Indisputable Proof

by Gary Williams

  Vakind nodded. “He was arrested on the edge of Los Angeles, driving into the city, correct?”

  “Yes, on I-15. We don’t want to create a panic, but we felt obligated to alert some of the larger parks and recreational areas in town of a possible terrorist attack. Based on their lack of sophistication as a terrorist group, the Flagellants would most likely go after a soft target—heavily populated—yet also something with symbolic significance. In this case, something with anti-religious significance.”

  Vakind nodded his head again in agreement.

  “We have agents canvassing his house. We should know soon if they turn up anything.”

  Vakind had dealt with all types of terrorists, including some of the most deadly Islamic extremists, but he was not sure he had ever seen the type of morbid contentment Whitacre displayed. He smiled as if his world could not possibly get any better. He looked more like a man who had just won $100 million in the lottery than a man facing terrorist charges.

  After reading the man’s dossier, the acting director of the CIA was about to get his crack at interrogating Nelson Whitacre.

  As Vakind was preparing to go in, Connell’s cell phone rang, and he answered it. The FBI agent listened intently, replied with an affirmative, and then ended the call.

  “A goodbye note was found in Whitacre’s house.” Connell looked at his smart phone screen. “They just emailed it to me. Here it is.” He turned the display so that Vakind could read:

  The heathens of America spurned us into action.

  By God’s glory, 21 in the fertile valleys out of 28 worldwide will be destroyed.

  His wrath will be felt with a vengeance.

  Point all fingers at the American Central Intelligence Agency for their wicked deeds.

  Vakind reread the second line. “Any idea what ‘21 in the fertile valleys out of 28 worldwide will be destroyed’ means?”

  “No, our analysts are working on it.” Connell gave Vakind a somber look. It was borderline remorseful. “My apologies, Director, but with this new information, I’ve been instructed to interview him again. You’ll have to wait your turn while I contact our interrogator and get him back here.”

  Vakind wheeled on the FBI agent. “Connell, I don’t give a damn about jurisdictional protocol at the moment. The FBI, Homeland Security, CIA; somebody needs to interrogate this man now, and we’re losing time. I’m here and ready to go. I’m not going to risk the lives of untold numbers of Americans because of a pissing match.”

  Vakind did not wait for a response. He leaned forward and hit the ‘record’ button on a low panel. He left the room and circled the corner to the interrogation room door. He stepped through it just as he heard Connell calling someone on his cell phone.

  “Mr. Whitacre, my name is Morris Vakind. I am the acting director of the CIA,” he said, taking a seat on the other side of the table. Whitacre’s feet were secured to the base of the chair and his cuffed hands lay casually on the table before him.

  “You,” Whitacre smirked, leaning forward, “you’re exactly the man I was hoping to see, Mr. CIA, currently ranked as the most blasphemous organization on the face of God’s earth.”

  “Interesting,” Vakind said sedately, “I was at church last Sunday, and Father O’Hara didn’t seem bothered I was there.”

  Whitacre’s smile widened, his eyelids twitched over brown eyes, but his words were acidic. “The godless often hide behind deception.”

  Vakind leaned in. “We found your note at your house.”

  Whitacre settled back in his chair. He stared hard at Vakind with a renewed grin but did not speak. Vakind knew the man’s smug demeanor was a testament to his twisted faith.

  “I found it a bit vague,” Vakind continued. “If you want the newspaper and the rest of the media to run with this, to make you a famous martyr, you blew it. ‘21 in the fertile valleys out of 28 worldwide will be destroyed’? It reads like bad poetry.”

  “Nice try. By the time it’s printed, everyone will understand. It’s only heathens such as yourself who can’t understand it.”

  “I understand you allowed your wife, Shelly, to die.”

  Whitacre’s eyes narrowed. His lips tightened together. He offered no rebuttal.

  Vakind spoke nonchalantly. “My mother once had pneumonia. Unlike you, I took her to the hospital, and she recovered.”

  “God’s will is not to be questioned. If He had wanted her to live, He would have cured her.”

  Vakind pushed the issue. “Didn’t God also create the doctors, the men and women who could have cured Shelly? Didn’t He create the people who engineered the medicines and drugs which save people’s lives every day? Face it, Nelson. You didn’t want your wife to live. You wanted her to die so you could go out in a blaze of glory. You’re ready to hide behind your religious façade in order to perpetuate the ultimate swan song. Why, Whitacre? Why must tens of thousands die because you falsely blame the CIA for something that has not occurred?”

  “Try 200,000 lives and billions of dollars in property damage!” Whitacre blurted out. His face had colored red, and he looked away, seemingly straining to keep quiet.

  Vakind felt his blood chill. He knew the cache of munitions stolen from Canada had the capacity to do the sort of catastrophic damage to life and property Whitacre had just referenced. “Yet, you do so in God’s name: murder innocent men, women, and children?”

  “We did not start this!” Whitacre erupted, his yell nearly deafening as his hands balled into fists so tight that the blood drained from his knuckles. His face was a solid mass of red. “Those who gamble…,” Whitacre paused, swallowed, and, remarkably, calmed before he continued. “Those who gamble with God’s will know exactly who they are. They made their choice. Now, they will suffer their fate and become the CIA’s martyrs. Trust me, Mr. CIA, they are not innocent people.” Slowly, Whitacre forced a smile back to his face. With an exhale, he again relaxed in the chair.

  Vakind rose and left the room. Connell was waiting for him, along with a short, burly, bald man who Vakind did not know. He assumed it was the LA branch chief of the FBI.

  Connell remained quiet as his cohort tore into Vakind. “Director Vakind, you were not authorized for that interrogation. Your superiors will hear about this. You did nothing but exacerbate the situation.”

  “On the contrary, I believe he offered us a clue when he lost his composure. Let’s go back through the video and see what we’ve got.”

  “You’re no longer a part of this investigation,” the bald man snapped. “You have no authority here.”

  Vakind fixed the man with his eyes and removed a card from his coat pocket. “We don’t have time to dispute our professional differences, but feel free to take this card and call that number. It’s to my current superior. She lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. When you’re done, I’ll be waiting to review the video with you.”

  CHAPTER 48

  September 14. Friday – 5:28 a.m. Egyptian Time (4:28 a.m. Oviedo, Spain)

  4 hours 32 minutes until the start of the Feast of the Cross

  Samuel Tolen made his way through the quiet but well-lit streets of Giza. The air was hot and dry, as was to be expected at the end of summer. Tolen could feel the perspiration accumulating beneath his clothes as the first rivulet of sweat ran down his back.

  To the west, the tops of the pyramids on the Giza plateau hovered over the skyline. Giza, along with the cities of Cairo, Helwan, and Shubra El-Kheima, form the Province of Greater Cairo. Giza is a thriving center of Egypt’s culture, past and present, with a population approaching three million people. At this early morning hour, there was little going on as Tolen passed blocks and blocks of silent buildings, schools, and residential neighborhoods. He had considered hailing one of the black-and-white taxi cabs sitting near the intersections but thought better
of it. Not only did he not have any Egyptian pounds, he was reluctant to leave any trail for the military to follow.

  Instead, Tolen continued to make his way down the still streets and side roads, keeping to the shadows when he could, ever watchful of the few passing vehicles. By the time he arrived at the Sonali Giza Hotel, he was drenched in sweat. He took a moment at the side of the building to gather himself and straighten his clothing.

  The hotel was no different than one he might find in Washington, DC; a mauve-colored edifice six stories high in the shape of an open book with a ramped entrance at the crux leading to the second floor.

  Tolen strolled up the wide outside stairs to the sprawling landing which led to the entrance. He passed through, barely looking toward the check-in desk on the right or the concierge stand on the left. As he hoped, the employees at both stations paid him little attention. Tolen stepped inside the elevator and rode up a floor. He got off, found the stairwell at the far end of the hallway, and proceeded down past the first floor to an unmarked door at the bottom where the steps came to an end. The door was locked. He had recalled from the newspaper article that, once the archaeological site had been shut down, the hotel had sealed the door and left the area intact.

  Tolen pulled a thin metal pick from his coat pocket and had the door unlocked within a minute. He stepped into a spacious, pitch-black room with a bare cement floor. He searched for a light switch but there was none. Instead, he withdrew a flashlight and switched it on. The room was the breadth and depth of a basketball court with an eight-foot ceiling. In the back right corner, he saw cement chunks, some weighing hundreds of pounds, unceremoniously stacked in a pile of rubble. He wandered toward it, using the flashlight as his guide. The humidity down here was stifling.

  In the corner, there was a gaping, jagged hole in the floor where it had caved in. He stood over it and shined the flashlight down. A horizontal tunnel continued out of sight, ramping down at a slight angle. He carefully dropped down the side of the cavity, spilling rock fragments into the hole with him. He cringed as the loose rock pressed into the cuts on his hand.

  As Tolen moved forward into the tunnel, he was forced to crouch down nearly a foot to avoid hitting the stone ceiling. The smell of sand and limestone was thick. His lungs burned as he inhaled the chalky substance.

  The passageway continued to decline gradually. After no more than 75 feet, he saw a wall ahead where the tunnel ended. This is where the archaeologists had abandoned their exploration.

  Tolen retreated back up the hallway scrutinizing the wall on the left as he went. Then, he examined the right wall. A dozen feet before the dead-end, at the base on the right, there was an outline chiseled into the limestone 30 inches wide and 18 inches tall. Tolen bent down to examine it. He gave it a shove, and the rock slid back several inches. Someone had carved it loose.

  Tolen sat on the stone ground and gave it a push with his feet. The rectangular block regressed. Several more inward shoves, and he was able to drop onto his stomach where he used his hand to push inside beyond the width of the twelve-inch wall. He scooted through, his face brushing against the block as he stood. On the other side of the wall, he resealed the plug into the opening.

  Tolen shined the flashlight ahead into the dark void. He was at the end of a passageway that seemed to continue on indefinitely. He started forward, walking briskly through the carved tunnel. The ceiling here was higher, and he no longer had to stoop. Unlike the previous tunnel, which sloped downward, the floor here seemed perfectly horizontal. He shed his jacket and empty holster, allowing them to fall to the stone floor. They were of no use to him.

  Tolen thought back to an old prognostication. It had been the American prophet, Edgar Cayce, who foretold the discovery of a chamber beneath the right foot of the sphinx in 1932. Remarkably, his words had come true, just not at the Great Sphinx on the Giza Plateau.

  CHAPTER 49

  September 14. Friday – 6:16 a.m. Egyptian Time (5:16 a.m. Oviedo, Spain)

  3 hours 44 minutes until the start of the Feast of the Cross

  Finding his way through the tunnel was proving to be a long and arduous process. The problem did not lie in which direction to go. There was only the one tunnel, and it ran in a straight line. The problem was that it appeared endless. Tolen was sure he had already gone several miles. It was amazing that this long passageway flowed beneath a thriving city, and no one had any idea it was here. Also intriguing, Tolen thought, was the fact that, beyond the tunnel itself, there was nothing of interest—no hieroglyphs or inscriptions, no artifacts. It was clear to him this was merely an access point to whatever lay ahead.

  Not for the first time, he wondered if he could really be closing in on a cache of objects which belonged to Jesus Christ.

  Tolen continually probed ahead with his flashlight looking for any signs of movement or some deviation in the passageway which would signal its termination point. He was already hindered by having to approach from one direction with no place to hide, and losing his pistol at the Patmos airfield put him at a severe disadvantage. Still, he pressed on, concerned that as each minute passed, the chances of Jade’s survival were slipping away.

  The echoes of his footfalls returned to him softly from somewhere in the distance. Beyond that, there was silence. He desperately looked for clues to confirm they were down here.

  His trek continued through the straight corridor. Another mile went by, and he grew impatient. At the risk of announcing his arrival, Tolen broke into a trot, stepping as lightly as possible upon the limestone floor. The strong stench of sand and limestone remained. Even as he ran, he scanned the walls looking for any signs they had come this way.

  Perspiration was dripping from his face, and he was growing thirsty. He had not considered that the tunnel would lead such a great distance. On and on he ran, training the light ahead as best he could while his arms swung in rhythm to his pace. Because of the jostling, the beam shot into the nothingness of the long corridor, and his mind began playing tricks on him. On one occasion he saw a shadowy figure lurking ahead, only to find the apparition was a trick of the erratic light.

  Now, as he raced ahead with growing concern, his muscles fighting through the fatigue, he saw a brown-and-white clump on the ground, caught in the flashes of the light. It resembled some sort of small woodland creature; a mouse perhaps. Common sense told him it was a mirage, just a trick of the light. Yet, the closer he drew to it, the more real it became. Then he was upon it, and he stopped his forward motion only at the last second. For a moment he stood over it, panting, as he aimed the flashlight beam down onto the still mass, trying to fathom what he was seeing. It was obviously no animal…or anything organic for that matter. He squatted, breathing hard.

  It suddenly came into focus, and he picked it up. A brown patch with white medical tape wrapped around it. It was the dressing he had applied to Jade’s wound.

  She had left him a sign that she was somewhere up ahead.

  Tolen experienced a resurgence of hope. He dropped the bandage and began running with newfound determination.

  ****

  Vakind sat in a room watching the video of his interrogation with Nelson Whitacre. Beside him was the stocky, bald branch chief of the FBI, Jason Gerly, and Homeland Security Director, Rachel McNulty. It had taken Gerly a while to calm after Vakind had violated protocol and interviewed the subject without FBI consent. Eventually, Vakind had reasoned him into acceptance and collaboration. It had not hurt when Gerly was made aware of Vakind’s direct relationship with the president. Now, the threesome sat in the room committed to working together, even if the relationship was an uneasy one. The text from the goodbye note which Whitacre left had been distributed and was in the hands of analysts from all three agencies.

  Vakind knew they had one distinct advantage. Unlike most terrorist attacks, they knew when the strike would occur: at mi
dnight local time; 9 a.m. in Spain, less than three-and-a-half-hours from now. The problem was, they still did not know where.

  “21 in the fertile valleys out of 28 worldwide will be destroyed,” McNulty, a middle-aged, demure woman with short, crimson hair, read from the message. “Twenty-eight what? What are there 28 of in the world which we have 21 of nearby?”

  “Keep in mind, we still believe—and Whitacre’s response during interrogation seems to support—it will be a soft target, heavily populated with civilians,” Gerly added.

  “Two hundred thousand, according to Whitacre,” Vakind said. To lose any life to a terrorist attack was a tragedy, but this was a daunting number. If carried out, it would easily qualify as the most devastating terrorist strike in history.

  “Disneyland?” McNulty offered.

  “At midnight?” Gerly shot back. “It still doesn’t solve the 21 out of 28 riddle.” His face scrunched in thought and frustration. “Maybe the ‘fertile valleys’ refers to the vineyards in San Fernando, Sonoma, Napa Valley, and the like. There are many large wineries in southern California which could be targets.”

  Vakind shook his head. “It doesn’t meet the criteria. There would not be two hundred thousand people at 21 wineries at midnight. Besides, Whitacre was stopped by local law enforcement while driving into Los Angeles. He wasn’t headed to wine country. He was going into the city.”

  “Yeah, but he lives in LA,” Gerly retorted sorely. His attitude suggested he took exception with Vakind shooting down his idea. “Maybe he was driving home. Remember, he’s been in custody for nearly ten hours. Hell, he could have gone home and still driven a long way in the time he had left until midnight tonight.”