Quantum Lens

by Douglas E. Richards

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Douglas E. Richards

  Published by Paragon Press, 2014

  E-mail the author at doug@san.rr.com

  Friend him on Facebook at Douglas E. Richards Author, or visit his website at www.douglaserichards.com

  All rights reserved. With the exception of excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.

  First Edition

  QUANTUM LENS

  Douglas E. Richards

  Prologue

  Abdul Salib drove past the eastern boundary of Syria’s largest city, Aleppo, which had been inhabited in one of its many iterations for over eight thousand years, and onto a narrow desert road. The encampment that was Salib’s destination was only a thirty minute ride from Aleppo’s edge. Save for the sound of the jeep’s engine and the air being circulated throughout the vehicle, he and his two companions were entombed in silence.

  The hellish desert was an endless sea of desolation, which still evoked a primal sense of unease in Salib. While human progress had defanged this arid wasteland considerably, traversing its scorched sands added to the tense air of foreboding that had already enveloped the three men inside the jeep.

  Salib had no idea what they might be up against. But he had heard things. Impossible things. Terrible things.

  He knew he had been chosen for the assignment because he was highly intelligent and level headed, not given to fits of superstition or religious zealotry. Still, given what he had heard, his usual calm and resolve had given way to a seeping fear he couldn’t quite shake.

  The man they had come to meet, Omar Haddad, had no discernible past. He had been a nobody. No more noteworthy than any one of billions around the globe who lived their meaningless lives, and left not the slightest footprint in the sands of time. But between one step and the next, Haddad had gone from leaving no footprint to leaving one the size of a crater. What size impact would his next footfall reveal?

  But what did he want? And how had he amassed so much power so quickly?

  Salib ran the jeep off the road and stopped it next to several dozen vehicles parked in a makeshift lot on a random stretch of flat desert. Fifty yards away lay their destination, an encampment at the foot of a sizable oasis, consisting of dozens of oversized tents, inhabited by fervent followers of the man who had set up camp in the largest of the tents, in the center of the encampment. In a tent so enormous it could house a hundred men.

  Or a single man pretending to be a god.

  A man who was quickly becoming dangerous. Omar Haddad’s following was spreading like a virulent, highly contagious virus. His believers were passionate and steadfast, and also terrified that if they crossed him he would strike them down with a horrible vengeance. He thought of himself as more than a prophet. As somehow divine. As an extension of Allah.

  Omar Haddad had managed to amass a following so absolutely devoted to him, and growing so quickly, that he had snatched the undivided attention of Syria’s new President, Khalil Najjar. And Najjar’s attention and unease were further intensified when the president took steps to investigate. No threats could discourage Haddad’s followers. Najjar had overseen the torture of several, but they refused to renounce Haddad, lest they lose their place in the afterlife.

  Belief had seized these followers so totally that Najjar and the ruling party knew they needed to stop Haddad quickly. If this epidemic was not contained, all could be lost.

  Even so, President Najjar was a ruthless man with nearly unbridled power, and had fully expected to get control of the situation quite rapidly. Yes, Haddad was becoming worrisome, but Najjar could make him go away with the snap of his fingers.

  So he had sent an envoy to meet with Omar Haddad. To explain that his claims to be a prophet, or a messiah, or even an extension of Allah were blasphemous and would not be tolerated. That his throngs of passionate followers would need to be set straight. That Haddad needed to renounce himself as a con-man and charlatan, or suffer lethal consequences.

  Najjar’s envoy had made a pilgrimage to the very tent complex Salib was now eyeing in the distance. A pilgrimage many others had also made for months now, on days Haddad had designated for those of influence to seek the divine. The cult leader was completely unprotected within his encampment, and visitors were not checked for weapons.

  Salib had no doubt that Haddad’s influential guests were impressed with this confidence. And the simple encampment in the dessert, at the base of an oasis, was a theatrical masterstroke. If you wanted to stir religious fervor, nothing harkened back to the days of Muhammad better than a simple man, unprotected, in a white tent, with a hellish dessert in front of him and lush palm trees and springs behind him.

  The envoy Najjar had sent to encourage Haddad to desist had possessed overwhelming force, with instructions not to spare any of it if Haddad proved to be stubborn. Najjar had fully expected the cult leader not to cooperate, given how delusional he had become, and for this to be the last the president would ever hear from him.

  Unfortunately, this was not the case. Instead, it was the last Najjar would ever hear—not from Omar Haddad—but from the envoy he had sent. Not a single member ever returned. Ever. And no one had even the slightest idea of what had become of them.

  So Najjar had sent another envoy, larger and better armed, who were instructed to be quick to deploy their superior weaponry, and warned of the fate of the first envoy to ensure they did not let down their guard. They, too, were happily escorted into the Bermuda Triangle that was Haddad’s tent. And they, too, were never heard from again.

  Even more maddening to Najjar, Haddad had ignored him. He hadn’t contacted him in outrage. He hadn’t gloated or complained. It was as though the envoys had been flies that he had swatted absentmindedly. Haddad had gone about his business, seemingly unconcerned by what move President Najjar might make in the aftermath of the disappearances of his envoys.

  But despite the theatricality of Haddad’s tent, he was intent on establishing a larger base of operations. He had recently purchased a palatial estate once owned by the wealthiest citizen in Syria, on dozens of acres of land, with an advanced security perimeter.

  So far Najjar hadn’t thwarted Haddad’s effort to build out his vast stronghold. Because no matter how well fortified Haddad became, his fortress would not protect him against Syria’s proud air force. Against scorched-earth attacks spearheaded by jet fighters whose terrible guns and missiles could not be denied.

  Salib frowned. On the other hand, it was probable that Haddad had infiltrated the military, and that his devoted followers within would intercept any such order to annihilate him, with unpredictable consequences. President Najjar was well aware that a military strike could backfire.

  So Najjar had chosen a different approach this time. A peaceful one. He was rattled. And he needed to understand what it was that was growing like a plague in the dessert. So he had sent Salib this time. With an olive branch. And without any weapons.

  Salib and his two companions arrived at the entrance to the tent, which was flanked by two of Haddad’s followers wearing white robes. Salib explained to the men who they were, and that they sought counsel with the Great One, as they had been instructed to do. One of the men entered the tent and returned only a few minutes later, motioning them to come inside.

  Salib glanced at his two companions, both of whom wore expressions that might have been sun
nier had they been told they would be rolled across a pit of scorpions, and swallowed hard.

  They entered the tent, and Haddad’s disciples stayed outside and reclosed the fabric entrance. Thirty feet in front of them, Haddad was standing alone against one tent-wall, in immaculate white robes and headdress. His dark beard was close-cropped and neatly trimmed, and he seemed to radiate purity and simplicity. He looked almost glowing, both in his scrubbed cleanliness and the overwhelming confidence that seemed to blaze from his every pore.

  White marble pedestals had been placed at the entrance and in the four corners of the large tent, and on top of each was a golden cage, imprisoning a tiny bird within, either yellow or orange red. Salib wondered if the birds served a symbolic purpose, but had no time to contemplate this further.

  Salib and his two companions introduced themselves, and Omar Haddad looked them over, seeming to be in no hurry to begin the proceedings.

  “Thank you for granting us this audience, um . . . Great One,” said Salib in Arabic, bowing slightly. “As we told your disciples, we are an envoy from President Najjar.”

  Haddad smiled serenely. “No weapons this time?” he said in amusement.

  Salib forced a smile in return. “No weapons, Great One. We come in peace. Forgive me for asking, but are we addressing you properly? We were told Great One was acceptable. But we also understand that many of your followers are calling you Mahid, or the Twelfth Imam. Is this how you would prefer to be addressed?”

  Haddad shook his head. “No. I am different, and greater, than Mahid. But a misguided belief among my followers that I contain his spirit is to be understood. I am The Hand of Allah. But you may call me simply, Al Yad. Great One is acceptable as well.”

  Salib nodded. Al Yad: The Hand. Another nice theatrical touch. The man certainly didn’t suffer from low self-esteem.

  Salib also appreciated Haddad’s creativity and audacity in carving out a novel place in divinity, created from whole cloth rather than adopted from prophecy. He couldn’t claim to be Mahid, The Guided One, whom many believed to be the messiah. Too many different interpretations of this prophecy. And he couldn’t pass himself off as Allah, of course. So he had chosen to create a mythical niche for himself, somewhere between the two.

  “Forgive me, Great One,” said Abdul Salib, “but I would like to come straight to the point of our visit.”

  The man before them nodded.

  “We are here to ask your intentions. To be blunt, Al Yad, what are your goals? What are you trying to accomplish? What do you want?”

  A cold, humorless smile crossed Al Yad’s face. “What I want is to be left in peace to build my church. I am not thine enemy. I shall build a following and then, in the fullness of time, I shall destroy all infidels. I shall turn the streets of the unbelievers into crimson rivers of blood, and their cities into smoldering ash-heaps. Only true believers in Islam shall be spared.”

  Which meant true believers in him, Salib knew. He noticed that Haddad had even begun speaking using a smattering of biblical verbiage. Thine enemy. Shall. This man was seriously deluded.

  But Salib had heard stories . . . . It was hard to believe them, but it was also hard to believe so many people would follow Haddad just based on theatrics and charisma alone. And the disappearances of the armed envoys was a nice trick that not even the best magicians in Vegas could manage.

  Salib didn’t bother glancing to either side of him to see the reaction of his companions. They were there simply to act as further eyes and ears, witnesses to the proceedings, and had been instructed to remain silent unless spoken to. This was Salib’s show.

  Salib cleared his throat. “These goals are all quite laudable, Al Yad,” he said. “Praise be to Allah. But at the same time, you must understand why they might be troubling to President Najjar. It is harder to govern when someone is capturing the hearts and minds of so many people.”

  Al Yad shrugged, but remained silent. Not his problem, said the man’s body language.

  “Join us, Al Yad. President Najjar is prepared to make you his second in command. A sanctioned spiritual leader. He is prepared to let you continue to build your church.”

  “Let me?” snapped Al Yad sharply.

  “Forgive me, Great One,” said Salib immediately. “A poor choice of words. I meant he is prepared to assist you, to encourage you, to continue your excellent work. Together you can ensure a better life for yourself, and for our beloved religion and country.”

  “I am the Hand of Allah” he said simply. “What need have I for any assistance?”

  “None, Al Yad. But as powerful as you are, this is an excellent offer. Second in command of all of Syria.”

  “I shall soon be first in command of all the world. A world cleansed of infidels and reshaped to my liking. Next to this, your president may as well be offering me a job as janitor.”

  Abdul Salib swallowed hard. “Shall I tell the president that you will be rejecting his offer, then, Al Yad?”

  “You shall.”

  Salib thought about what might have happened to the last two envoys, who had brought weapons and had almost certainly tried to use them. And he tried to put out of his mind some of the stories he had heard about this man. So far the exchange had been cordial, but Salib was more afraid than he had ever been. And it wasn’t just the rumors. There was an unmistakable air of menace to this man, as though he had the will, and somehow the means, to snuff out lives at his slightest whim.

  It was cool in the tent, but Salib was sweating profusely under his ceremonial robes. He had an unsinkable feeling that his life depended on how carefully he was able to choose his next words. How carefully he was able to deliver the message Najjar had instructed him to deliver if, as expected, Omar Haddad rejected his offer—which wasn’t made in good faith in any event. Had Haddad accepted, Najjar would only pretend to bring him into the fold, studying him up close to learn what made him tick, so he could determine the cleanest way to dispose of him.

  “The president will be, um . . . disappointed, Great One. I am but a humble messenger, of course, but I can’t guarantee that he won’t take this as a . . . personal insult.”

  “Let him.”

  “If he takes your refusal as an insult, Al Yad, he may feel the need to retaliate.”

  Haddad smiled broadly. “He may feel the need all he wants. But he is just a man,” he whispered dismissively. “And I am beyond the reach of any retaliation he might choose to mete out. Am I not The Hand of Allah?” he demanded.

  The usually commanding Salib flinched. “You are, indeed, oh Great One,” he said.

  Salib took a deep mental breath and tried to keep any tremor from his voice, which suddenly was more of a challenge than he would have liked to admit. “Forgive me, once again, Al Yad. But I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that President Najjar has control of Syria’s Air Force. Speaking hypothetically, of course, but he has instructed me to remind you that one word from him and this section of dessert could be turned into . . . glass.”

  A smile slowly grew across Omar Haddad’s face.

  The man was actually amused by this threat. This offhand dismissal was more chilling to Salib than any other reaction Haddad might have had.

  “Perhaps it would be of educational value for him to try,” said Al Yad simply, shrugging.

  The last thing Najjar wanted was to use this kind of extreme force against this man, and the cult leader seemed savvy enough to know it. He was gambling that Najjar wouldn’t unleash his air-force, whose loyalties were uncertain, against someone who hadn’t made a single move against the government, or spoken out against the current regime in any way.

  And this Al Yad had built a cult so fanatically devoted to him, so certain of his divinity, that attacking him, martyring him, would be highly dangerous. One might think his followers would take the fact that he could be killed as a sign he was an imposter, but President Najjar was convinced otherwise.

  “Great One, I have one last point the president
asked me—”

  “Enough!” shouted Al Yad, his eyes burning with a sudden, fiery malevolence. “I grow weary of this nonsense,” he added, the chill of his tone in perfect contrast to his blazing stare. “The time for a lesson is now at hand.”

  The sand began to shake violently around the cult leader’s sandals, as if an earthquake were concentrated beneath his feet, threatening to rip a tear deep into the earth.

  Salib’s eyes widened. Reports of such seemingly supernatural occurrences had been widespread.

  Al Yad stood calmly within the center of the maelstrom, continuing to focus a hellish glare on his three visitors.

  Suddenly, Al Yad began to rise gently into the air.

  Salib and his two companions gasped!

  All three had a primal urge to either flee or fall to their knees. But they were somehow frozen in place.

  The man continued to levitate effortlessly, majestically, until his feet were fifteen feet above the ground. He hovered above them, his head nearly touching the roof of the tent, as the sand beneath him settled down and became utterly still once again.

  Salib sensed an almost electric energy radiating from the man, and his self confident glow seemed to intensify. Salib felt himself trembling before this raw demonstration of power. But was it divine?

  Haddad’s followers had claimed he was capable of feats far greater even than this, and Salib and the president had concluded that the man must have apprenticed with a master magician, and had a flair for elaborate illusions.

  But seeing one of these illusions in person was astonishing, and it drilled into a quivering vein of terror within Salib he had not known he possessed. His usually large reserve of courage had been stripped away as though he were a game animal being skinned by a hunter, revealing the soft, quivering flesh underneath, soaked, not with blood, but with an irrational sense of dread he couldn’t shake.

  No wonder Al Yad’s followers believed in him so fervently. Believed he truly was The Hand of God. Intellectually, it was easy to argue that this was trickery. But emotionally, viscerally . . . this was another story entirely.