Artifact

by Vaughn Heppner

  How long did I sleep?

  However long it had been, he felt better. His head didn’t ache like before and his mouth seemed normal.

  Slowly, Jack worked up to his elbows. There was a noise to his left. He looked there.

  Selene Khan sat in the room’s only chair, a patchwork stuffed thing. Her feet were up on the bottom cushion with a book before her face so he couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see him either. She wore panties, revealing her smooth, long legs. She must have taken off her pants because of the heat.

  Whatever the reason, sight of her legs brought a hint of a grin to Elliot’s face.

  Did she feel his gaze? She lowered the book and caught him grinning. She made a soft sound, closing the book with a snap, putting her feet down and putting the book over her lap.

  “Please don’t leer at me,” she said.

  Jack looked down to show he appreciated her. She’d kept them both alive and free when he’d been a mental and physical wreck. Carefully, he swung his legs off the bed, putting his feet on a filthy rug.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Some. Thanks, by the way.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  He raised a hand, indicting the room. “For getting us out of Egypt and into Iran,” he said.

  “You did most of that.”

  “I did?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “I simply followed your instructions,” she said. “They were quite shifty and manipulative. Once, you pared your fingernails with the knife. It convinced the fence, as you called him, to add several hundred pounds to the final price. I’d never have gotten us out of Cairo on my own. What kind of work did you do again?”

  “American Intelligence,” he said.

  “The CIA?”

  “No. D17.”

  “I’ve…I’ve never heard of it.”

  He noticed her hesitation saying that. It seemed as if she had heard about Detachment 17 before, but he let it pass. “Good,” he said. “That’s partly the point. We’re ghosts.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Only a few people think they’ve seen us, and no one else believes them.”

  “Ah,” Selene said.

  “I could use some water.”

  Selene reached down, and almost pitched him a water bottle. She stopped herself. “Can you catch?”

  “Maybe in another day,” he said.

  She stood, making Elliot glad he’d said what he had. She looked good. She crossed to him, and this woman knew how to walk in panties.

  She shoved the water against his chest, almost knocking him back.

  “I told you not to leer at me,” she said.

  “I know it’s hot, but you might want to put some pants on then, because you’re definitely worth leering at.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Yes,” he said. He unscrewed the cap and began to guzzle, draining the bottle before pulling the plastic away.

  She took that time to follow his advice, pulling on a pair of wrinkled pants. “I haven’t had time to find a Laundromat yet,” she said.

  “We’ll buy new clothes. That will be easier.”

  “Our money supply is running low.”

  “You don’t have access to more?”

  “Actually, I do,” Selene said. “Don’t you remember telling me it would be a mistake using my ATM card?”

  “I don’t but I was right.”

  “What have I gotten mixed up in?” Selene asked.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you’d know.”

  “Great!” she said. “I’m more baffled than ever. Even this book hasn’t been much help.”

  “What book?” Elliot asked.

  She lifted the notebook she’d been reading.

  “What’s it about?” he asked.

  Selene sat in the stuffed chair, staring at him. “Are you feeling well enough to hear a story?”

  “Let me drink more water and go to the rest room. I’ll wait a while before eating.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  Jack drank another bottle and went to the restroom. When he returned, Selene Khan was standing by the window, staring outside. He wore a shirt and pants, both of them wrinkled from constant wearing.

  The bed creaked as he sat on it, leaning against the headboard.

  She turned around, the first few buttons undone on her blouse, the skin there shiny from the heat. Selene was beautiful but there was fear in her eyes. It wasn’t the frightened doe kind of fear. She had too much inner strength for that. Jack recognized that in her. Besides, despite her telling him he’d done most of the thinking that had gotten them here, she’d been the one who actually did the deeds. That took nerve.

  “I don’t know whether I can trust you or not,” she said.

  He nodded, liking that. She was cautious.

  “The little I know about these people, maybe this is all an elaborate setup.”

  “If it is a setup,” he said, “why would it matter if you told me what’s been happening to you so far? I’d already know.”

  She considered that, studying him more carefully afterward. “You say you belong to…?”

  “D17,” he said. “We’re strictly hush-hush and we…liquidate more than most.”

  “You mean kill, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  She nodded. “I can believe that. You scared a few people along the way. Do you remember the thug who tried to rob us?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Look at your left hand, the knuckles.”

  He did. The hand was a touch puffy. He fingered the knuckles. They were sore.

  “I think the Cairo fence that underpaid us sent the thug after us,” Selene said. “In an alleyway, the thug clicked a switchblade and rushed me. You had told me to carry the money and the fence might have heard that. I’ve never seen someone hit so hard. You vomited on the thug afterward. It was disgusting.”

  “How about that,” Jack said.

  “I don’t think you’re faking any of this. But I’ve been through a lot. Especially after the underwater dome—” Her scrutiny of him intensified.

  “I’d like hear about that,” he said.

  She walked to the stuffed chair, sitting down. Her fingers intertwined and she bit her lower lip.

  “It happened just before Egypt. I lost…I lost most of my friends that day. I saw things that shouldn’t exist. Sometimes I wonder if I was hallucinating. It’s just too weird, too…impossible.”

  “That’s a good word,” Jack said.

  “Why?”

  “Before I tell you, I want you to tell me what they were doing to you and Carter in that building.”

  Selene shuddered. “I don’t know exactly. They strapped your friend into a dentist chair.”

  “What?”

  Selene explained what had happened on the second floor with the chair, swirling color patterns and the parabolic dishes. She suggested they had been trying to hypnotize Carter.

  “What led you to that conclusion?” Jack asked.

  She told him about Ney Blanc the DGSE Frenchman and her theory concerning him. That he was under their control but still tried to act like a French secret service agent at times.

  “Interesting,” Jack said. “Yes. I could see how turning an agent would be critical. That might help explain the Ardennes too.”

  “What happened it the Ardennes?” she asked.

  Jack said nothing.

  “Is that classified?” she asked.

  Jack continued to remain silent as the seconds stretched. Finally, he said, “Your theory about hypnosis seems believable because these people produce antimatter by the gram.”

  Selene’s eyes widened.

  “You realize how impossible that is with modern technology?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve read about CERN. They make miniscule particles of antimatter.”

  “That’s right,” Jack said. “But D’erlon Enterprises�
�� science is light years ahead of what it should be. I think they also experiment with animals, making them more intelligent.”

  The strength seemed to go out of her legs. Selene slumped into the stuffed chair, staring straight ahead.

  “It seems I touched a nerve,” he said.

  She nodded slowly.

  “We should compare notes,” Jack said.

  She stared at him.

  “If I’m right, I’m cut off from D17.”

  Selene frowned. “That doesn’t sound good. Why would you think that?”

  “Mrs. King’s heart attack came at precisely the wrong moment. Smith gave us odd instructions on the satellite phone. Ney Blanc is helping them. Throw in mass antimatter production and a genetically altered dog…” Jack frowned. “When you fit it all together it feels as if the Illuminati are real.”

  “You mean the Illuminati as in a secret conspiracy group?” Selene asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re making my story seem more believable.”

  He waited.

  Her stomach growled, which seemed to embarrass her. “Let’s eat before I tell you about the Indian Ocean.”

  Jack felt a faint stirring of hunger, so he agreed.

  They ate food Selene had bought at an Iranian market: rice with slivers of chicken, along with dried apricots.

  Afterward, she told him about the fake Indonesian Navy cutter, Forrest Dean, the fantastic underwater dome and the gun firing an invisible ray that had smoked Forrest’s heart, killing him. She told Jack about the tuning fork, how it had stopped a tiger shark from killing her. Selene finished the tale with the man in the speedboat searching for her.

  “Interesting,” Jack said. “I think—”

  Before he could finish, someone outside the room rapped against the door, shouting at them in Farsi.

  -52-

  TEHRAN

  IRAN

  “What should we do?” Selene asked.

  Jack rubbed his forehead. He felt crappy, but at least he wasn’t woozy anymore.

  “They sound Iranian,” he said. “Make the bed, button your blouse all the way and sit demurely in the stuffed chair.”

  Someone now banged a fist against the door. The shouting was more insistent.

  “Hurry,” Jack said over his shoulder. He moved toward the door.

  He didn’t make it in time. One last shout sounded and another fist-bang. Then, a boot smashed against the door. It tore the lock apart and sent the flimsy door flying inward. Jack had almost reached it, barely halting in time as the swinging door fanned him.

  A burly Iranian in an army jacket staggered into the room. He had a baton in his fist.

  One look at the man caused Jack to back up. The man was fleshy faced with the arrogant stamp of someone used to pushing people around. He had thick shoulders and strong-looking hands. Another one just like him followed the first into the hotel room. The third man was thinner, older, with a gray beard, wearing robes and a turban.

  Jack guessed the older man to be an imam, a Muslim holy man. These men must belong to the ruling government that first came into power during President Carter’s time. The Ayatollah Khomeini had started the Muslim Revolution that had ripped Iran from the Shah’s grip. Maybe these men were Basij, morality police. Wasn’t their main goal making sure Iranian women wore the higab?

  The first burly thug shouted in Farsi.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said, trying to sound contrite. “I don’t speak Iranian.”

  The imam spoke a quiet word. The two thugs glanced at him. He blinked in a meaningful manner. Like angry Doberman pinchers, the two baton-wielders stepped back, flanking the older man.

  “You are American?” the imam asked in decent English.

  “We are, sir,” Jack said.

  The imam didn’t frown or smile. He stared at Jack and then glanced at Selene. “She is wearing a head covering. That is wise.”

  “We wish to respect Iran’s laws,” Jack said.

  “Your papers are in order?”

  Jack licked his lips. He couldn’t remember anything about papers.

  “Yes,” Selene said. “I have our passports.”

  The imam scowled, perhaps because Selene had spoken without anyone asking her a question first.

  Jack turned around. She had risen, taking two passports from her purse. He didn’t remember buying these. Had they done that in the Cairo bazaar?

  Taking them from her, Jack approached the imam. The first Basiji stepped in front of Jack, blocking the way.

  Jack handed the passports to the thug. He turned and gave them to the imam.

  The gray-bearded man had been watching Jack the entire time. The imam now opened the first passport. He glanced at it and looked at Selene. Then he opened the second passport and glanced at Jack.

  “Hers says Dr. Selene Khan,” the imam told Jack. “Yours is Henry Ford.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said as politely as he could.

  “You are not brother and sister,” the imam said.

  Jack understood his error. This was Iran, ruled by the Shia mullahs under Sharia law, the Muslim ideals as propounded in the ninth century.

  The imam spoke a few words in Farsi. The two Basij listened intently. The first one’s face twisted into a hard smile.

  “She is my niece on my mother’s side,” Jack said. “I am escorting—”

  The imam held up his right hand. “Please, do not lie. That will only compound your sins. You have obviously had sexual relations in this room. The woman has that distinctive flush to her skin and you appear winded. You foreigners with your lustful degeneracy believe you can flout the Prophet’s ways. No. I will have to teach you—”

  “Please,” Jack said, his face twisting into a mask of fear. He made his lower lip tremble. “I-I didn’t know… I-I…”

  Elliot dropped to his knees and hung his head as if with shame. He shuffled forward, making his body shake as if weeping, his head hanging lower and lower. As he approached the imam, he focused on the feet of the two baton-wielders.

  The first Basiji laughed fiercely, muttering in Farsi.

  Jack made himself blubber as he bent lower, clutching the imam’s knees. The gray-bearded man touched Jack’s head, speaking sharply.

  Elliot concentrated, tightening his grip, getting his feet under him and thrusting forward, catapulting the older man backward, keeping the legs pinned. The imam fell hard, hitting his head on the way down, thudding onto the carpet.

  Jack let go. He was on his stomach now. Rolling onto his back, he saw the first Basiji stare in disbelief at the imam and then Jack.

  Elliot waited, needing them to react.

  The first Basiji shouted with rage, lifting his baton, charging Jack on the floor. The second also charged. Jack spun on his back, leg whipping the second Basiji. The man cried out, falling forward, taking the brunt of the first thug’s baton swing.

  Jack scrambled to his feet, tearing the baton from the second Basiji’s weakened grip. He thrust the baton like a rapier into the first man’s gut, catching him by surprise. The Basiji grunted painfully. Jack swung fast and hard, clubbing the man on the head once, twice, three times. The thug thudded unconscious onto the carpet.

  Elliot felt nauseous from the exertion. He didn’t have much strength left. With it, he clubbed the second Basiji on the back of the head. The thug struggling to rise thudded onto the carpet. Jack stumbled from him, becoming dizzy. Even so, he hit the imam two times with the baton. The oldster wore a turban, cushioning the blows. Jack wanted to make sure none of them would wake up too soon.

  Finally, Jack let the baton hit the carpet. His chest heaved, but he held back the vomit by sheer force of will.

  “What have you done?” Selene gasped, who stared at him wild-eyed.

  “We’re going to check their pockets for money,” Jack whispered. “If you find keys, take them. We might have gotten ourselves a vehicle as well. The old man will have the gun. I need it.”

  “Are you crazy?”
Selene asked.

  “No. Desperate. There’s a difference. Now, hurry.” Jack staggered for the bathroom. “I’m going to be sick for a minute. Then I’ll help you. We have to get out of here as fast as we can.”

  -53-

  CAIRO

  EGYPT

  Marcus shook his head as he sat outside at a café, sipping exceptionally potent coffee. What he really would have liked was a glass of red wine. Unfortunately, the Koran frowned on alcohol, and this was Egypt.

  The street swarmed with humanity, a mass of sweating bodies surging this way and that. There were too many people in this country. An ant colony would have felt more relaxing than this.

  Marcus picked up the cup. Despite the crowding, he’d never felt better physically. Hela had told the truth. Perfect health was astounding. He felt sharp, alive to a vital degree. He was going to find Jack Elliot and Selene Khan. Marcus owed the woman for shooting him in the throat.

  He sipped, thinking about that. If she hadn’t shot him in the throat, would he have entered the rehabilitator? And if he hadn’t entered the rehabilitator, would he be experiencing perfect health right now? Did that mean he owed the woman a favor for shooting him instead of retribution? That was a philosophical quandary. Her attack had forced Mother’s hand. Because of the reaction, his mind now purred at high velocity.

  I wouldn’t have looked at a situation like that before. This is new.

  That was interesting, and that—

  Marcus lowered the cup onto its saucer. He frowned. Was it possible Mother had…fiddled with his mind? How would he know? He might not. He would have to examine his thoughts carefully, comparing and contrasting before and after the rehabilitator.

  Marcus didn’t like people messing with what was his or having authority over him. That was one of the greatest things about working for Mother. Normally, he was a law onto himself. He did not follow the herd. He was above the herd, moving among them to do as he willed.

  I am Marcus.

  He self—

  A cellphone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. With a flash of irritation, Marcus withdrew the cell from a coat pocket. The smug Frenchman was calling.

  “Yes?” Marcus said.