He fell to the ground and screamed in agony as his entire body boiled in its own blood. While he rolled on the ground, wailing in a shrill primal form of terror and fear, Mr. Cox walked deliberately around the fallen terrorist.
“You defy me, Jabbar? You try and undermine my plans, my destiny?”
Jabbar’s felt like his insides were liquefying under the pressure and heat. The pain was intolerable, but Mr. Cox would not allow him to lose consciousness.
“I am sorry, Benefactor,” he managed to say through gritted teeth.
“And who am I, Jabbar?”
Jabbar ground his teeth and grabbed at his midsection.
“Who am I, Jabbar?” asked Cox as his eyes flamed and lips turned up in a sardonic sneer.
“You—are—the Rasul,”
The heat immediately began to subside, and Jabbar breathed deeply to mitigate the agony. He now understood what it was like to burn alive, and he never wanted to experience the feeling again.
Any doubts about the Benefactor were banished from his mind. When able, he crawled toward Mr. Cox and began to kiss the soles of his patent leather shoes. “Yes, yes, you are the Rasul. I see it now, and I believe.”
“Good Jabbar, very good. However, you know you must now demonstrate your loyalty.” He looked over to a rest stop some distance away. “Do you see those cars and people at the table out ahead?”
Jabbar squinted against the sun but made out several families gathered at a concrete picnic table. Wafts of smoke rose up from a Turkish Manga as they grilled chicken breasts and sweet-smelling vegetables. “Yes, yes I see it.”
“Good. Do you see the father with the small boy in the bright red pants and the bluish headdress?”
“Yes Benefactor, I can see him.”
“The boy looks to be about 7 or 8. Isn’t that the age of your eldest son, Jabbar?”
“Yes, Benefactor. He is exactly eight on the second Tuesday of the new month.”
Cox grabbed the terrorist by the collar, fire leaping from his fingertips and venom leaking from the ends of his closed mouth. “I want you to go kill his father, Jabbar. To atone for the sin you created here today. You must plunge your knife deeply into the man in front of his son, and you must look into their eyes and laugh as you twist the blade. Do you understand, Jabbar? Do you know why you must do this?”
Jabbar eyes rolled in the back of his head and he stumbled. “I must do it to show my loyalty to you. I will do it. I will do it for the Rasul.” Jabbar reached up with his arms to grasp and hug the legs of the Benefactor, but he swept through fluid air. When he opened his eyes, Mr. Cox was gone.
Jabbar was undeterred. He walked to the Honda and pulled the dead body of Abadar from the driver’s side and slipped into the vehicle. The wheels spun and squealed when they caught pavement as he pushed hard on the accelerator, turning 180 degrees and moving swiftly in the opposite direction.
The car traveled a short distance before reaching the roadside park set up for travelers looking to rest, use the facilities, and take the opportunity to smoke tobacco and cook their meats. This was the scene playing out before him as two rather large families gathered around a permanent table where numerous children played in a patch of Crocus flowers.
He got out of the vehicle slowly, hiding the knife in his clothing. Waving and smiling, Jabbar moved past the grills in the direction of the squeals and high-pitched laughter. The families were not alarmed since the area was crowded, and many people walked around the tables on their way to the public restrooms.
Jabbar strode quickly toward the small boy in red pants and a blue headdress. He was playing a chasing game with his father, and they were mischievously rolling around on a grassy knoll. Watching Jabbar approach, the young child smiled and extended a stuffed camel figurine toward the terrorist. Reacting quickly, Jabbar knocked the toy away and grabbed the arm of the child, pulling him from his father.
The man hesitated for an instant before recognizing the imminent danger, and it was just long enough for Jabbar to toss the child aside and pull out his knife. Before the father could register any fear, Jabbar stabbed deep into his chest cavity. He yanked the blade out and stuck it in once more, watching the crimson stain spread through the man’s white shirt.
The child needed a moment to move past his bewilderment and absorb the shock and horror of what just happened to his father. He cried out in a chilling voice that carried through the still air to his mother. She instinctively recognized something was horribly wrong. Jabbar pushed past the boy, who ran to his father and collapsed on top him. “Momma!” he yelled in a thin, receding voice.
The mother sprinted to the boy while her husband gurgled and spit up copious quantities of fresh blood. The ensuing confusion allowed Jabbar to slip away unnoticed. He easily reached the car and sped out of the parking lot, watching the anguished face of the mother from a distance as she screamed to the sky while cradling her mortally wounded husband.
Jabbar repeated prayers softly as he drove. He knew that this had been nothing more than a distraction and a way to please the Benefactor. There were other operatives and a new vehicle he needed to pick up in a Turkish hamlet some 50 miles ahead. The real mission remained in Istanbul, and Jabbar would now pursue it with an unquestioning devotion.
***
Prime Minister Ivan Petrov stood behind the podium, drinking in the applause of both the National Council and Federal Council. It was a rare occurrence when Petrov was able to address both chambers of parliament simultaneously, and he would absorb every movement of revelry and adulation before he spoke.
He waved his hand ever so slightly while maintaining the rehearsed smile that spread three quarters across his lips. When the applause finally subsided, and the parliamentary representatives seated themselves, Petrov looked keenly at the teleprompter, digesting the first words that had been remotely programmed into the machine by Ziminski.
“Members of parliament; distinguished guests and fellow Bulgarians. As you know, our relations with the nation of Turkey continue to deteriorate. The unprovoked assault on Varvara by the treacherous Turks is unacceptable.”
Applause erupted and Petrov paused for effect.
“The Turkish terrorists violate our borders with their nighttime raids on the poor people of our towns and provinces. I tell you this must be stopped. We did not start this dispute, but I swear we will end it.
“Our proprietary innovations are the envy of the world. We make digital aerial cameras that create jobs and bring important revenues into our country through exports.
“Yet, the evil Turks steal and cop our technology, send their spies into our open society to prey on our unsuspecting business citizens. Well, I say, No more.”
“I recently sent the parliament a bill designed to repeal our constitutional obligation to neutrality. I would also ask for explicit authority to develop weapons—many weapons—which can ensure our safety. I do not mind telling you that our learned scientists, the best in the world, have been working feverishly to develop a defensive nuclear weapon that could be used in the event of an attack from the ruthless Turks.”
The politicians in the distinguished parliamentary body rose immediately to their feet clapping vigorously and hooting wildly. They were well aware of the opinion polls that firmly supported the Prime Minister’s bloodlust. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of the issue when it concerned the hated Turks.
Petrov smiled and waved for the cameras as the politicians continued to applaud, but almost to a man they were terrified of the psychopath that held the reins of power.
“My fellow Bulgarians,” he continued, “you can be assured that those who exploit our homeland will suffer the appropriate punishment. We shall take our rightful place in the new world order, and we will be recognized. God bless you all, and God bless the Republic of Bulgaria.”
The frenzy that swept through parliament was unnerving. There was much shouting, fist waving, back slapping and cheering. The staged event was reminiscent of th
e worst of the Soviet occupation. Meanwhile, Petrov headed behind the curtain and entered his richly decorated state room.
“Sir, there is a phone call,” said one of his aides as he handed him a wireless cradle.
“Hello?”
“Your speech was fine, Wolfgang, but so far all talk. When are you going to deliver on your obligation?”
Petrov’s face lost color, and he spoke in low tones. “I told you Mr. Watts, these things take time. I have worked very hard to alert the people and soften them for the upcoming plan.”
“It’s not enough, Wolfgang. You need to send some soldiers into Turkey and blow up a high-profile building. Your men must be apprehended so the Turks will be suitably outraged. By then, the device will be secured in Istanbul, and you will have all the excuse you need to detonate it.”
Petrov loosened the collar around his flabby neck and wiped his brow, which was beaded with perspiration. “Mr. Watts, be reasonable. I—I don’t know if I can get the generals to agree…”
“You better figure out a way. The Benefactor is impatient and will be very upset if you don’t fulfill your obligation. I want the incursion into Turkey done over this weekend, understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Watts, I understand.”
“Good. Now get to work.”
Petrov laid the phone back in the cradle and hung his head and wept. He couldn’t know that a continent away, Xavier Watts was carefully organizing a rusted set of vintage manual dental implements, just in case. It had not gone unnoticed that Petrov had a full, healthy set of teeth.
Chapter Sixteen
Since Victor Price hadn’t been replaced yet, Thomas Abernathy was personally overseeing the West Coast operation to apprehend Johansen. Abernathy sat in the living room of his large five-bedroom apartment in upscale Beverly Glenn in Los Angeles. Still suffering from jet lag after his one-day trip to the Middle East, he looked over the Johansen intelligence forwarded to him by his boss, Xavier Watts.
Apparently, that idiot savant Ziminski accessed the national license plate recognition system and somehow tracked her down. He grabbed his weapon and attaché case and headed for his Lamborghini, calling the standby pilot at Ogden-Hinckley so that a hasty flight plan could be filed. He wasn’t even in his car when the phone rang.
“Yes?”
“We found her, sir. She’s traveling north on I-5. What should we do?”
“No sirens. I want as little attention on this as possible. Let her know you’re there, and signal her to pull over. If she resists, take appropriate measures. The directive is to keep her alive. It’s imperative that we find out what information she’s leaked and to whom.”
“Yes sir.”
***
Clarence Saunders was a large man with toned muscles and a perfectly groomed appearance. An African-American in his mid-thirties, he worked as a mid-level manager in the Network. Recruited through conventional means, the lure of easy money pulled him into a world of drugs, prostitution and weapons running. He suspected he worked for the Mafioso, but he was smart enough to follow orders and ask very few questions. As long as his bank account continued to grow and support his burgeoning lifestyle, Saunders could forget the values was taught by his hard working parents in rural Mississippi.
He hung up the phone and took out his California Bureau of Investigation badge, placing it carefully on the dash. He stepped on the gas pedal and pulled his black Lincoln Navigator next to the battered pickup. Saunders didn't understand exactly what Sarah Johansen was accused of, but it hardly mattered. He was instructed by the bureau chief to report to Mr. Abernathy and follow his instructions to the letter. Saunders was ambitious and loyal; a rising star in California law enforcement. He wasn’t going to let his superiors down.
When he looked over, it was clear Johansen was obviously distraught. Her face was thin and contorted into a mask of anguish. Saunders kept pace with the truck, pulling up and dropping back so as to remain inconspicuous through the heavy I-5 traffic just north of Valencia. In most cases, criminals rarely had a well-thought out plan, so it would be important to anticipate possible contingencies and flight paths.
During the next pass, Saunders locked eyes with Johansen for a moment. Her expression changed slightly, just enough to let Saunders know she knew he was a threat. He dropped back immediately and traveled about two car lengths behind her for some time. As he anticipated, she grew anxious with the cat and mouse game and finally began to accelerate. Saunders responded in kind, and the Navigator’s powerful torque helped him once again pull even.
The aggressive driving continued, and her swerving indicated she was either under the influence or lacked reasonable driving skills.
Saunders pulled up next to her once again, and the darkened driver’s window of the Navigator slowly retracted. He pointed directly at Sarah and waved for her to pull over to the side of the road. Her speed increased as she clutched the wheel and refused to look back. The Navigator swerved into the adjacent lane causing her to overcompensate in steering. The truck swayed from side to side for several seconds before it regained traction and the tread grabbed the road.
There was no way the old pickup couldn’t outmaneuver the Navigator, so Saunders kept coming closer with every pass. He prepared to nudge her gently when Sarah unexpectedly yanked the steering wheel sharply to the right, sending the pickup careening directly into the Navigator’s left front fender.
Saunders recoiled in surprise. He didn’t have time to react, and in a stroke of good fortune for her, the Lincoln’s front end buckled into the passenger’s side tire. The radial belts began to shred and rubber shards sprayed in every direction. Saunders fought for control as the SUV swerved and the affected wheel collapsed. The Navigator shuddered, veered right, and then finally plowed hard into the guard rail with a thud and a sickening squeal of metal on metal. The wrecked vehicle skidded down the length of the barrier for some time before grinding to a halt on the shoulder.
Inside the SUV, Saunders pulled the airbag out of the way and banged the steering wheel repeatedly. He cursed and pulled out his cell phone.
“This is Abernathy”
“Mr. Abernathy, this is Saunders. I lost the girl. My vehicle is disabled.”
There was a static pause on the other end. “How is it we can keep getting outmaneuvered by one of the Benefactor’s cheap whores? This is very bad, Saunders. Damn it.”
“I know sir, I know.”
“There really isn’t much choice here. I want you to kill yourself. You have a weapon; discharge it into your mouth.”
Saunders opened the door and stumbled into a cleared dirt field. He fell to his knees and grabbed at his forehead as traffic continued to rush by. “But—sir—I have children. I don’t want to die. It was a mistake; I’ll get a new car and find her.”
“Saunders, there is no room for failure in the Network. You either kill yourself, or I’ll send someone to kill your entire family. There will be no trace of your DNA left on the face of the planet. You make the choice.”
“No, please, not my wife and kids.”
“Lay the phone down. Keep the connection open, and shoot yourself. I’ll tell the Benefactor that you made the suggestion as a way of atoning for your failure. At least he will respect you.”
The phone clattered as it fell to the ground. The sound of wind and traffic was interrupted by a scream just before a single explosive gunshot.
***
Sarah’s driving skills were born of necessity, and she felt increasingly comfortable behind the wheel. As the mile markers and green overhead signs passed, she waited until the last possible moment and then turned sharply onto an exit that would eventually take her to the small town of Arvin. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she was still being followed. Even if it was just paranoia, the encounter with Clarence Saunders had left her drained and exhausted.
She drove down the frontage road and followed the signs toward a rural highway until reaching the town proper. Li
ke a Norman Rockwell slice of Americana, ordinary citizens conducted their gloriously mundane lives. A woman carried groceries out to her car with a young child in tow; a man hauled hay onto a flatbed truck and another left the barbershop with a fresh cut crop of hair. The tranquility was inviting, but Sarah knew she would never share in this kind of simple pleasure.
Turning down a dirt side road, she drove aimlessly toward an unknown destination. Her mind was working on pure instinct and adrenaline, and on a primal level, she wanted to flee. Yet, in the depths of her soul, she felt the Benefactor’s presence. Even now, he knew where she was. No matter how far she ran, there would be no escape.
Panic and anxiety coursed through her body and grabbed at the pit of her stomach. As she rounded a corner, a decaying, abandoned barn stood off to the side of the road a short distance ahead. Its timbers were rotted and failing as huge gaps in the side of the building revealed farm implements in various stages of disrepair. She slowed and drove the pickup through the tall switch grass until it reached the barn’s staging area.
Exiting the truck, she grabbed Uncle Hank’s shotgun and looked in every direction for signs of pursuit. Sarah was motionless for some moments, and her senses were on high alert, but there was only the sound of a distant crow and the rustling of the wind through the trees. Moving to the barn, she yanked at two loose boards until they snapped, creating a hole large enough to climb through. She found a half-bundled bale of hay in the staffing area and sat down on it, propping the gun up beside her.
He would never let her alone, she understood that now. Mr. Cox was a part of her, almost as though he was fused into her genes. She knew too much about the Network and how it operated. Perhaps most importantly, Sarah knew things about Mr. Cox. Deep secrets he revealed to no one. Still, that didn’t change anything for her. The BEnefactor was too powerful, too omniscient, and too unforgiving. Ultimately, she would give him what he wanted, and he would revel and grow stronger through her weakness and humiliation.
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