by Jones, Rick
But to where? Was his position compromised? Or was he dead? These questions worried Paled tirelessly since Levine was an A-1 asset that took years to implement as a plant. Due to his solid and consistent intelligence networking over the years, the thwarting of insurgent missions on Israeli and American fronts proved successful on several occasions with numerous lives saved. But with Levine missing and no intel serving as the conduit to “keeping your enemies close,” both the United States and Israel were gnawing on their proverbial lower lips in anticipation of what was to come now that the window of collecting data had been abruptly closed with Levine’s absence becoming critical in the wake of his disappearance.
Yitzhak stood still examining the wall-sized screen in the Lohamah Psichlogit monitoring lab. He stood there rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he studied the many angles of the Afghan and Iranian Fronts, the satellite images zipping from one picture to another while honing in on the coordinates of Levine’s last points of contact.
But this exercise of making a detection of any kind, he knew, was nothing more than a futile attempt at serendipity.
The voice beside him didn’t startle him like it would most people when someone comes up from behind without sound or announcement. Paled simply stood unmoving as the man spoke. “Anything?” he asked.
Yitzhak Paled shook his head—a single nod really. “He missed his contact in Tehran,” answered.
“Aryeh is exceptional at what he does. If he’s out there, then he’ll contact us.” Benyamin Kastenbaum was a large man who had served on every level of Mossad with the exception of the Director’s position, which he declined on more than one occasion simply for the fact that he enjoyed his position as an intelligence officer so much that there was little else he wanted outside of what he already was. When he spoke he did so with a booming voice that rattled the air around him, his bass so deep it seemed to stimulate the atmosphere. But he was becoming old, his hair having gone gray a decade ago, his body having grown soft from muscles that used to be rock solid. But his mind remained clear, his memory forgetting little over the years.
Yitzhak nodded. “If his position has been compromised, Iran will not hesitate to execute him. I fear he may already be gone, Benyamin. And if that’s the case, then we are surely crippled on the Iranian Front.”
“There are others.”
“But Aryeh was our deepest asset.”
“Then we must take into consideration that Aryeh may be dead or captured and move on. Let our sources maneuver into position to gather whatever information is available regarding al-Ghazi and the Revolutionary Front. In the meantime, continue to watch the Fronts if it soothes you. But remember this: It’s all right to empathize, but never sympathize. Once you sympathize, then you will lose your ability to lead. Personal emotions must be set aside, Yitzhak. There will always be others who can take his place.” And then: “This is war. It always has been.”
Yitzhak sighed. Kastenbaum was correct and his assessment was even more so. This was a war that was unbridled and vicious, and most likely a war without end. But all wars had their components when it came to winning or losing. Assets were a premium. And Levine was one such asset.
“Maneuver others carefully into red zones,” he said. “And maintain a vigil on both fronts.”
The old man placed a soft hand on Yitzhak’s shoulder. “I know you’re friends,” he told him. “And I pray for Aryeh. But if you don’t recognize that what we do benefits the whole and not the one, then you will fail us all.”
“Although I respect you, Benyamin, and love you like a brother, don’t you ever lecture me again about my position here. I lead the Lohamah Psichlogit because I’m capable of doing so. The loss of one man, even if it happens to be a friend, will not deter me from performing my duties.” He turned to the old man whose face had become crestfallen in surprise. “Is that clear?”
Benyamin nodded. “I’m sorry, Yitzhak. You’re right. I was out of place.”
And then Yitzhak spoke gently as if the matter was already forgotten. “Is there anything else?”
“Just one matter,” he said. “We received the data regarding the carbon dating of Aaron’s staff.”
“And?”
“It’s the real thing, Yitzhak. It’s been confirmed to be thirty-seven hundred years old.”
Yitzhak focused his attention back to the screen, his eyes glossing over. Then in a whisper to no one in particular, he said, “Then it truly is the Ark of the Covenant.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Inside Mount Damavand, Iran, The Alborz Mountain Range
Umar, or Levine, entered a chamber with al-Sherrod and the two Quds officers in tow. The room was perfectly square, not too large, but big enough to hold its prize. In the room’s center situated on a foot-high platform was the Ark of the Covenant, which gave off a gold nimbus of light beneath the conical beam of a lamp shining downward from above.
Slowly, the operative’s jaw dropped in typical awe. He knew that the Ark in Axum, Ethiopia was a facsimile. But there was something about this particular Ark, an emitting energy, something that was tangible and intangible at the same time, something wonderfully magnetic.
“Do you sense it, as well?”
Levine ignored al-Sherrod and stepped closer with his hands held outward with every intention of placing his palms against its surface. The history behind this box, he thought, the power of its simple presence, was overwhelming.
Slowly, he pressed his palms against the gold that shined like the surface of a mirror—could see the color reflect off him as he stood next to the precious icon. His clothes, his flesh, everything about him became the color of gold within its glowing presence.
He did not feel the fatal electric charge that was alleged should the Ark be touched by open hands. Instead, it was cool and smooth to the touch, its texture like the even surface of glass. And then he grazed his fingers gingerly over the golden seat, then over the cherubs facing away from each other with the tips of their wings touching, then over the golden loops for the carrying poles. Everything he laid a hand on rang of legitimacy. And in his heart he knew this was the true Ark of the Covenant.
“Where did you find it?” he asked, tracing the tips of his fingers over the shell.
“Does it matter?”
“What does this have to do with what’s going on here in this facility?”
Al-Sherrod moved closer, the glow of the Ark now catching him within its aura. “Al-Ghazi truly did not tell you, did he?”
“Al-Ghazi informs cells as to their directives. In order for them to succeed he must keep secrets in case one cell is compromised, so that others can remain ignorant in order to keep them from forwarding information to the enemy. Even cells need direction from someone. And al-Ghazi is that someone. He tells me only what he must.”
“But for him not to trust in you, Umar?”
“It’s not a matter of trust, but a tool of defense.”
Al-Sherrod circled the Ark and ran a slender hand along its frame. “Do you know of the Ark’s tale? Of what the Christians believe will happen should the cover be lifted?”
Levine stood silent.
“Al-Ghazi lifted the cover. And do you know what happened?”
More silence.
“Nothing,” al-Sherrod said. “Inside were two tablets of stone, a golden bowl of manna, and an ancient cane.”
Levine knew the story of the dark angels within should they be released from the Covenant, the demons hunting down those close by who were filled with black wills instead of the Light of His glory, devouring them.
“It is nothing more than a box laden in gold and superstition,” he added. “But the good Doctor Sakharov is going to change all that.”
Levine turned to him, the features of his face already asking the question: How?
Al-Sherrod smiled. “If al-Ghazi did not tell, nor will I,” he answered. And then he grazed his palm lovingly over the structure, a gentle caress.
“Will you destroy the Ar
k, then?”
Al-Sherrod nodded. “The Ark was given to the prophet Solomon as a sign of His devotion to him. No, Umar, the Ark is only a vessel that is finally coming into its own as something it was meant to be all along—a tool by Allah to finally diminish the infidels given the prophecies. Once the lid is open, then the demons will rush forward to destroy those not within Allah’s grace.”
Levine suddenly felt his chest tighten. A vessel of destruction, four words that caromed off his mind over and over again, the words resounding in hollow cadence: A vessel of destruction.
“Your role will be a prominent one once the good doctor has completed his tasks to al-Ghazi and to Ahmadinejad. So you deserve to see it this one time. But after today, Umar, you will not come near this chamber again. Is that clear?”
Levine grazed his fingers over the cherubs golden wings. “Clear.”
“Keep to your tasks by serving Doctor Sakharov, and keep yourself to the areas classified as non-restricted.”
“Understood.”
Al-Sherrod smiled at him with those yellow teeth. And then: “Allahu Akbar.”
With lack of commitment in his tone, Levine uttered, “Allahu Akbar.” And was escorted from the chamber sensing that a bulls-eye was just drawn on his back by the man they called the Devil’s Companion.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Las Vegas, Nevada
“I’ll do it.” The three words were spoken with little conviction as Kimball stood before Louie’s desk in a quaint little office whose walls were covered with corkboards, pushpins and memos that overlapped each other. The blunt of a cigar burned in an ashtray that read WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS, sending a corkscrew ribbon of blue smoke ceilingward.
“You’ll fight?”
“I need the money.”
“We all need money,” he said, smiling. Louie immediately went to the phone and tapped in numbers on the keypad and fell back into his seat. There was a look about him, thought Kimball, of victory due to the way his mouth tilted with smugness, how the arch of one eye was raised higher than the other.
“Yo, Mario, set me up for the undercard on Friday’s fight. I got my boy wonder here to go a few with whomever you have available.” There was a long pause as Louie nodded his head, imbibing every word Mario had to say. And then: “Is he any good?” There was another pause. “Six fights and six wins, five of them by knock out. Well, it seems that my boy here has his work cut out for him then . . . What? . . . Yeah, Friday night . . . All right then.” He placed the phone gingerly onto its cradle, grabbed the stub of his cigar, and set it at the corner of his mouth while surveying Kimball with a steady gaze. “Why the change of heart?” he asked.
“Like I said, I need the money.”
Louie shook his head. “I ain’t buying it.”
“I’m not trying to sell you anything. So either you believe me or you don’t. I don’t care. If you want a fighter, then here I am.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, his smile growing into a wide arc. “I got me a fighter, don’t I?”
“So I take it that I’m on the undercard on Friday night?”
Louie nodded. “You’ll be fighting a guy named Tank Russo—a big mother from back east. New York, New Jersey—they’re all the same. But he’s good, J.J. Five knockouts in six fights. And I mean flat out, star-seeing knockouts that sent three to the hospital. This guy is up and coming,” he added. “Another ten fights, he should be seeing rock-solid numbers from the purse.”
“And how much will I get?’
“With my fifty percent—”
“Twenty-five,” he corrected.
“Thirty-three?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty? You’re going the wrong way, J.J. When you negotiate, you’re supposed to come to a happy medium. How about twenty-five percent?”
“Twenty. You’re not the one going into that ring against a wrecking machine.”
The smile washed away from Louie’s face, which had become as sullen as stone. “All right twenty. But you better win, J.J. The purse for this fight is one thousand for the winner and five hundred for the loser. If you lose, I only get a C-note.”
“That’s not bad for a phone call.”
Louie fell back into his chair. “No, I guess not. But if you lose, J.J., you won’t climb, especially coming out of the gate with a losing record.”
“I won’t lose.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
“Sure enough,” he answered. And then: “How many fights will it take to get to the top?”
“I’d say about fifteen, maybe twenty if you have a loss. It all depends upon how exciting of a fighter you are. If you’re good, you move. If not, then you’ll be trolling for trash as long as you work for this casino.”
“And the purses?”
“They grow as you do. Once you hit mainstream, once the TV’s focus on you as a supreme fighter, then you’re easily looking at five to six figures.”
Kimball couldn’t afford the television networks to reveal his true identity. Should a government constituent recognize him, then his life would be in jeopardy and he’d become the target of indigenous forces sent to silence him for the black ops he once performed for them and the dirty little secrets he held, including the sanctioned assassination of a United States senator.
No, he told himself. He would only bankroll enough money and leave Las Vegas before he made any type of impression with the network brass. Perhaps to Montana and buy a small spread to get started, and then grow from there. He would live a quiet life, alone, under a new name, a new identity, and pay taxes. He would wake up to the colorful streamers of light at dawn, then sit on the porch at dusk in a rocker watching the day’s light fade to an obsidian darkness where the night sky sparkled with countless pinprick lights as stars glowered against a most gorgeous canopy. A soft wind would blow through the trees, the leaves singing in concert. It was all quite simple, he thought. Ten fights, maybe twelve. Just enough to get him started.
And then he would once again try to escape from his true nature.
“I knew you’d come around,” said Louie. “You can’t run away from who you really are. I always told you that, didn’t I? I always said that you were a fighter, J.J. I could see it in your baby blues.”
Kimball nodded. You’re right, Louie. I really can’t escape from who I really am, can I? A fighter . . . A warrior . . . And don’t forget killer.
“Take the rest of the day off,” said Louie, standing, the cigar hanging precariously at the corner of his mouth. “Tomorrow, too. I’ll tell the bosses you went home sick. But I need you rested. This fight ain’t gonna be a cakewalk.”
Kimball left without a spoken word and kept to his ritual as much as he could. He went and bought his parfait glass of shrimp and walked beneath the overhang of the Freemont Experience. But it was still light and the overhead was not activated. So he walked to his apartment passing the homeless, the addicted, the forlorn and the wasted. He walked without a hitch in his step and his head held low.
The homeless begged him for money, their bony hands greased and caked with dirt held out for meager wages—a penny, a nickel, or perhaps the jackpot of a dollar bill. But Kimball ignored them the same way he ignored the lifeless looking nymphs who were ready to pleasure him for enough money to buy a bindle of meth.
Montana was looking better with every stride.
When he got home he went to the bathroom and gazed upon his features. He looked deep into his cerulean blue eyes, wondering what it was that Louie saw. Did they have a certain look about them? Something that gave insight to what he truly was? Were they the telltale signs of a killer in dormancy?
He raised the tips of his fingers and brushed them against the reflected images of his eyes—the blue eyes, so beautiful in their color, so deadly in their meaning.
Kimball then went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of vodka from the freezer, sat on the edge of the bed, popped the cap, and took a long swallow.
This is how he geared up for the fight, by first taking on his own demons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vatican City
Upon the passing of the pope, politicking was paramount in order to succeed to the throne. The two leads within the Preferiti were Cardinals Vessucci and Angullo. Cardinals Bass and Botelli were considered third and fourth respectively in the rankings, but still within striking range, even though both cardinals gravitated more toward the principles of a more liberal state.
To politick outside the walls of the Sistine Chapel prior to the conclave was acceptable. To politick for the papal station once the conclave was in session invited excommunication. By the time the door to the chapel was sealed minds should be made up, a successor chosen on the merits of what he could bring to the Church.
After a day of true debate among his constituency, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci had been diligently patient while listening to others. What had come to the fore is that Angullo’s camp had weakened considerably after the secretary of state often disputed the pontiff’s decisions and openly criticized the man for his judgment, which drew the ire of the pope and a growing distance between them.
In some eyes Angullo was seen as intolerable and uncompromising, causing many to withdraw from his camp, which in turn weakened his support. Others, however, stood firmly by him because they wanted to remain in the good graces of the man holding the second highest position within the Vatican.
And this was good news for Bonasero Vessucci, who was highly respected within the College of the Cardinals as someone who debated with skill and tolerance and had the pedigree of serving behind one of the most revered popes ever to reign by serving as secretary of state prior to his removal by Pope Gregory, and further viewed as a man of altruistic conviction.
