by Ted Dekker
These desert dwellers, they were thickheaded!
“Of course not,” he said and took another sip. The cool tea suggested it was time to leave.
“You must know something, my friend,” the sheik said. “We may make our plans, but in the end the will of God will prevail. His ways are sometimes . . . mysterious. I will bring the full weight of my influence to bear on my daughter, but she does have a mind of her own. I won’t resort to barbarian extremes.”
Khalid blinked. What was he saying?
“I trust that your son will win the love of my daughter, but even if he does not, I will not allow her to be maimed or killed.” He waved a dismissing hand. “But I’m sure you assumed nothing less.”
“I assure you that she’s in good hands. If there’s one thing Omar excels at beyond the sword, it is courting a woman.” He managed a graceful composure. “He has the blood of his grandfather, Abdul Aziz, in his veins.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
They looked at each other until Khalid dropped his eyes.
“No matter,” the sheik said, breaking the moment. “She will love whomever God wills her to love.” He reached for his cup of tea and raised it. “To the will of God, my friend.”
“To the will of God.”
Omar lay in the grass, scoping the barn below the sloping hill, poised for a shot. A line of police cars waited down by the road, out of the barn’s line of sight. No fewer than twenty policemen crept over the meadow toward the peeling red building. If Seth and Miriam were in there, they would not escape. So, Clive Masters was proving to be an efficient tracker.
This was not good. Once the Americans had Miriam, his job would become significantly more difficult.
He had two options. He could begin shooting now and send the police scurrying for cover, which would give Seth a chance to escape. Perhaps the safer option.
Or he could affix the silencer, wait until the police were closer to the building, and then shoot one in a way that made it appear as if the shot had come from the barn. Risky. He might miss and Seth might not escape. The police, however, would reconsider the possibility that Seth was armed and dangerous. They might also think the shot had come from Hilal.
Omar lifted the scope and scanned the surrounding hills. The snake was out there; Omar could almost smell him. He would have heard the report and would be waiting. Another reason to use the silencer.
His scope caught a pinprick of light and Omar adjusted his sight. The profile of a rifle materialized through the grass, five hundred yards off.
Hilal!
Omar put his crosshairs on the form in the grass and tightened his trigger finger.
The silencer! He rolled to his back, pulled the tube from his breast pocket, screwed it on, and then rolled back into position. The police were no more than thirty yards from the barn now.
He swung the rifle toward Hilal, acquired the target, and squeezed the trigger. His rifle coughed quietly. The rifle across the meadow jerked from view. He would not kill Hilal yet—he needed the information the king’s man passed back to Mustafa. But he wouldn’t allow Hilal to kill Miriam either.
Omar spun his sights to the lead officer in uniform and dropped him with a long shot through the chest.
For a moment his colleagues stopped, stunned. Perhaps they thought the officer had fallen for cover.
Omar was about to put another round in the man’s fallen body when the officer rolled over. His moan floated through the valley.
“Man down! Man down!”
Pandemonium swept through the men strung out along the field. Several retreated in a quick sprint; the rest dropped for cover. Omar hugged the earth and slowly pulled back.
The rest he would monitor by radio.
Seth was snoring. Miriam dusted off the old boots she’d found and watched him rest, his mouth half-open, chest rising with each breath. She’d discovered the leather shoes along with a blue plaid farmer’s shirt in the toolbox behind the tractor. The shirt was missing its top four buttons and the shoes were splitting at the toes, but she had no doubt that Seth would be pleased with them.
She heard a moan. The wind, most likely.
Miriam smiled, set the boots and shirt on the Pinto’s trunk, and walked toward Seth. Time to . . .
Seth jerked up, eyes wide. “Huh?”
“Man down! Man down!”
Miriam spun toward the door.
Seth was on his feet already. “In the car!”
Miriam grabbed the clothing from the trunk and piled through the passenger door.
“How long did I sleep?” he demanded.
“Less than thirty minutes!”
Seth paused, hands on the steering wheel, staring intently ahead. “That’s not good. I should’ve seen them.”
Miriam twisted around, expecting police to storm the old barn at any moment. Seth sat still, jaws flexed. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking. Don’t worry, I can see now. He’s not dead.”
“Who’s not dead?”
“The policeman who was shot outside.” Seth’s face looked strained. “Man, oh man, this is gonna be like threading a needle by candlelight.”
He fired the car and stomped on the accelerator. The Pinto roared for the far wall. Miriam threw her arms over her head and ducked. With a mighty crash the car slammed through the brittle wood, sending splinters flying.
Seth fixed his eyes dead ahead. They flew over the grass, picking up surprising speed. Miriam turned and saw that they’d left at least a dozen policemen by the barn.
The Pinto screamed. They skirted a pond and then slammed through a picket fence. Still, Seth did not ease their speed. She looked at him and wondered if he was going too far this time.
“It’s amazing how easy it is to elude the mortals when you see clearly,” Seth said above the engine’s roar. “They don’t have a chance!”
But she knew he was wrong. Seth had his weakness and it had almost betrayed them back there. If the police were this good, their troubles weren’t over. Not even close.
Seth took the car into a wooded area and slowed. For five minutes he threaded his way amid thickening foliage. “Helicopter,” he said.
He stopped by a large oak and they climbed out.
“There’s a house a mile to the south. They have our car.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Our car? Here.” She tossed the boots and shirt to him.
“Where’d you get these?”
“In the barn, while you were snoring.”
He grinned. “Now you’re talking.” He pulled the boots and shirt on. “Come on!”
They ran south. A helicopter beat the air above them and then turned north. Sirens wailed to the west, from the barn. Seth jogged south, unconcerned.
“How did they find us?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How did you not know?”
He didn’t respond right away. She knew, of course. His mind needed rest. If he didn’t find rest soon, they would be caught. But there was no time for rest.
“I need rest,” he said.
“The next time we might not be so lucky,” she said.
This time he didn’t respond at all.
Clive picked up a piece of straw and absently sniffed at it. Wasn’t so different from the scent of his walnut. He tossed the straw and fingered the walnut. Lights spinning atop three police cars parked outside the doors lit the barn’s interior in hues of red and blue. Two spotlights lit up the red tractor like a dusty prize tomato. They scoured the grounds, but he knew evidence wasn’t what they needed. This was a new game, of a kind he’d never played before.
The hay on which Seth had slept was still warm. He had slept here; Clive was sure of it. The officer’s yell must have awakened him. The helicopter would complete its search and the men would sweep the grove of trees, but Seth would be long gone.
And yet Clive now knew not only one of Seth’s weaknesses, but two. The two Achilles’ heels. The first was obvious
: sleep. The lack of sleep would eventually catch up to Seth and leave him unguarded.
The second was the future itself. If a particular event wasn’t part of the future, then Seth could not know it. There had to be a way to bring darkness to Seth’s world of futures. A way to blind him, by removing futures.
The idea gnawed at Clive, faint and unformed, but just there, under the surface, begging to be uncovered.
“He’s here, sir.”
Clive sniffed at the walnut. Where are you hiding now, Seth? He crossed the bright lights and walked up to the Mercedes that had pulled up. Hilal was sitting against its hood.
“Good morning,” Clive said.
“It could be better,” Hilal returned. For a man who’d spent the last hour defending himself under a barrage of questions, the Saudi showed no sign of humility. He’d persuaded them that he had nothing to do with either shooting, not that Clive had ever suspected him. Hilal had no reason to open fire on the police. If Hilal wanted to kill, he would be aiming at the girl.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Clive said. “The State Department may insist we give you some rope, but that doesn’t mean you get to run around the countryside, shooting up the night.”
“Please, don’t insult me.”
“You’ve been warned. Tell me, what really happened in that bathroom?”
Hilal flashed a coy smile. “So. Now you’re interested. The man told me precisely what was going to happen. I think he actually knew. He threw the ball.”
“Which ball?”
“The one the waitress fell on. It came from his pocket.”
That hadn’t been in the report. “You saw it?”
“As plain as day, as you would say. He let it roll and then ran, as if he knew precisely what would happen. Tell me what happened in the alley.”
If Seth could do this trick of his at will and actually manipulate events . . . God help them.
“I’m sure you know what happened.” Hilal probably knew more than most of them. He struck Clive as the kind who would listen in on more than his share.
“This man has a gift,” Hilal said. “He’s escaped certain capture five times now. Miriam is still alive. I would say that you have a problem.”
“Really? I thought it was your problem. And I wasn’t aware that killing Miriam was our primary concern.”
“You have a dead police officer.”
“Yes. Quite convenient for you.”
“Please. We both know that I had nothing to do with the shootings. As I’ve said, I am not the only Saudi who wants this woman.”
“Someone who vanishes as quickly as Seth?”
“Someone whose identity is a mystery to both of us. Someone who has been trained in my country as an assassin. Someone who would shoot at me.”
“You? And where were you when you were shot at?”
“Watching.”
“Uh-huh.”
Hilal stood and crossed his arms, looking back toward the barn. He was right about the shooter, of course, but Clive had no doubt that he would kill an American officer as quickly as the presumed assassin had.
“So. How do you plan to deal with this problem?” Hilal asked.
“How would you catch a clairvoyant who knows every step you’re going to make before you make it?”
Hilal paused. “I would anticipate him.”
“Very good. It always comes down to a battle of wits, doesn’t it?”
“In which direction is he headed?” Hilal asked.
“You’re listening in on our conversations—why don’t you tell me?”
Hilal shoved his hands deep into his pockets and turned away to face the night. “We are both looking for the same party. I suggest we work together, my friend.”
“I work alone,” Clive said.
Hilal faced him. “And so do I.”
He’d had enough of the Saudi. And he had a phone call to make. “He’s headed north. We’ve issued a nationwide bulletin. This whole valley is sealed, but that hasn’t stopped him so far. My guess is he’ll try to take her out of the country. Most fugitives wouldn’t, of course, but as you’ve so eloquently pointed out, he’s no ordinary fugitive. I doubt he’s still on foot. You figure it out. And remember, he’s an American citizen. You touch him and you’ll deal with me.”
Clive turned and walked for his car.
“Mr. Masters,” Hilal called.
He stopped. Looked back.
“This other shooter, I would not underestimate him. The next bullet might be intended for you.”
Clive nodded.
He walked to his car, slid in, and closed the door. The Continental’s dash lights glowed a soft green. What was it like to know that if you tossed a ball just so, a waitress would fall just so and create just the right kind of distraction to allow for your escape? It would be like knowing that if you tipped over a barrel at just the right time, the man behind you would trip over it.
A solitary thought had drifted in and out of his mind since his first encounter with Seth in the alley. Now it had taken up permanent residence. Like a tumor.
He picked up his phone, dialed the number, and massaged the walnut.
“State Department.”
“Peter Smaley.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Smaley—”
“It’s Clive Masters with the National Security Agency. He’ll take the call. And if he doesn’t, I’ll go over his head.”
The woman hesitated. “Hold, please.”
It took them three minutes to track down Peter Smaley at whatever meeting he was attending.
“I’m in the middle of a meeting, so make it quick.”
“We’ve bitten off more than we anticipated.”
“Come on, now. Don’t tell me you’re actually getting a run for your money—”
“He’s clairvoyant, Peter.”
A beat.
“This isn’t a good time—”
“He’s not only clairvoyant, but he sees a number of possible outcomes and he knows what to do to make any of them actually happen.”
“Clive. You’re talking nonsense.”
“I’m telling you this only because I want my bases covered, Peter.
My next call is to the secretary of state.”
That got his attention. “Hold on.” The deputy secretary’s voice carried through the covered phone. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll be right back.” A door closed.
“For Pete’s sake, Clive. This isn’t exactly the kind of call I would expect from you.”
Clive rubbed the walnut and glanced back at the flashing lights. “I want you to imagine something. Imagine that you’re in a battle. You’re a general, directing the battle. But you have an advantage. You already know exactly what your enemy will do, to the last bullet. And you know exactly what to do to stop him anywhere you want to. You know because you’ve seen every possibility, every move and every countermove, and you have the luxury of mapping out the course of battle precisely as you choose. What would you say about such a general?”
There was a short pause. “I would say that he is unstoppable. And I would say that I feel a bit silly talking to you about it. It would be an embarrassment to both of us if anyone overheard this.”
“Imagine something else with me, Peter. Imagine an assassin sent in to kill the president. A unique assassin who could see a thousand possible approaches to the White House and know with absolute certainty which one would succeed. What would you say about such an assassin?”
“This isn’t amusing, Clive. There’s no way you’re telling me that this fugitive could walk up to the White House—”
“No, I’m not. But in my estimation, he’s exactly what I’ve described.” Hearing himself say it, Clive wondered if he’d just thrown away his career.
“You’re actually suggesting that I pass this on?” Smaley guffawed.
“We’re courting a man who may be either the greatest asset or the greatest liability the United States has ever seen. I know it, and now you know
it. So do the Saudis. Yes, I suggest you pass it on. Today.”
Smaley’s voice softened. “God help me, Clive. If this is some kind of . . .” He stewed for a moment. “Has anything like this ever been documented?”
“Clairvoyance? Not exactly an unknown phenomenon. The Bible’s full of it, if you believe. But actually, no, I’ve never heard of anything quite like this.”
Smaley was trying to get his mind around the idea. That was a start.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying that I sincerely hope you’re all wet on this, Masters.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you harbored such sentiments.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I have a reaction. You have any idea where he is now?”
“No. But I’m pretty sure I know where he’s headed.”
“Then for Pete’s sake, do your job. Bring him in or whatever you have to do. This is getting ridiculous.”
“Have you heard anything I just said? This isn’t like tracking your common terrorist.”
“And you’re no common tracker. You’re telling me you don’t know how to catch this guy?”
Clive closed his eyes. “I have a pretty good idea. You just do your job. I’ll expect a call later today.”
He disconnected and dropped the phone on the seat.
chapter 23
they drove the Volkswagen Bug Seth had lifted from the farmhouse for less than an hour before ditching it by a deserted shack. They would have to go on foot, Seth said. It was the only way past the roadblocks.
They walked slowly. Dragged was more like it. Not only did Seth lack the energy, but there was no hurry. They had to wait for darkness.
His precognition continued to expand to one hour, then two. More futures, generations of futures that added up to millions. He couldn’t see them all, of course, only those he intentionally isolated. But the constant bombardment daunted him and, more worrisome, tired him and generated a bad headache.
If he were able to see only what would happen instead of what could happen, the matter would have been simpler. He explained it to Miriam this way: “How many different words do you think I could say right now?”
“As many as you know, I suppose,” she’d responded.
