The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  The Seventh Message

  A Novel By

  William T. Johnstone

  THE SEVENTH MESSAGE

  An Ashley Kohen Thriller

  Copyright © 2017 William T. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination being used fictitiously, or are a matter of public record.

  ISBN – 13:978-15411622043

  ISBN – 10: 154116220X

  Book Cover Design by Mariah Sinclair

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY-ONE

  SEVENTY-TWO

  SEVENTY-THREE

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  SEVENTY-SIX

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  This book is dedicated to my wife

  Judy Johnstone

  Who I share my life with now and forever.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This novel is the result of a promise I made to myself, many years ago, to write a novel upon retirement. Up until that point, my writing was of a technical nature. The Seventh Message was a lot of fun to write and a great challenge for the author. It started with an idea for a character with dedication and motivation to save others from the evil side of human nature. From that concept the story grew toward the fulfillment of the ultimate triumph over malevolence. Getting to that end required a great deal of imagination, research and help from those willing to expend their time and knowledge on my behalf.

  My thanks to Weldon L. Kennedy, author of On Scene Commander, who introduce me to the culture of the FBI. His true life experiences gave me insight into the day to day workings of a Federal agency important to public safety and national security. I also appreciate the technical review of piloting procedures offered by Donald E. Anderson, and to the Federal Aviation Administration that employed me long enough to gain insight into their flight management system and their ridged determination to maintain flight safety procedures.

  No writer writes alone. He or she must rely on others to see what is invisible to the author. Those with keener eyesight then mine include Elaine Jordan, Chris Hoy, Sandy Nelson and Susan Lanning who reviewed the draft manuscript and made if better.

  I want to thank the Monday Readers Group for their diplomatic, penetrating and resourceful critique of my weekly scribblings. Without input from Ed Gates, Judith March Davis, Dougal Reeves, Patricia Batta and Mary Ann Clark this work of fiction would never have reached a successful conclusion. Thank you for suffering though the drafts and tolerating my revisions.

  Finally, I want to recognize my wife’s ability to spell better than me and her willingness to not comment on her superior skills.

  PROLOGUE

  IN A SUBTERRANEAN CHAMBER with walls of limestone blocks six men stood around a stone table of inlaid jasper, jade and malachite. Two men dressed in flowing Arab wear, faced four others in western business suits. Pale light from the stone fireplace reflected on their faces. The cobbled floor, rutted by centuries of wear, felt uneven underfoot.

  The Arab wearing a checkered headscarf spoke. "I am the Supreme Leader and have met your demands. My inspectors tell me all is ready." His companion, a large bearded man in black robes and a white scarf, nodded agreement, and then added, "It has taken my Supreme Leader months to assemble the gold and melt it into uniform ingots."

  The Russian and his translator confronted them across the table. Two bodyguards stood in the darkened corners of the chamber. The Russian, dressed in a tailored black suit, challenged the Arabs. "Months of negotiations mean nothing to you." He spit out the words. "My auditors tell me you are short ten million U.S. dollars. Your actions are intolerable." He spoke in his native language. His interpreter, standing beside him, translated in Arabic.

  The Supreme Leader raised his head in disbelief. "That is not possible. My Chief Disciple has supervised our efforts personally. You demanded payment in a manner untraceable through established banking procedures, and I have complied. I calculated our payment using the value of gold we agreed to earlier. My inspectors weighed the bars many time to ensure everything is in order. They assure me there are 3,676.5 pounds of gold bars at our transfer point, as you demanded."

  The Russian eyed the Arab and sneered. "Our deal is $100 million in pure gold. Pure gold is 24 karats, as you must know. Hundreds of samples reveal the gold is on average 21.5 karats: contaminated with 2.5 karats of worthless base metals. You are not dealing with a fool. I have sold arms to countless factions, who conduct coups, revolts, political uprisings and wars around the globe. You seek to buy a most unique weapon." In a loud and angry voice he shouted, "Do you think you can cheat me?"

  The interpreter, an American, translated the question.

  Humbled, the bearded Arab bowed his head, knelt beside the Supreme Leader, and clutched his gold embroidered robes. "Forgive me my most holy descendant of the Prophet Mohammad. Their auditors told our inspectors of this error minutes before this meeting. I will arrange to deliver 367.5 pounds of pure 24 karat gold worth 10 million dollars by week's end. May Allah the Magnificent testify to my innocence, as I speak"

  The interpreter quickly told the Russian of their promise. "Tell them I will accept their gold. I am suspicious of their explanation, but I have invested too much time in these negotiations to walk away."

  Both Arabs exchanged hurried words. The big man, visibly humiliated, stared at the stone floor, head bowed. The Leader ordered him to put wood on the fire, then spoke to the Russian. "I will correct this oversight. You should have no
further concern. What is of concern to me is a guarantee you have what you say you have to sell. I need proof."

  As if he expected that demand, the Russian pulled documents from a briefcase and spread them on the table on top of the End User Certificates. He explained. "These are secret drawings. The notes are in Russian, as you would expect. The photographs are both old and new, some with a digital date. This should confirm your research. A team of our experts will train your people when you are ready. That's part of our deal."

  The Supreme Leader listened to the translation and studied the documents. "You must guarantee that my purchase will be set before me in a timely manner. Are you prepared to meet my demand?"

  The Russian countered. "Here is what I propose: you will name the point of transfer. If I agree, we will each appoint observers to oversee the transfer." He leaned forward, placed his hands flat on the stone table, and stared directly into the eyes of the Supreme Leader. "Before any work begins we will exchange ten male hostages to be held in a secure and secret place of our choice. You will appoint an armed guard to watch my hostages, and I will appoint an armed guard to watch yours. You and I will make daily contact with our transfer observers. If either side reports the trade is compromised, the other side will kill one hostage a day until the problem is resolved." He moved his face within inches of the Supreme Leader, his jaw muscles flexed, "I pay my hostages well and have never lost one." He offered a thin smile. "I suspect you have martyrs to serve as your hostages?"

  The translator explained this complex arrangement in detail. The Supreme Leader listened and conferred briefly with the bearded man. "I agree. I name this chamber as our final exchange point. The item I am buying from you, and the gold I am paying you, will be moved here. Agreed?"

  The Russian responded. "Yes. You need only sign the two End User Certificates laid out on this table to consummate our deal. You must know, these certificates describe procedures recognized internationally. We will sign both documents and each of us will keep one."

  The Arab ordered his companion to bring him a pen. With no further words, he and the Russian hunched over the ancient table and added their signatures to the documents. No one spoke, until the Russian said, "Everything is in order. This deal is done."

  The Russian retrieved his copy of the agreement, stepped back, and leered at the Supreme Leader. "I will watch the future with interest. You have at your disposal a unique opportunity never before available to anyone. Properly carried out your actions will be felt around the world." With a smile he added, "The future will be changed forever."

  ONE

  SERGEANT ASHLEY KOHEN faced five uniformed police officers seated as an Initial Board of Inquiry in the headquarters conference room. An electric fan moved the hot and humid air, but didn’t eliminate the smell of body sweat. Her back ached as she sat at attention and wondered how much more of this crap she'd have to take.

  Captain Flynn continued, "Then what did you do?"

  "I called dispatch and reported officer down."

  "Did you render aid and assistance?"

  "Yes, but I couldn't revive Officer Saviano."

  "Was he dead?"

  Sergeant Kohen hesitated. She must now repeat the obvious results of the shooting, yet again. "Yes sir, he was dead. Three shots in the center mass at close range. Dead. Not moving. Not breathing. Lifeless, like not alive anymore."

  "Calm down, Sergeant. We're about done here." Captain Flynn turned to the other four officers on the board. "Any more questions?"

  A lieutenant at the end of the table nodded. "Sergeant, you say there was a witness to this incident?"

  Ashley Kohen recalled the vivid image of the frightened store owner's thin body slammed against a wall by Saviano’s big fist. The officer's other hand, clutching a wad of money, pounding the shopkeeper's bloody face again and again.

  "Yes, sir. Like I already said. While on my way to work I heard dispatch make the call, and I responded because I was in the vicinity.” Ashley strained to keep her composure “The store owner, Mr. Lee Chan, called in the robbery before Officer Saviano arrived. He said the officer would rob him. It had happened before. Mr. Chan gave a statement to the Professional Standards Unit explaining the entire incident."

  Captain Flynn picked up the digital recorder lying on the table in front of Ashley. "If there are no further questions, I call this Initial Board of Inquiry adjourned." He snapped the recorder off.

  Sergeant Kohen felt a release of tension in her body. She could go home, sort out what happened, and get on with her life. The last time she'd felt this tormented she was a little girl in school. Because the boys bullied her on the playground, she came home crying every day. Her mother told her, "Ashley, when they knock you down and kick you, reach up and grab their foot and twist it until it hurts." Ashley never forgot her advice.

  She hesitated in front of the windows of the conference room. Down below the night-lights of Chicago outlined the buildings and lit the constant movement of life on the streets. It had been a rough day for her in the Windy City.

  Captain Flynn remained after the others left. With his head down, he moved close and whispered, “My boss, Commander Morgan, is outside. Sorry, I can’t help you.”

  Commander Morgan, a square-shouldered man with a protruding belly straining the gold button of his uniform, stood blocking her exit from the room. "Kohen, the Chief wants to see you upstairs. Right now."

  “See me, tonight, this late?”

  “That’s what I said, sergeant.” Morgan glanced at her breasts, and shook his head. ”Such a pity. With so many men crowded together at headquarters, a good-looking woman was a tasty diversion.”

  Ashley straightened and took a deep breath. “What do you mean ‘was’?”

  “I mean Saviano wasn’t the greatest cop working the streets, but he was one of us, and one of the Chief’s oldest friends.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you’ve had a good run. Too bad it has to end.”

  Ashley’s voice hardened. “Armed robbery and assault is a crime, even if the perpetrator wears a uniform and works for the Chicago Police Department. I did what every cop is sworn to do.”

  Morgan scowled. “The Chief’s waiting. Follow me.”

  Captain Flynn, helpless to intervene, watched as the two disappeared down the hallway.

  TWO

  THE WALNUT PANELED WALLS of Chief of Police Marvin Danforth’s office held rows of mounted animal heads snarling into the room. Interspersed between the hunting trophies hung photographs of Danforth at various times during his checkered career.

  Danforth stood up when Sergeant Kohen entered his office, but not to be polite. He brushed by her, slammed the door, and then turned and glared at her with that pissed off expression he wore when things didn't go his way. Ashley braced herself for a confrontation. The smell of stale cigarette smoke filled the room.

  "Okay, Kohen. What the fuck happened out there?"

  Ashley stood at attention. "I've reported everything to Professional Standards, sir. You should have their report."

  "I have it. Answer my question."

  "Yes, sir. Last night I worked late and parked the police car in a secured place. On my way to work this morning I heard dispatch report a robbery in progress at the corner of Cicero and Prospect, a retail shoe store only two minutes away. I answered the call and proceeded to that location."

  "Standard procedure. Get on with it."

  "Yes, sir. As I drove up, I saw Officer Saviano stroll into the store. I assumed he didn’t know he was going into a dangerous situation–a robbery in progress. I parked in the alley behind the store and entered the unlocked back door of the building. I did this so I could approach unobserved and stop any harm coming to a fellow officer. With my gun drawn, I passed through the storage room and heard shouting up-front. When I entered the store I saw Officer Saviano holding Mr. Chan against the wall by the shirtfront and punching him. He yelled he wanted more money. They were alone in the store."

>   "What did you do?'

  Ashley suspected the Chief had not read the report. He should know all of this. "I holstered my weapon and asked Saviano what was going on."

  "What did he say?"

  "He screamed at me. Told me this wasn't my territory, and to fuck off. His words, not mine, sir."

  "What then?"

  "Mr. Chan begged me to help him. He said he reported a robbery because he knew Saviano would come by and steal his money. Like he always did."

  Chief Danforth edged forward, his eyes fixed on her. "That's bullshit."

  Ashley stepped back. "It's not bullshit, sir. Officer Saviano assaulted the store owner right in front of me. Saviano had a fist full of money in his right hand with the cash register drawer open. I had probable cause."

  "Probable cause to do what?'

  "Arrest Saviano, sir."

  "You tried to arrest a fellow cop?"

  Ashley took another step back. "Yes, sir. I again drew my weapon and ordered him to get down on the floor, hands on his head. That's when he pulled his gun and shot at me."

  "I don't believe you. Joe Saviano didn't do that."

  "The fingerprints on his gun are his. The On Scene Investigator dug his bullet out of the wall and bagged it. Ballistics will prove it came from Saviano’s gun."

  "More bullshit. If he shot at you, you'd be dead."

  Ashley took one more step back. She felt the wall behind her. "Have you ever tried to fire a Glock with a hand full of cash, Chief? We don't train with that handicap. And I don't stand still when someone reaches for a gun. I move fast and return fire."

  Chief Danforth got in her face. "You killed Joe Saviano." He poked his finger against her chest hard. "Joe Saviano was my friend." Another poke with the finger. "We served together." One more poke, harder this time.

  "Don’t touch me again."

  "Or what?"

  Her body tightened. She worked out the moves she’d take to put this flabby red-faced piece of crap on the floor. With her years of martial arts training, he’d fall in seconds. Then she relaxed. Stayed in control. "I'll twist your foot."