Indisputable Proof

by Gary Williams

  Just then, two white Citroen Xsaras with blue stripes and red flashing lights came screeching around the corner of a large hangar with their sirens blaring. The vehicles turned and drew a bead on the Learjet several hundred yards away.

  The Hellenic police had found him.

  Samuel Tolen broke into a full sprint toward the next runway. He cut across the wide swath of cracked pavement. Behind, he could hear the car engines momentarily ease, as they adjusted their angle of pursuit, then whined again as they were pushed to the limit.

  They would overtake him quickly. If the police took him into custody, Jade would surely die. He had one chance. He changed direction.

  The plane he had spotted coming in for a landing had just touched down at the far end of the airfield. He turned right and ran up the runway directly toward the aircraft. It was a small plane and would need roughly one-third mile to land…and take off. He tried to estimate the distance as he raced forward. It taxied toward Tolen at a high rate of speed; its lights nearly blinding him.

  He glanced back to see one of the police cars stopped at the Learjet while the other slowed as it passed, then resumed speed, braking hard to the right once it hit the landing runway.

  Tolen ran as fast as he could at the approaching plane, hoping he had estimated correctly. The siren behind him grew louder as the police car trundled over the cracked runway. Tolen identified the aircraft as a Cessna Corvalis 400. The surprised look on the pilot’s face came into focus as the man and plane converged. Tolen heard the protesting brakes of the craft as the pilot bore down on them, waving his hands frantically, trying to get Tolen to get out of the way.

  Instead, Tolen withdrew his Springfield and aimed it at the cockpit window. He arrived at the plane just as it came to a stop, the pilot staring wide-eyed at Tolen.

  “Leave it running and get out of the plane!” Tolen yelled, aiming at the man through the glass.

  The doors on both sides swung upward. The Greek pilot came out one side; a young Hispanic couple exited from the other, closing the door behind them.

  “Run!” Tolen screamed at them. The threesome looked at the pistol briefly and then took off at a gallop.

  Tolen did not turn to look for the police car. He knew it was bearing down on him. Instead, he climbed in the plane. Just as he was about to retract the door, he lost his grip on his pistol and it clanged against the side of the plane and skittered away on the pavement below. There was no time to retrieve it. He closed the door and gunned the engine. The police car skidded to a stop next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two uniformed officers jump from their vehicle with weapons drawn. He spun the craft around and began taxiing up the runway. The craft quickly gained speed. There was a series of blasts and metallic pops as the officers fired on him.

  He desperately needed to pull out of range before they damaged the engine or hull. As the speed increased, the blasts faded in the distance, echoing faintly in the cabin. The officers continued to riddle the plane but with less consistency.

  The farther the plane taxied, the worse the runway became. He had not noticed it in the larger Learjet, but in the Cessna, he felt every crack and pothole. The craft bounced along, increasing velocity. He had forced a shortened landing when he had engaged the pilot. Now he only hoped there was enough runway to take off.

  Rising before him was a most unwelcome sight. In the darkness, a black swell of earth loomed ahead, lifting into the sky twice the height of the Petra: an unforgiving hill blocked his escape.

  It was going to be close.

  The runway ceased almost without warning. Tolen had just enough time to pull the nose up as the rows of track lights ended. The black mound of earth grew as he neared it. The plane struggled to lift, then, as if grabbing the air, it soared at a sharp angle. Tolen felt the pull of gravity as the aircraft lumbered upward steeply. Still climbing, the plane barely crested the rocky rise and reached up into the starlit sky.

  He took a moment to wipe the perspiration from his forehead and exhale.

  Tolen leveled the plane then dropped altitude, choosing to keep low in order to avoid radar detection. He set the destination coordinates, and the onboard navigation computer took over.

  Soon he was flying low over the Mediterranean Sea heading southeast. Moonlight shimmered off the surface, stretching across the watery horizon. Flying time was going to be nearly two and one-half hours, so he set the automatic pilot and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Vakind,” the acting director answered.

  “It’s Tolen.”

  “Where the hell are you? We have eight hours before the Sudarium will be declared missing and the CIA blamed.” There was a degree of concern Tolen seldom heard from the man.

  “Bar is on her way to Oviedo. I don’t believe the Sudarium ever left Spain. With any luck, she’ll find it in time. I’ve given her exact instructions what to do when she gets there.”

  “Tiffany Bar? She’s an analyst, Tolen. I understand you sending her to locations in the States to interview people, but she doesn’t know field protocol. Is an operative accompanying her?”

  “No, Morris. She’s alone. There will surely be members of the Flagellants in and around the area, and at least one will be stationed at the Cathedral for the beginning of the service at 9:00 a.m. to communicate to whatever terrorist cell is waiting to strike. We can’t draw attention that she’s CIA. She speaks Spanish better than most Spaniards and knows the local dialect and colloquialisms for northern Spain. No one will suspect she’s CIA. She’ll blend in seamlessly. She was the only one I could send.”

  Vakind released a long exhale. He paused before continuing on a different tack. “I’m flying to California. A man was pulled over on the outskirts of LA this afternoon with an SUV full of explosives. It was three times the amount McVeigh was hauling in Oklahoma City. In other words, enough to level several city blocks. We traced the dynamite back to a Canadian company robbed last week. The problem is that the amount we found in the SUV only represented five percent of the total theft. The suspect in custody is 42-year-old Nelson Whitacre, and he has openly confessed to being a U.S. member of the Flagellants but refuses to divulge any further information. He’s being held in FBI custody. I’m on my way there to interrogate him. If we can get him to crack, we may learn the target before it’s too late.”

  “Did President Fane elevate the terror alert?”

  “Yes, but we staged an explosion and fire at one of our bases in Kuwait in case there were eyes on it. Then we sent a press release of casualties. It must have been convincing. There have been no attacks by the Flagellants so far.”

  Tolen responded, “Good, but I need some help. You may need to brief President Fane.”

  Tolen explained his situation and concluded the call. He sat back and tried to relax, which was nearly impossible given his sore muscles, abrasions, and overwhelming fatigue. He pulled a small drawer open beneath the seat and found a bottle of caffeine pills. He popped two. Like Reba Zee, the pilot had kept a stash of legal stimulants.

  Damn, he was going to miss the woman, with her Texas drawl and bubbly personality. She did not deserve to die like that.

  He cleared his mind. Now was not the time to lament her death. He willed himself to turn his thoughts to the clue from the Petra stone jar. It had completely confounded him until, miraculously, his dream had sparked an epiphany that involved his father asking him about a “can o’ pickles.” Tolen realized why the term sounded familiar. It was his subconscious poking at him, trying to get him to see the obvious. The strange design and shape of the two stone jars had looked reminiscent of something he could not quite place until the dream; until he realized the “can o’ pickles” was his subconscious telling him “can-o-pic”…Canopic…as in “Canopic jars.”

  Canopic jars were used by the ancient Egyptians during the mummification proc
ess to store and preserve the viscera of their owner for the afterlife. All the viscera were not kept in a single Canopic jar, but rather each organ was placed in a jar of its own. There were four jars in all, each charged with the safekeeping of particular human organs: the stomach, intestines, lungs, and liver. A particular god was responsible for protecting a particular organ, and each jar represented one of the four directions: north, south, east, and west.

  With this realization, everything had fallen into place. Each of the previous Hebrew text messages they discovered had referenced a ‘direction of origin.’ The Harvard stone sphere text had said, “Travel from the south.” The text from the first jar in Costa Rica had said, “Travel from the west.” Then the most recent text said, “Travel from the north.” Plotting these points of origin on a world map, he discovered that each represented an extreme direction when compared to the others. Palmar Sur, Costa Rica, where the stone sphere was originally located before being moved to Harvard, was the southernmost point. Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb was the westernmost. The Petra on the Isle of Patmos was the northernmost. By process of elimination, the next destination would be easternmost in relation to the other three plotted points.

  Egypt fell right in the corridor of the easternmost plot of the other three locations to which they had already traveled.

  Then there was the phrase “…where the ancients knew no god but themselves in the desert.”

  The Pharaohs in Egypt were considered by their people to be living gods or deities.

  As David faced the lion, you will face the lion incarnate.

  Since the term “incarnate” meant personified in human form, “lion incarnate” was obviously a reference to the sphinx, which at one time had the body of a lion with a man’s head.

  Aim at the one on the left and dig at his right foot.

  It was this last line which told Tolen exactly where he had to go in Egypt.

  Tolen recalled Jade mentioning that prior to teaming with Dr. Cherrigan in Costa Rica, the man had been involved with the excavation of a tunnel in the basement of the Sonali Giza Hotel not far from the Giza Plateau. Tolen remembered reading about it at the time. The passageway into the tunnel had been discovered when several feet of the basement floor of the hotel collapsed. There had been photos attached to the article: an image of the site prior to the beginning of construction of the hotel in the 1960s. Interestingly, one of the pictures was a large stone carved from the bedrock. The Director of Antiquities had been unable to derive the origin or purpose of it. One young archaeologist had theorized it was the partial toe of a large monument, possibly even the scant surviving remnant of a second sphinx. Most rejected his theory, but Tolen had always thought it made sense for several reasons.

  First, it was highly probable that there had been a second sphinx at one time. Early Egyptian artwork always showed paired sphinxes adorning the entranceways to mortuary temples, tombs, avenues, and city gates. It has long been an enigma that the Great Sphinx on the Giza Plateau was a lone fixture on the landscape.

  Second, the sphinx on the Giza Plateau faced east, and Egyptian artwork and writings stipulated that if there were two sphinxes, they would face each other. Therefore, it stood to reason the second sphinx would be to the east, facing west, which correlated to the location of the hotel. Plus, the large piece of stone resembling a toe was facing west toward the Great Sphinx, just as would be expected.

  “Aim at the one on the left.” Since no entrance to an underground cave had been discovered at the existing sphinx on the Giza Plateau, this meant the clue was referring to the second sphinx that no longer existed; the one Tolen believed had once risen proudly upon the bedrock where the Sonali Giza Hotel now stood.

  CHAPTER 46

  September 14. Friday – 4:05 a.m. Egyptian Time (3:05 a.m. Oviedo, Spain)

  5 hours 55 minutes until the start of the Feast of the Cross

  Tolen kept the Cessna low over the water, flying south by southeast and eventually reaching the Egyptian coastline. The landscape below was bathed in the glow of the moon. From there, it was only a hundred miles more to the Sonali Giza Hotel. Tolen had requested that Director Vakind speak with President Fane to arrange unencumbered access to Egyptian airspace and landing at an airstrip near the hotel. Egypt had a formidable air force; the largest of all the Arabic nations. They remained technologically up-to-date, and their pilots were highly skilled. If the president was unsuccessful in her diplomacy, Tolen was certain to be intercepted and shot down within minutes.

  When five minutes elapsed, and he was still airborne, he released a quiet sigh of relief.

  As fate would have it, just then two Dassault Mirage 2000s swooped in on either side of him like hawks cornering their prey.

  Tolen could feel his chest tighten. There was no going back even if he wanted to try. He was at their mercy.

  His cell phone rang. It was Vakind.

  “Morris, I hope you have good news for me. I have some visitors.”

  “Those are your escorts. The president has spoken with the Egyptians, and they’ve consented to allow you access into the country, but you must follow them to the airfield of their choosing near Cairo. Do not deviate, Tolen. They’ve made it perfectly clear they’ll shoot you down. Tune to Channel 10 if you need to communicate with them.”

  Tolen was thankful for the escort, but Egyptian interference was going to be problematic. They would try to accompany him, and that was simply unacceptable. If they knew he was going underground into an ancient, unexplored tunnel, the Egyptian Director of Antiquities would forbid it. He would need to break free from his escorts once on the ground.

  Tolen flew inland, accompanied by the two Dassault Mirage 2000s for twelve minutes when the engines started to sputter. He checked avionics: there was plenty of fuel. The craft began to lose altitude, and one of the twin engines failed as a red warning light signaled its demise. He flicked off the light. The engine had most likely been damaged by gunfire from the Greek police. He could land on one engine, but he would be forced to slow his airspeed.

  This gave him an idea.

  He switched on the radio and turned to Channel 10.

  “Mirage 2000, this is Samuel Tolen, over.”

  He waited for a response. None came.

  “Egyptian Air Force, this is Samuel Tolen in the Cessna Corvalis. Please respond, over.”

  Still no response.

  He repeated the call. Again, there was no response. He wondered if the radio had also been damaged in the ruckus on Patmos.

  He tried once more.

  “This is Egyptian Captain Khateeb. What is your request?” The Captain spoke English reasonably well.

  “Captain Khateeb, I’ve lost one engine, and the second one is damaged. I don’t know how much longer I can fly. Request permission to land immediately.”

  “We will be at the military airbase in ten minutes. You will land there.”

  “I don’t believe you understand. The aircraft is damaged. I’m losing power. I must land immediately or risk crashing into one of the populated areas below.”

  There was a momentary pause, then, “Very well. There is an abandoned airfield north of Giza at latitude 30.094049, longitude 31.174393. Please proceed to there, land, and wait inside the airplane. I repeat, wait inside the airplane. Our people will meet you there.”

  Tolen finished typing the coordinates into the navigational computer. He was surprised to find out he was practically on top of the airfield. He made a subtle bank to the south. The two Dassault Mirage 2000s momentarily stayed with him then peeled off into the dark night without notice, their fiery thrusters slowly vanishing in the distance.

  It was now a race. Tolen had to get the plane on the ground before the pilots were able to radio for the military escort to meet him there.

  Even in the dark, Tolen could
see the terrain below was a vast mass of flatland. He descended quickly. The moonlight provided enough light for him to make out the abandoned airfield. It had a long runway with two hangars at the far end. There were no runway landing lights, but avionics easily calculated the topography, and within minutes Tolen had the Cessna on the ground and parked near the first dark hangar. So far, he was the only one there.

  The airfield was pitted at the edge of Giza, the town which separates the Giza Plateau—with its three famous pyramids—from the Nile. Tolen left the craft, passed through a rusty gate that threatened to collapse when he opened it, and began jogging toward civilization, in the direction of the Sonali Giza Hotel using the GPS coordinates on his iPhone. He crossed several hundred yards of sand before he reached the first building on the outskirts of town. As he ducked into the shadows of the dark structure, he saw the headlights of two vehicles approach the airfield from the west. The drone of the engines signified military jeeps. They were not going to be happy when they discovered he was gone.

  CHAPTER 47

  September 13. Friday – 7:19 p.m. Los Angeles, California (September 14. 4:19 a.m. Oviedo, Spain)

  4 hours 41 minutes until the start of the Feast of the Cross

  Vakind stood inside a small room next to FBI Special Agent Abel Connell. The two men were eyeing Nelson Whitacre through a two-way mirror. As usual, there was an air of reluctance any time the CIA and FBI were forced to work together. With time slipping away, Vakind was in no mood for posturing or interagency politics. And so far, at least, the FBI had been reasonably forthcoming since his arrival.

  “We’ve had him in there for hours,” Connell said. “Between the FBI and Homeland Security, we’ve interrogated him nearly nonstop. Everything’s been captured on video. All the man will confess is that he is a member of the Flagellants, and they are about to ‘bring order back to the United States of America.’ Threats of imprisonment have had no effect.”