The Alien Prophecy

by Vaughn Heppner

  “They broke into my hotel room. I believed they were getting ready to beat us, maybe jail us.”

  “I doubt that. Maybe they would have fined you, pushed you around—”

  “It hardly matters what they would have done,” Jack said. “They never got the chance. Do motives really matter in this?”

  “For you, an American, in this situation, I’m afraid not. I doubt you shall ever leave Iran. I’m curious about your reason for coming.”

  Jack began to recite a litany of numbers.

  The Intelligence officer crushed the stub of his cigarette in an ashtray. “What am I to make of those numbers?”

  “Punch them into your cellphone. Ask the person who answers what you’re supposed to do with Viktor Konev.”

  The captain frowned. “If I called the number, who would I reach?”

  “IZENOV,” Jack said.

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “They’re a Russian consortium.”

  “Please,” the captain said. “Do not strain my credulity. You are an American.”

  “What is an American these days?” Jack asked. “Many Russians have immigrated to North America. I could easily be working for IZENOV.”

  “I see. You are claiming to be a Russian in the company of an American university professor?”

  “Have you taken a good look at her? You bet I’m in her company. I have plans for her, and they don’t involve her university degree.”

  The captain’s frown deepened. “Why are you in Iran?”

  “I’m taking the long way home.”

  The captain took out a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes, shaking one out. “Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  “You are an American for sure, my friend. I’ve never met a Russian who didn’t smoke.”

  “Just call the number,” Jack said. “I think you’ll be impressed by the results.”

  The captain lit the cigarette with a match and sucked on it thoughtfully. “I suspect you of being an American spy. I have a feeling for these things.”

  “I’m sure you’re as clever as Hell, Captain. If you call the number, however, it’s possible you will find it an enriching experience.”

  “You are attempting to bribe me?”

  “You think I’m one thing, but I’m not. Is it so terrible if IZENOV reimburses you for your time?

  “I am an Iranian Intelligence officer. You have assaulted fellow nationals.”

  “Have the Basij and the Revolutionary Guard ever treated you with respect?”

  The captain smiled coldly. He stood, gave Jack a fierce scrutiny, and headed out a different door than the one Jack had entered.

  Elliot slouched in his chair, exhausted by the exchange. What had happened to Selene? It seemed he had misjudged the Intelligence captain. This was a fine mess. Maybe it was best the captain hadn’t agreed to phone the number. His cover in IZENOV might not bear close inspection.

  The minutes passed and no one came to get him. Finally, Jack put his arms on the table and lay his head on them. He closed his eyes, unsure of how long he fell asleep.

  “Time to get up, Viktor.”

  Groggily, Jack raised his head.

  “Would you look at that,” a thickset Russian said, a large man with a shock of red hair. “He’s so sleepy he doesn’t even recognize his good friend, Ivan Rodin. It’s time to go, Viktor. The boss wants a rundown on your latest activities.”

  “Of course,” Jack said, standing.

  “One thing,” the Russian said. “We’re leaving the girl behind. You weren’t supposed to bring her, remember?”

  Jack stiffened. “The girl comes, Ivan. The boss said—”

  The Russian laughed. “Didn’t I tell you he would be stubborn about her?”

  The Intelligence captain said nothing, his features deadpan as he watched from the door.

  “Let us include the woman,” the Russian told the Intelligence captain.

  The captain’s lips thinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’ll double the price—”

  “Please,” the captain said, in a strained voice. “Let us keep this…” The officer glanced right and left.

  “I understand,” the Russian said, as he brushed the side of his nose.

  “You may leave with your friend,” the captain told Jack. “Whether you get your woman…that remains to be seen.”

  -58-

  LEARJET 85

  EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

  Marcus scowled as the private jet began to shake. This was the second time the pilot had hit turbulence.

  The intercom came on. The pilot spoke, and he sounded nervous. “Please fasten your seatbelts. This…this could get rough.”

  Marcus clicked his seatbelt into place. He heard Ney and Carter do likewise.

  The jet rose sharply, and it shook, vibrating the entire fuselage. A glance outside the window showed the wing shaking more than Marcus cared to see.

  Had Mother given him an inferior pilot?

  He endured the ride. Suddenly, the plane plummeted. Marcus clutched the armrests. Fear began as a pin-dot in his chest. He seldom felt such helplessness, finding it a repugnant sensation.

  He liked facing problems he could stomp, shoot or cut with a knife. Waiting on others to perform skillfully enough to save his life—

  The Learjet evened out. The shaking lessened and then quit altogether.

  Marcus unclicked the seatbelt, lurching to his feet, striding toward the cockpit. He yanked open the door, stepping into the cramped quarters. The pilot and navigator each gave him a worried glance.

  “You’re supposed to be the best,” Marcus said, unsure if that was true. It had been in the past. He’d assumed it would be so today.

  The pilot was a rugged-looking individual with a five o’clock shadow. “I am the best, sir,” he said with an Israeli accent.

  “What do you call this latest performance?”

  The pilot wouldn’t meet Marcus’s gaze. The man even hunched his head before shaking it. “I don’t understand these weather patterns, sir.”

  “Then how can you be the best?” Marcus snapped.

  The pilot glanced at the navigator. The navigator nodded with encouragement.

  “Sir,” the pilot told Marcus. “I can’t explain this. We’re…we’re hitting pockets of— Well, I have to call them pockets of superheated air.”

  “Meaning what?” Marcus asked.

  “Exactly that, sir,” the pilot said, “a gush of superheated air as from some…giant kettle.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. But that isn’t all. The weather reports coming out of Athens, Istanbul, Tehran—” He glanced at the navigator before telling Marcus, “Sir, it’s hot out there.”

  “So what?” Marcus said.

  “Hotter than it should be,” the pilot said. “It’s one hundred and ten degrees outside and rising.”

  “It’s always hot in summer.”

  “Not that hot over the Eastern Mediterranean.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Marcus asked.

  The pilot looked Marcus in the eye. “Sir, I’m suggesting that this is strange, unexplainable weather, particularly with the pockets of superheated air.”

  “How superheated do you mean?”

  “One hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit,” the pilot said.

  Marcus stared at the pilot until the man dropped his gaze, turning forward. The pin-dot of fear reappeared. Marcus disliked it now as much as he had the first time. It was time to squash the fear and take control of the situation. He wanted a confident pilot.

  “If you’re the best, as you claim, trust your instincts. Figure out the pattern here, even if it seems odd to you. Adjust, and react accordingly.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s good advice. Thank you.”

  “Inform me if you discover…other anomalies,” Marcus ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” the pilot said. “I’ll do that.”

  Marcus retreated, clo
sing the door behind him. Thoughtfully, he returned to his seat.

  Ney and Carter had gone back to watching their respective movies on their iPads, listening to earphones.

  Could the hotter-than-normal weather and these pockets of superheated air have anything to do with The Day?

  The antimatter they’d manufactured at the D’erlon Plant had been transported to the hidden stations scattered throughout the planet. Marcus had no idea what Mother’s technologists did with the antimatter once it arrived.

  Mother was the ultimate ghost, compartmentalizing everything. Marcus believed that only Mother knew every aspect of her unseen empire.

  Mother used one group here, who had no idea of what that group over there did. Proxies like Abu Hammond, the arms smuggler who moved the larger antimatter shipments, never survived the completion of a mission. The world was full of hungry people eager to take the place of those who’d died.

  Mother operated on a simple principle: Dead men told no tales. Ignorant fools couldn’t say much either.

  Marcus wasn’t even sure Mother’s great thinkers, such as Hela and Frederick, knew the last intricate steps in Mother’s ultimate plan.

  Mother had long hinted at The Day. She’d told him The Day would bring peace to the Earth, as if he cared about universal peace. She’d said The Day would unite humanity, rid the planet of disease, stop all war and end poverty. It would also bring him vast rewards, properly ordering society so he and his brothers and sisters would take their rightful place in the scheme of existence.

  Mother had a grandiose way of speaking when she referred to The Day and its aftermath.

  Marcus took her promises to mean that he would have whatever he wanted once The Day came. Surely, it meant that Mother would take over. She would rule, and he would be one of her chief lieutenants. How The Day would achieve this, he didn’t have a clue.

  It was going to be spectacular, he knew that much. He was also fairly certain the underground stations dotting the planet would somehow use magnetics to achieve this great event.

  Marcus had kept his ears open throughout the years. He knew Mother disliked the Hawaii University geology scientists with their hum theory. They’d undoubtedly brushed too close to some hidden truth for Mother’s liking.

  The destruction of the antimatter section of the Ardennes plant had been troubling Marcus. Mother’s need for antimatter had grown insatiable lately. To destroy the most profitable site…

  What does that portend? It has to mean The Day is almost upon us.

  Could the pockets of superheated air and changing weather patterns have anything to do with antimatter? Marcus didn’t see how, and yet—

  His tablet buzzed. Mother must be calling. The pin-dot of fear intensified. He set the tablet into position, clicking it on. Nothing appeared on the screen, a sure sign Mother called.

  “Marcus,” a robotic voice said.

  “I’m in the number seven Learjet,” he said.

  “My boy, I know exactly where you are. I’ve found Jack Elliot and Selene Khan.”

  Marcus waited.

  “Your Cairo information allowed Frederick to pinpoint them.”

  Still, Marcus waited.

  “I want you to pick them up and bring them to Libya in the desert.”

  Marcus sat straighter. He was to bring them to headquarters? That seemed strange. Had he misjudged the situation?

  “You’re quiet today,” the robotic voice said. “Is anything the matter?”

  “No,” he said. “Where are these two now?”

  “On their way to the Caucasus,” Mother said. “You’re to pick them up in Grozny. I see your confusion. We had a break, my boy. They had an accident. Elements of the Iranian Army picked them up afterward. The D17 agent tried a clever ploy to escape their grasp. It worked after a fashion. He had his friends in IZENOV buy his way free. The Iranians like to keep the Russians happy. It was a smart play.”

  Marcus worked on keeping his features impassive. He’d never heard Mother this expansive. Could she be excited? That would lend credence to the idea that The Day was here or almost here.

  “IZENOV is a front for D17?” Marcus asked.

  “IZENOV is a scourge on the planet. They’re a front for Russian industries and thus ultimately for Putin, stealing patents and ideas from everywhere. I have a few individuals working within the consortium. Jack Elliot has unknowingly delivered himself and more importantly, Dr. Selene Khan, into the hands of one of my agents. He’s taking them to Grozny. You’ll pay him in gold certificates.”

  “It will be done,” Marcus said.

  “Do not fail me in this. I want the woman.”

  “And the man?” Marcus asked.

  “If the D17 agent becomes troublesome, kill him. Otherwise, yes, bring him, too. It could prove interesting.”

  With that, Mother abruptly cut the connection.

  That felt like her. After a moment, Marcus stood, heading to the cockpit. They were no longer going to Tehran—he’d been waiting for confirmation. Now, they would race to Grozny in the Caucasus.

  -59-

  NORTHWESTERN IRAN

  Selene stared out of the Mercedes, watching the mountainous countryside go by. Jack had fallen asleep again, snoring softly in the back seat.

  The Russian had given Jack painkillers, the man’s bodyguard helping Elliot into the car. The two Russians, big men in suits, sat up front.

  Surprisingly, the Iranians had returned the gym bag, which included the tuning fork device. Jack no longer had a gun or a knife, though.

  The Russian hadn’t said if he was driving to Alamut Castle or not. Jack had muttered a few slurry words at her before falling asleep. Selene didn’t know if she should ask the driver where they were going. Jack was the movement specialist. She still couldn’t believe they had gotten out of military custody. What had Elliot told the Iranians?

  “Excuse me,” Selene said.

  The driver, the leader Ivan Rodin, looked at her through the rearview mirror.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Grozny,” he said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Not in Iran,” he said. “I imagine that’s good news, eh?”

  Selene didn’t know what to say to that so she just gave the driver a slight smile. She wondered about these men. Something felt off about them. Could they belong to the shadowy people? Yet, if that were true, why would Jack have given himself up to them so easily?

  Selene nudged him. Jack just kept on snoring. “Jack,” she whispered. He didn’t respond. First, glancing at the Russians—they didn’t seem to be paying her any attention—she pushed him. It didn’t make any difference.

  “Jack,” she said, loudly this time.

  “You should let him sleep,” the driver said.

  She smiled at Ivan Rodin through the rearview mirror. “Jack,” she said, pushing his shoulder.

  “It won’t help,” the driver said. “I gave him a sedative earlier.”

  “Why would you do that?” Selene asked, worried now.

  “Do you care for him?” Ivan asked.

  “We’re friends,” she said hesitantly.

  The two Russians looked at each other and laughed.

  “What’s wrong with you two?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Ivan said, the humor draining from his voice. “We’re headed for Grozny.”

  It dawned on Selene that maybe the Russians weren’t good friends with Jack. Why would the Russian give Jack a sedative, telling him it was a painkiller? Maybe because Jack Elliot was a dangerous man. Better to slip him a Mickey if you planned to double-cross him.

  “Did Jack tell you about Alamut Mountain?” Selene asked.

  The two Russians glanced at each other.

  “No,” Ivan said shortly. “What about it?”

  “Maybe if you woke Jack up—”

  “Listen, devotchka,” Ivan said. “It is long drive to Grozny. I don’t want to hear your clever schemes the entire trip there. Tell us abou
t mountain. Then, you will shut up.”

  The other Russian grinned at Ivan, as if his boss had said something unusually witty.

  “Uh…” Selene said, thinking fast. “We’ve…well, Jack has found…” What would sway these two? “Jack has found ancient Nizari Ismaili gold.”

  “Yah?” Ivan asked.

  “Assassins gold,” Selene said. “You’ve heard of it, I’m sure.”

  The two Russians burst out laughing, Ivan shaking his head.

  “You are a stupid—how do you say? You are a stupid American bitch. You shut up now.”

  “Please,” Selene said. “I’m telling you the truth.”

  Ivan stared at her through the rearview mirror. He had an animal’s eyes without remorse or pity.

  Selene shrank back in her seat.

  Ivan smiled at her nastily. “Maybe it is time to see her breasts. What do you say, Petr?”

  The other Russian nodded. “I like to see what our friend Viktor sees in her. Her breasts would be good start.”

  Ivan glanced over his shoulder at Selene. “Unbutton your shirt. Then take off your bra. I want you to cup your breasts. I want you to lick nipples for us, yah?”

  “No,” Selene said.

  “Devotchka,” Ivan said in a softy menacing voice. “I want to see your breasts. If you cannot do this thing for me, then I will stop car. I will take you all the way, as a man should. It is your decision.”

  Selene remembered the gym bag on the floor. She leaned toward it, put her fingers on the zipper and oh so quietly began to unzip it.

  What sounded like a gun cocking caused Selene to look up. Petr had turned around, aiming a heavy semiautomatic at her forehead. The barrel looked huge.

  “Sit back,” Petr said.

  For just a moment, Selene debated grabbing the tuning fork and trying to club them with it. The device had never worked against her as it had the sharks. Otherwise, she would secretly try to turn it on. The gun intimidated her either way. She was certain these men would kill her if the need arose.

  With a growing feeling of defeat, she sat back.

  Petr licked his lips in anticipation. “Unbutton your shirt,” he said in a husky tone.

  Selene found that she couldn’t move. Did these two animals really plan to rape her? That seemed like a distinct possibility. She—