny chip of stone between his fingers.

  As Califano fell through the air, he managed to just barely catch the man’s forearm and knock it downward with sufficient force that the small chip of stone came dislodged and fell to the ground. It disappeared immediately beneath the thundering crush of feet.

  A few yards back, Ana Thorne was watching all of this as if it were happening in slow motion. She recognized the other man as Sashko Melnik, Krupnov’s Ukrainian henchman from the Hillcrest estate. As she watched in horror, both men dropped down and disappeared beneath the crowd. They’re going to be trampled to death!

  “Mike!” Ana shouted into her microphone. There was no response. “Mike!” she screamed even louder, no longer caring who might hear her. Suddenly, someone grabbed her roughly by the arm from behind. She craned her neck and found herself staring at the face of Vladamir Krupnov. His
cold blue eyes instantly locked onto hers and hardened with rage. A moment later, he pulled a small pistol from his tunic. He aimed it at her head, and . . .

  Thwack! The guard with the pole knocked the pistol clear out of Krupnov’s hands. In the same instant, there was tremendous shouting in Arabic from above. Then, suddenly, Ana watched in amazement as the crowd itself began turning on Krupnov.

  A gun in the Grand Mosque . . . just feet from the Kaaba. Such blasphemy would not be tolerated. Especially during the hajj.

  Ana watched as Krupnov struggled futilely against an angry mob of men who had now turned their attention away from the Black Stone and were pummeling Krupnov mercilessly with their fists and elbows. Street justice in the Grand Mosque.

  Seconds later, Krupnov disappeared completely. Swept away to an unknown fate.

  “Mike?” Ana said emphatically into her microphone. No response. She felt herself being wedged away by the crowd, and she no longer had the strength to fight it. The Black Stone vanished from her view. “Mike?” she said one more time into her microphone.

  Nothing. He was gone.

  Two hours later, Akeem bin Nayef greeted Ana at the rendezvous location with a wave. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked as she approached.

  “Sort of,” she mumbled. She was utterly exhausted, sweaty, bruised, rattled, thirsty, and hungry all at once. Yet the only thing she could think of was Mike Califano. Trampled. In her mind’s eye, she saw him slipping beneath the rampaging feet of a million pilgrims. She couldn’t stand that image anymore. Yet it kept coming back, again and again.

  “There’s water in the car,” said Akeem. “You look dehydrated.” He opened the door of the SUV for her.

  And there he was.

  “Why didn’t you answer the goddamn radio!” Ana said, seething, as she crawled into the backseat with Califano. Akeem shut the door behind her.

  Califano was slumped low in his seat. He slowly pulled open his tunic and showed her his badly bruised and bloody chest and ribs. “Transmitter broke,” he said.

  “Jesus,” Ana whispered, lightly touching his black-and-blue chest. “That doesn’t look good.”

  “Yeah? You should see the other million guys.” Califano tried in vain to laugh at his own stupid joke, but he immediately winced from the pain.

  “I’m guessing you have some broken ribs.”

  “Probably. But look what else I got.” He slowly opened his clenched fist to reveal a small black chip of stone—the same chip that had been delivered to the Russians by Stephen Haroldson, which Fulcher had used for the White Sea demonstration. When Califano gently moved his hand away, the tiny object stayed perfectly in place, floating inexplicably in midair.

  “My God,” Ana whispered, astonished. She stared at the stone for several seconds in silence. Then she said, “Hey, do you think McCreary would let me make a necklace out of this?”

  Califano laughed and winced. “I think he might have some concerns about that.”

  49

  OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

  Is there any booze on this plane?” asked Mike Califano. With effort, he leaned forward in his plush leather seat and scanned all around the sleek cabin of the Gulfstream.

  “It’s against regulation,” Thorne replied. She was seated across from him in the Gulfstream’s mahogany-trimmed cabin. Other than the pilot and copilot, they were all alone on the luxury aircraft as it traveled at Mach 0.8 through the lower atmosphere, 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, en route to Dulles, Virginia.

  “Figures,” Califano mumbled, slumping back into his seat.

  “SOP 20.2.1 prohibits CIA personnel from drinking alcohol while on duty,” Thorne explained. “Unless it’s directly required by the circumstances of a mission. And if that weren’t enough, the director’s standing order thirty-seven specifically prohibits drugs and alcohol aboard any CIA vessel, including aircraft.”

  “Whatever,” said Califano with a sigh.

  Ana watched him for a few seconds and then smirked. “But . . . I guess some rules were meant to be broken.” She rose from her seat and retrieved a bottle of chilled champagne from a cabinet on the port side of the airplane. She placed it on the table between them, along with two flute-style glasses, and then resumed her seat.

  “Now you’re talking,” said Califano with a crooked smile.

  “Want to do the honors?”

  With a wince, Califano leaned forward and unwrapped the foil and wire from the bottle and then quickly popped the cork. He poured two glasses of the bubbly liquid and handed one to Ana.

  Ana raised her glass. “Here’s to . . .” Her voice trailed off as she tried to figure out who or what to toast.

  Califano took over. “Here’s to the Office of Disruptive Technology Analysis and Intervention.”

  Ana laughed. “That’s a mouthful.” She clinked her glass against Califano’s and took a sip. Then they both settled into their seats and relaxed with their drinks.

  “So I was wondering,” said Califano after a long stretch.

  “Hmm?”

  “If I came to work for DTAI, would you be my boss?”

  “Whoa,” said Ana, holding up her hand. “Who said anything about you joining DTAI? First of all, you’d have to be admitted into the CIA.” She paused for a moment and considered mentioning the issue of Califano’s prison stint, but she decided to let it go. “Then there’s a ton of training you’d have to go through. Classroom work, physical training, weapons training, and the whole adventure down at Camp Peary. Then you’d have to work your way up to a billet like DTAI. Trust me, there’s a lot of grunt work for new recruits.” She took a sip of her champagne and shrugged. “But yeah . . . in theory, if you came to work at DTAI, I would be your direct supervisor.”

  “Cool,” said Califano, nodding his head slowly. “I think you’d be a good boss to have.”

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not be complete without an acknowledgment of the many people who helped make it possible. First and foremost, thanks to my beautiful wife, Kelley, for her love, patience, and support. Thanks also to my friend and colleague Andy Holtman for his encouragement and advice on early drafts of this book; to my brothers, Cliff Barney and Jonathan Barney, for their encouragement and support; to my parents, Cliff and Edna Barney, for their comments on early drafts of this book; to Anna Balishina Naydonov, Marcus Luepke, and Dr. Branimir Vojcic for their invaluable assistance in translating Russian, Ukrainian, German, and Croatian phrases; to my in-laws, Debby and David Stoll, for their support and encouragement; to my terrific agent, Mickey Choate; and last but not least, to Jennifer Brehl, Emily Krump, and the rest of the superb team at HarperCollins for making this book a success.

  And, of course, I extend a special thanks to everyone who has purchased and read The Joshua Stone. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it.

  P.S.

  About the author

  Meet James Barney

  About the book

  Separating Fact from Fiction

  Read on

  More from James Barney

  About the author

  Meet James Barney

  JAMES BARNEY is the critically acclaimed author of The Genesis Key. He is an attorney who lives outside Washington, D.C., with his wife and two children.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  About the book

  Separating Fact from Fiction

  I HOPE YOU ENJOYED reading The Joshua Stone as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you’re anything like me, you’re probably now wondering which parts of the story are actually true and which are fictional. Yes, some elements of The Joshua Stone are, in fact, true—or at least true-ish. But which ones?

  For those who like a challenge, I have created a short quiz that measures your skill at separating fact from fiction. (If you don’t like quizzes, feel free to skip to the answers at the end.) See if you can identify which statements below are true and which ar
e false.

  Questions:

  1. True or False: Thurmond, West Virginia, is an abandoned coal-mining town located along the New River Gorge Valley.

  2. True or False: Thurmond, West Virginia, was once home to the Thurmond National Laboratory, where the U.S. government conducted secret nuclear experiments in the 1950s.

  3. True or False: Fire Creek, West Virginia, is a small town of several hundred residents and has a local diner similar to Thelma’s.

  4. True or False: The Department of Energy headquarters building in Washington, D.C., is named for a former secretary of the Navy who committed suicide in 1949 by jumping from the sixteenth floor of Bethesda Naval Hospital.

  5. True or False: Russia has constructed several floating nuclear power stations similar to the Lomonosov-class floating power stations described in the story.

  6. True or False: The Great Mosque of Al-Zaytuna in Tunis was constructed of columns and other building materials salvaged from the ancient ruins of Carthage.

  7. True or False: During World War II, the Nazis were reportedly interested in a particular stone that was enshrined in the Great Mosque of Al-Zaytuna.

  8. True or False: Very small quantities of material have been discovered on earth that do not appear to obey the normal laws of gravity.

  9. True or False: The book of Jasher is considered a “lost” book of the Bible. It is mentioned twice in the Old Testament, but no authentic copy of the book of Jasher has ever been found.

  10. True or False: U.S. government scientists conducted time-dilation experiments in the late 1950s and were able to generate time dilations of several minutes, as measured by Atomichron clocks.

  11. True or False: Project Paperclip was a covert operation conducted by the U.S. government in the aftermath of World War II to entice German scientists to come to the United States.

  12. True or False: Dr. Benjamin Fulcher was a Nobel Prize–winning physicist whose most famous work in quantum entanglement was done at the Institute of Advanced Studies in Princeton, New Jersey.