False Prophet

by Richard Davis

  Most likely, this was someone sent by the authorities to bring me in, or perhaps even to take my life…

  There was no doubt this person was coming for the living room. And, judging by the volume of the footsteps, I had about three seconds before he arrived. But I didn’t have access to my weapons: I’d left them in the bedroom on the other side of the lobby. So I had to use what was available in the room. And I knew that whatever I used, it was critical I got the first blow in. If I could land a hit before this person realized I was wise to his presence, it’d greatly increase my chances of coming out on top.

  With these thoughts rushing through my mind, I snapped to my feet, grabbed a small wooden coffee table, and hurled it with everything I had at the door four yards away. And I timed it perfectly: no sooner had I released the table than a man appeared at the threshold.

  In the brief moment during which the table was in flight, I took a good look. He was in his mid-twenties, 6’2”, in perfect shape; he was wearing a plain grey sweater, durable black pants, lightweight boots; and in his right hand was a Ruger Mark II, the older version of mine, with a silencer. And it was this weapon that told me he was an assassin. Because not only was the Ruger a make famously favored by assassins, but this was also an outdated, non-standard-issue model, and I knew from experience that very few in the armed forces other than assassins have the autonomy to use non-standard-issue weapons.

  But there was something about this man that said he wasn’t just an assassin. After working at the HRT for years, I’d come to recognize a certain quality which belonged exclusively to those in the most elite special forces – a kind of supreme confidence and calm – and this guy had it. And since I didn’t recognize him, my guess was that he was from the Navy SEALs or the US Army Deltas – one of the two groups that measured up to the HRT.

  And if this was the case, then there were only two organizations that could’ve sent him: the FBI or the CIA…

  In the next second, the table hit the target: it clattered hard against the guy’s abdomen and hands, breaking as it did so, the shattered parts flying past him into the lobby. And, crucially, so too did the Ruger, which had slipped his grasp with the contact.

  I was unsurprised to see that the guy still looked unfazed: he was too well trained to lose his cool. And I knew that he’d now be weighing up whether he should retrieve the Ruger, or reach for the blade inevitably on his person. A moment later, he made his decision: he took a half-step back in retreat. But this wasn’t what I wanted. So immediately I began charging towards him, hoping to force him to engage. And sure enough, it worked: he paused abruptly, and whipped from his boot a black Ka-Bar – a seven-inch, military-standard bowie knife. But this was exactly what I’d expected, so I reacted fast. I suddenly halted my charge a couple of feet from him, and threw a vicious front kick at his knife-wielding hand. The contact sent the Ka-Bar clattering into the lobby.

  I’d managed to disarm him because I’d realized what he was planning without him knowing, and had thus been able to surprise him first and so now, it was a level playing field. Only it wasn’t really, because if he had in fact been sent by American national security, then he would’ve been extensively briefed on my strengths and weaknesses. And what’s more, he was fresh whereas I was exhausted.

  If I wanted to survive, I’d have to finish him fast. Stamina was on his side.

  Our eyes met for a brief, electrifying moment. We both knew only one of us would be leaving alive.

  And then, all of a sudden, I went for him, throwing myself forward with a flurry of punches, and forcing him to backpedal into the large lobby. But my first four blows he comfortably blocked, and my next two missed the target altogether – he was thoroughly outpacing me, and it was disorientating. Then the next thing I knew, his fist struck me hard between the eyes and my vision went hazy. A half-second later, he followed this with a tremendous blow to the upper-right of my abdomen after which, he took my feet from under me with a leg-sweep. I fell hard onto my lower back.

  Yet at this point, he didn’t straddle my body full-mount but leaned across my torso instead. And the fact he’d chosen this position, which was universally considered weaker, told me that he had indeed been briefed on me – he knew about my unusual capacity for disabling assailants in the full-mount position.

  But the next instant, these thoughts were disrupted by screaming pain. The guy had forced my hand to the floor, slipped his other arm under my elbow, and started forcing it up and the pressure on my shoulder was excruciating. But then, more worryingly, as my shoulder popped from its socket, and the guy started working my face with his elbows, the pain was replaced by an encroaching darkness. Unconsciousness was closing in. With every ounce of my being, I fought to keep my brain online but still the elbows kept coming. And I found myself thinking dimly: this is it, I’ve finally met my match…

  But then suddenly he lifted one of his legs, and began swinging it over my body. Clearly, he’d decided that I was now subdued enough that it’d be safe to adopt the full-mount position. And instantly I knew: this was my only chance – it was now or never. With this thought, I bucked my hips wildly, and my pelvis struck his with force, throwing off his balance. Then, before I knew it, I’d rolled him over. I was on top.

  For the first time, calm left his features. I had to capitalize. I shuffled up his body, and clamped his head between my knees, locking my ankles while grabbing one of his hands with my right hand, since it was my left shoulder that’d been dislocated. Then, with everything I could muster, I proceeded to squeeze his head with my knees and to crush his hand with mine. Soon the bones in his hand began to crack, and his face began to purple. But the pain didn’t subdue him, and, with his free hand, which I was unable to defend against, he lashed out viciously at my kidneys. Yet I persisted in spite of the punishment, driven by a primal urge to survive, until finally, what felt an eternity later, he gave up struggling, and blacked out beneath me.

  Drenched in sweat, I rolled off him. Then I made my decision: he was too dangerous to let live. And so I took his head, and snapped his neck.

  *

  Ten minutes later, Mort came through the front door.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he said, as he set eyes on the scene before him: the assassin lying dead; me sitting nearby, battered and bruised.

  ‘Help me put my shoulder together,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you what happened.’

  Mort came over and slammed my shoulder into its socket. The pain was intense but a walk in the park compared to what I’d just been through.

  ‘Our friend here crept into the suite with a silenced Ruger,’ I said, after taking a moment to catch my breath. ‘He was undoubtedly an assassin; and, judging by the way he handled himself, I’d say special forces – a SEAL or Delta.’

  ‘But only the FBI or the CIA could’ve deployed such an assassin.’

  I nodded solemnly. ‘I know.’ I paused. ‘It had to be the CIA. It would’ve required Muldoon’s authorization had it been the Bureau. You said yourself he’s got my back.’

  Mort nodded. ‘It was the CIA. Their Director must’ve authorized this on the sly – against the President’s expressed wishes.’

  ‘Meanwhile this guy’ – I gestured at the body – ‘was only doing his job. Died for no reason.’

  Again, Mort nodded, this time looking guilty. The reason why was obvious: he knew he’d been followed; that he’d led the assassin here.

  ‘It could’ve gone either way back there,’ I said, as I probed my injuries with my fingertips. My head was the least of my worries: though aching, it was stable enough. My shoulder, however, was extremely tender – I’d sustained, I reckoned, a closed fracture to the upper-humerus. But worst of all was where the guy had struck my abdomen, because he’d gotten my liver. I probed the area a second, then said:

  ‘I took a big blow to the liver. I reckon it’s lacerated: filling with blood as we speak.’

  Mort gave me a serious look, then said: ‘A ticking time bomb.’

&nbs
p; I nodded. It was a ticking time bomb because such a hematoma will almost certainly infect the abdominal cavity. And once the cavity is infected, you have three or four days to treat it before it kills you.

  But I didn’t have time deal with it right now. Treatment would have to wait.

  I sighed, then looked at Mort resolutely.

  ‘Right, it’s no longer safe here,’ I said. ‘I say we take your hire-car and haul-ass. It should still be safe to use, given that it’s unlikely that anyone will be staking out the hotel. After all, assassins, as we both know, usually operate in isolation, so they can’t be traced. And even if the assassin passed on the details of your car to the CIA, I don’t see how that’ll help them. They won’t have brought the police in on this, so I can’t see who they could possibly have out on the roads on the lookout for it.’

  ‘The car could be bugged,’ said Mort.

  ‘You’re right. So we’ll have to pull over once we’re out of town and comb it.’ I paused. ‘Then we’ll have to find somewhere safe to go next, but we can decide on that in the car. Right now though, we need to get going.’

  At that, Mort shot me a nod, then we fell to action. First, we carried the body into one of the bathrooms, and locked it inside by breaking the door-handle. Then Mort left the suite to get his car from the valet, leaving me to pack our equipment and papers. When I finished, I had just enough time to wolf down the coffee and sandwich Mort had left in the lobby before he called my Nokia and told me he was waiting outside. So, after affixing the Do Not Disturb notice to the front door, I flung everything over my right shoulder, and, with my head bowed, made my way quickly through the hotel and out onto the street.

  Mort drove assertively, and before long, we’d left Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel, and were traveling west along the identical route Rex had taken when driving me to Montclair. As we sat in silence, I thought darkly about the success of Drexler’s designs, about how American national security was squandering its energies chasing their own man, just as Drexler had hoped. But after a few minutes, these thoughts trailed off and my mind slipped into neutral – I was too exhausted to think.

  About thirty minutes later, Mort came off the Interstate and pulled over on a deserted road near the small town of Rockaway, NJ, so we could comb the car for bugs. Within fifteen minutes, we were back on the westbound lane of the I-80, satisfied the car was clean.

  ‘Where we going now?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t sweat it,’ Mort replied. ‘I know a place.’

  I didn’t have the energy to inquire further, I was happy just to let Mort take the reins. And so, divested of responsibility, I surrendered to the overwhelming urge to sleep.

  Chapter 40

  Saturday, March 2, 2013, 12:20 p.m. EST – The Whitesville House Motel, Whitesville, New York.

  If I’d felt bad immediately following my bout with the assassin, I felt a whole lot worse when Mort woke me four hours later. My left shoulder had tightened up, and was in desperate need of ice. My head was swollen. And my liver was generating an agonizing pain. Together, these injuries culminated in a wave of nausea which took me a good few seconds to curb. Then, finally, I gazed out the window. We were in a settlement little bigger than a hamlet, looking tired and run-down beneath the bleak, overcast sky.

  ‘Whitesville, New York,’ said Morton. ‘Used to have a uncle who lived here. We’re more than three-hundred miles from The Big Apple.’

  Mort pulled up outside a weather-beaten structure on the main drag with neon letters on its front reading The Whitesville House Motel, after which he led the way inside, and paid for the two rooms on the top floor. Soon enough, we were alone inside one of these rooms. And as Mort started unpacking our gear, I laid myself out on the bed, too incapacitated by pain to do much else. When Mort finished, he came over and shook his head concernedly.

  ‘Mort, we’ve got to do something about my injuries,’ I said in response. ‘I’m no good to anyone like this.’

  Mort nodded slowly. ‘You don’t lock horns with a Delta or SEAL and not have anything to show for it.’

  I grunted. ‘You can say that again. Look, my arm’s broken: it needs a sling and splint. And my head needs ice. My liver’s giving me hell, and may need surgery down the line. But in the meantime, I need painkillers.’

  Mort glanced at his watch. ‘There’s a pharmacy up the road. A pizza parlor and a grocers, too. I’ll go stock up on everything we need. We might as well get comfortable – no telling how long this process will take…’

  Barely had Mort said this than he ducked out the room. But I was struck by the tiredness in his voice…

  Fifty minutes down the line, Mort returned with provisions, and we both immediately felt better after getting through the pizzas. Mort then proceeded to splint my arm and put it in a sling, ice my bruising, and dose me full of ibuprofen and once all this was done, he lost no time getting back to work. His tiredness, I was glad to see, had been replaced with a quiet energy – this shift no doubt the result of the food, as well as the hour he’d had to clear his head. However, it wasn’t until four hours later, about six o’clock, that I felt fit enough to join him and it was then that we finally, with an air of cautious optimism, continued with the discussion we were having in Manhattan.

  In the hours that followed, we discussed a host of things. We discussed, for example, the Japanese cult, Aum Shinrikyo, which, on March 20, 1995, killed fifteen people after releasing sarin gas into five subway carriages in Tokyo. This obviously resonated with Drexler’s attack on Manhattan. And what was more, the leader of this Japanese cult had also exerted power by casting himself as a messianic figure: he claimed to be Christ reborn. But while Drexler’s attack on Manhattan did seem to be an intentional homage, it looked to be no more than that. The Aum Shinrikyo plot didn’t appear to offer any answers.

  We discussed also the TRIBOMB incident. This was the first ever bomb plot conceived by Arab terrorists against America – the brainchild of Iraqi born Khalid Mohammed el-Jessem, who, on March 4, 1973, planted car-bombs in three separate locations around New York, then met with disappointment when all three failed to detonate due to an identical fault in their circuitry. I’d brought this incident up because I’d suddenly remembered the photographs of the fault in el-Jessem’s bombs I’d seen years ago at bomb-disposal training, and realized the fault in the explosive at The Essex House was identical. And immediately it was clear that this had been an intentional allusion. Drexler, the man obsessed with Islamic radicalism, had of course been aware of this first Islamic plot on America. And by using a replica of one of el-Jessem’s failed bombs, he hadn’t simply been making a homage to this plot, he’d also been showing off. He’d been demonstrating that he could succeed using the same faulty circuitry that had caused el-Jessem’s plot to fail.

  But what grabbed our attention most was the fact that in two days’ time, it would be TRIBOMB’s fortieth anniversary, and this was also the date Samuel and Vann were due to be executed. Clearly, this was no coincidence. Drexler had undoubtedly known that if he started a week-long assault on the anniversary of the first Trade Center attack, he’d get a chance to commemorate TRIBOMB, too. But though this told us the reason why he might want to stage something on this date, it appeared to tell us little more. After all, given that he hadn’t remotely imitated Ramzi Yousef when commemorating the first Trade Center attack, it seemed unlikely he’d commemorate TRIBOMB by imitating el-Jessem…

  We discussed all this and more; and time and again we discovered patterns and hidden meanings in Drexler’s designs. Yet time and again, we fell tantalizingly short of cracking the code; of glimpsing something he hadn’t intended us to glimpse. So, not to be deterred, we persisted through the evening and into the night, fueled by a conviction that there had to be answers somewhere. Then we persisted into the early hours of the morning, until exhaustion overcame me, and I found myself dreaming I was lost in a labyrinth without an exit.

  Chapter 41

  Sunday, March 3, 2013, 6:
58 a.m. CST – 7505 South Laflin Street.

  Francis Bindle was ushered into the control room, and sat down in the chair next to the phone. The man known as Zahir had returned, and was sitting opposite him once more. Dennis Ericson was standing at his side.

  At 7 a.m., the phone rang. Francis activated the speakerphone.

  ‘Hello, Robin.’

  ‘Francis.’

  ‘Are we still on for tomorrow?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Great,’ said Francis. ‘The plane is now waiting on the runway, with all the money on board. Everything’s ready to go.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Is there anything more we need to cover?’

  ‘Not that I can think of.’

  ‘In which case, I won’t keep you any longer,’ said Francis. ‘I hope you’re making some headway your end.’

  ‘Don’t get me started,’ replied Robin.

  ‘See you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Chapter 42

  Sunday, March 3, 2013, 3 p.m. EST – The Whitesville House Motel.

  It was mid-afternoon, and I was sitting on the bed in the attic of the Whitesville House Motel, holding a sheet of paper containing a detailed description of the events that had occurred in Mineral. But I wasn’t reading it, I was simply staring at the page…

  I’d woken at 6 a.m. to find Mort, who’d resisted the urge to sleep, still at work and instantly, we’d resumed our conversation. However, during the hours that followed, we used up our last dregs of calm and optimism and when we’d hit midday, desperation had set in, and our conversation had suddenly become muddled and frantic. And unsurprisingly, when this panic had at last subsided two hours later, it’d been followed by skepticism, exhaustion, and despair.