by Alex Lukeman
"Hold it right there!"
Bright light flashed over the safe. The voice and light startled the hooded figure. He'd been so focused on getting the safe open that he'd failed to hear the approach of the museum guard.
The guard wasn't supposed to be there. It was too bad for him that he was.
"Stand up and turn around, real slow," the guard said. "Don't try anything funny. There's a Glock .45 aimed right at you."
"Okay. No problem, officer."
As he turned, he raised his left arm and held his right hand out in front of him to show that it was empty. The guard gestured with his pistol.
"Put both your hands on top of your head. Now."
The thief triggered a mechanism hidden in his sleeve. A razor-sharp sliver of steel shot out.
The blade struck the guard an inch above his Adam's apple. He made choking noises. Blood spewed from his mouth. The pistol fell from his hand. He clutched at his throat and staggered backward, making desperate gurgling sounds. Then he toppled to the floor. His heels drummed a spastic beat on the hard wood. Then he stopped moving.
Outside the museum, sirens sounded on the deserted Avenue, coming closer.
Triggered the alarm when the first scan failed, the thief thought.
He reached inside the safe, took out the frame with the scroll, and stuffed it in a bag. He ran for his escape route.
By the time the police found the dead guard, the thief was gone.
CHAPTER 8
The next morning Friedman called Selena.
"It's gone?"
"Gone. There were artifacts of gold in plain sight but the thief left them. He was only after the scroll."
"And he killed the guard?"
"Everyone is very upset. My PA was crying most of this morning."
"I wonder how he found out about it?"
"Several people knew about the scroll and that it was important. I don't see how it's going to do him any good. Even you had to use a super computer to translate it. Not too many people have access to one of those."
"We have to assume he'll find a way. It's all the more reason for us to get over to Israel as soon as we can."
Nick sat nearby, waiting for her to finish the call.
"What was that about killing a guard?"
"Someone broke into the museum and cracked the safe. He set off an alarm and a guard confronted him. The thief killed him and took the scroll."
"Sounds like a robbery that went wrong."
"There was gold in the safe. The thief didn't take anything except the scroll."
"It didn't take long for this to get complicated," Nick said.
"We'll need weapons over there," Selena said.
"Wait a second," Nick said. "I thought you quit."
"I did, but it doesn't mean I quit using common sense. Whoever took that scroll will find a way to read it. Once they do, they'll know everything we do. You know they're going to look for the gold. They wanted that scroll badly enough to kill a guard. We need weapons."
"Now you're talking about a full on mission. We'll have to talk with Harker. I'm not sure I feel okay with you doing this."
"You're worried about the baby?"
"Of course I am. I was just getting used to the idea that you'd be out of harm's way."
"I'm barely two months pregnant, Nick. There's no reason I can't do this. It's not like jumping into Pakistan or Aleppo. Besides, once whoever took it translates the scroll, they still have to figure out what it means. By the time they do, we'll be far ahead of them."
"Yeah, maybe."
"Oh, come on, Nick. This is the stuff of legends. It's exciting."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Nick said. "Too much excitement."
An hour later, the team sat once again in Harker's office. Elizabeth tapped her pen on her desk as Selena told her about the theft.
"Killing the guard changes the equation," she said. "I'm going to have to run this by the President. I can't send an armed team into Israel without his permission, not now that Corrigan is coming in."
"What if he says no?" Nick asked.
"Then you're not going."
"Director..."
"If he says no, we'll hand it over to the Israelis."
She turned to Selena. "Assuming he says yes, are you sure it's wise to take a couple of civilians with you?"
"The same argument holds," Selena said. "Friedman gives us respectability and cover. Besides, he's an accomplished archaeologist. He'll see things we'd never notice. We could walk right by something without him."
"I'm seeing President Rice this afternoon to give him a final briefing," Elizabeth said. "I'll run it by him then."
CHAPTER 9
The headquarters of Iran's Ministry of Intelligence and Security in downtown Tehran had the look of a place you didn't want to visit. It wasn't that the building was particularly threatening in itself, although it was true that it wouldn't win awards for aesthetics in an architectural competition. There was something about the way it looked that seemed to lack the human touch. It presented a high, flat wall of brown stone, accented with rectangles of white. The building looked as though it had been designed by a machine. Rows of faceless windows marched in perfect symmetry across the façade.
In case an observer doubted he was looking at something that was none of his business, all he had to do was note the concrete barriers painted in green and white blocking traffic approaches to the building, or count the guards wearing berets and carrying submachine guns that patrolled the area.
MOIS was the most powerful ministry in the Islamic Republic of Iran. It fell under the general heading of Iran's national security establishment. At the head of that establishment was the Supreme Leader. Beneath him was the Supreme National Security Council. Below the Council were MOIS, the Ministry of Defense, and the Ministry of the Interior. Of the three, MOIS was by far the most feared.
MOIS was responsible for all foreign intelligence, counterterrorism and internal security. To that end, the ministry had created one of the most efficient intelligence networks that had ever existed, backed up by a ruthless and brutal secret police force. Sometimes MOIS was referred to as VAJA. Whatever one called it, it was not something Iranians talked about openly, if they knew what was good for them. VAJA was the secret weapon of the Supreme Leader and the Council, responsible for all covert operations against the hated West and anyone who dared to preach moderation within the country.
In a large office on the top floor of the headquarters building, two men sat discussing one of those operations. One of the men wore the black robes and white turban of a cleric. His face had the jolly appearance of someone who was well pleased with himself and his position in life. His beard was streaked with gray. Square, gold-rimmed glasses reflected glare from the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. His name was Babak Fahrad. Fahrad was a man to be reckoned with, a close advisor of the Supreme Leader.
The second man wore the uniform of a general in the Revolutionary Guard. It was in his office that the men were meeting. General Abbas Javadi was someone who liked his food, and it showed. He was overweight, his face round and slightly unpleasant, his eyes dark and beady. Receding black hair was slicked back from his forehead. His lips were swollen and purplish, a sign of bad digestion. His cologne could not quite hide his sour body odor.
Javadi's role was roughly equivalent to the Central Intelligence Agency's director of clandestine operations. He monitored and directed covert activities against the enemy. He was meeting with Fahrad to discuss Operation Sword of Justice, an operation so secret that only the Supreme Leader, Fahrad, Abbas, and the unit in the field knew about it.
On a low table before the two men was a tray with a pot of tea and two cups. Fahrad picked up the pot and poured a cup.
"Tea, General?"
"Thank you, Excellency."
Abbas took the cup. The two men sipped at their tea.
"The Supreme Leader is most interested in the progress of the operation," Fahrad said. "What news s
hall I bring to him?"
"As you are aware, Excellency, the conference of the Jews is still two weeks away. Everything is ready. The package will arrive in New York shortly. It will be installed ahead of the conference, but before security has been put in place."
"You are confident in the capabilities of your team?"
"I am. The team leader, Dayoud, is personally known to me. I chose him because of his exemplary record and his willingness to martyr himself if necessary. In his particular case, I hope it is not necessary. He is intelligent, a valuable asset."
"As God wills," Fahrad said. "What about the rest of his team?"
Abbas shrugged. "They are expendable. It is unlikely they will return home. We cannot risk them ever talking about the operation. They have prepared themselves for martyrdom."
"Ah."
"There has been an interesting development," Abbas said. "An artifact has been discovered. I see the hand of Allah in this, guiding us. His gifts are many."
Fahrad sipped his tea. "What kind of artifact?"
"A scroll. Written by the Jew king, Solomon."
"Go on."
"I instructed Dayoud to obtain this scroll. He succeeded. It is written in the ancient language of the Jews and is in code, but my people have cracked it. It contains partial directions for finding a hoard of gold the Jew king Solomon set aside to maintain their godless temple. I want to follow up on it."
"Nothing must jeopardize the operation," Fahrad said.
"There is no conflict," Abbas said. "The two are only coincidentally related."
"It would truly be a gift if this treasure of the Jews could be found and used against them. What could be more appropriate?"
"What indeed? That is my thought as well, Excellency."
"Very well. You have permission to explore this possibility."
Fahrad stood. Abbas rose with him.
"Update me regularly on the progress of the operation, and of any further developments concerning this artifact."
"Of course."
Fahrad stepped forward and embraced Abbas.
"God go with you."
"And with you, Excellency."
Abbas watched the door close behind Fahrad and went back to his desk. He thought about the operation in America and imagined what would happen when it succeeded.
The thought brought a huge smile to his face.
CHAPTER 10
Elizabeth arrived at the White House and was escorted to the Oval Office. She'd made the journey often in the past. She wondered how many more times she'd be coming here, if at all, now that a new man would be sitting in the big chair.
She was surprised to see that President-elect Corrigan was there, sitting with President Rice on one of the two couches in front of Rice's desk. A silver coffee service and porcelain cups were placed on a low table in front of them. Both men rose when she came into the room.
"Director Harker, I would like you to meet your new boss. Walter, this is Elizabeth Harker. She runs the unit I've been telling you about."
Corrigan held out his hand. They shook. His grip was firm with a hint of suppressed strength.
"President Rice speaks highly of you, Director."
Walter Corrigan's voice was deep, authoritative. It went with his barrel chest and stocky build. While Rice was lean and almost aristocratic looking, Corrigan had the look of a brawler. It wasn't far from the truth. He'd come up the hard way in politics, raised in a factory town in Pennsylvania. His path to the White House had led through the streets of Rust Belt America.
Somewhere along the way, on one of those streets of his childhood, someone had broken his nose. It gave his face a rugged look, the look of a man who would stand for no nonsense. His face had been one of the strong points of his campaign. He'd been elected on a promise of fixing everything that was wrong with America. Every politician who wanted to reach the Oval Office said that. The difference with Corrigan was that many people believed he might actually do it.
Corrigan was sixty-two years old.
"Mister President-elect. I'm pleased to meet you, sir," Elizabeth said.
Rice indicated the couch. "Let's sit down."
When they were settled, Rice said, "I'm going to miss our briefings, Elizabeth."
"As will I, sir."
Rice turned to Corrigan. "The intelligence agencies hide information from this office. One of the reasons I hired Director Harker was to tell me what no one else wanted me to know. Sometimes I didn't like what she said, but she has always been direct and honest with me. Her unit has been instrumental in keeping this country out of serious trouble, more than once."
"That's a pretty good recommendation," Corrigan said. He looked at Elizabeth. "Director Harker, I need to know that everyone on my team is one hundred percent behind me. Do you think you can give me that kind of commitment?"
"Sir, I can only tell you that my commitment is to the security of our nation. That is one hundred percent, always. As President, you are in charge of that security. Does that answer your question?"
"Have you ever considered running for office, Director? That was a politician's answer."
"I'm no politician, sir. Can I give you a hundred percent? Yes, I can. I don't know any other way to do it. Anything less would be a dereliction of duty on my part. If I felt that I could not do that, I would submit my resignation."
"Fair enough," Corrigan said. He turned to Rice. "Is she always like this?"
"Pretty much."
Elizabeth said to Corrigan, "Sir, I'm not sure how much President Rice has told you about how my unit operates."
"He's given me a general picture," Corrigan said. "You have some kind of special ops team that you send to trouble spots, is that correct?"
"Yes sir, that's correct as far as it goes. But it's much more complicated than that. The Project is off the radar and out of the public eye, which means we are deniable. We don't have to answer to anyone except the man who sits in this office. Primarily I see our job as stopping trouble before it happens. Because we're outside of the bureaucratic system, we can move on very short notice. Our enemies don't have time to prepare. If we can go in and prevent an attack or retrieve important intelligence, I feel like we've done our job."
"You're not completely off the radar, Director," Corrigan said. "I have many sources. I've heard your unit referred to as the President's personal hit team. Perhaps you're not as hidden as you think you are."
"It's true that we've been involved in some high profile incidents in the last few years," Elizabeth said. "Unfortunately, I would have to agree that more people now know about the Project that I would like. However, we are still effectively operating out of the public eye and without congressional oversight."
"Mmm," Corrigan said.
"Mister President," Elizabeth said to Rice, "something's come up. I want to initiate a mission. Since it will extend into President-elect Corrigan's term and could impact an important ally, this is a perfect opportunity to discuss it."
"Go on," Rice said.
Elizabeth briefed Rice and Corrigan on the translation of the scroll and gave them her reasons for wanting to send the team into Israel.
"You are sure the scroll is authentic?" Rice asked.
"Yes, Mister President."
"Why not simply turn this over to the Israelis?" Corrigan asked.
"Sir, with all due respect, the Israeli bureaucracy is worse than our own. It's clear because of the murder of the museum guard that someone with bad intentions wanted that scroll. We translated it and so will they. By the time anybody in Israel does anything about it, whoever is interested in looking for the gold in that tomb will have found and removed it."
"It could be politically advantageous to your new administration if we're the ones to find it, Walter," Rice said. "Israel would owe you a favor. You'd have a bargaining chip in the Middle Eastern game right off the starting line. Believe me, you'll need all the chips you can get."
"I see your point," Corrigan said.
"Elizabeth," Rice said.
"Yes, sir?"
"I don't need to tell you how sensitive this could be."
"No, sir."
"Will your team be armed?"
"Yes, sir."
"I would feel more comfortable if there is Israeli participation, Director. You have contacts there. I understand your point about bureaucracy, but perhaps you can find a way to get around it. It's important there be no misunderstandings about why you are there. An armed team will make the Israelis nervous, even if we are allies. They are going to wonder what you're doing there. Get them on board."
"Yes, Mister President."
A presidential aide entered the room and stood by the door.
"Sir, the press is ready for you."
"They're always ready," Rice said. "Thank you, Bill."
Rice stood. Harker and Corrigan followed suit.
"Good luck with this mission, Director," Rice said. "I've enjoyed working with you. Perhaps we'll see each other in the future."
"I sincerely hope so, Mister President."
Corrigan said, "Director Harker. Please keep me informed. I'll instruct my staff to put you through if you call."
"Thank you, sir."
On the way out of the White House, Elizabeth thought about Corrigan. Her first impression was favorable, but it would take time to know if it was going to work out with him. Once he took office, he would be buried in the overwhelming complexity of trying to hold down the most difficult job in the world. People he didn't know would surround him. They would all have agendas. The jury was out as to whether or not the Project's continued existence would fit in with those agendas.
On the drive back to Virginia, Elizabeth thought about the mission. She needed to clear a path for the team in Israel. Friedman had to be read in, at least to a degree. She needed a secrecy agreement from him as well.
She decided to let Selena handle it.
CHAPTER 11
In a fifth floor walk-up on Manhattan's Lower East Side, Amin Kazemi was brewing tea in a brass pot on the gas stove. He'd found the pot in an open air flea market on Third Avenue. It was inscribed with designs of flowers and leaves and reminded him of home.
