Covenant

by Dean Crawford

  “Good,” Ethan said softly. “Ayeem is a popular man, with friends among the best and the worst of all Palestine. I promise that these soldiers and I will take you to Ayeem and show them that video, and he will take you to his Bedouin family.” Ethan paused for a long moment, letting the information sink in. “What they will do to you for weeks and months and years will be worse than a thousand deaths. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Sheviz stared at Ethan, taking in his uncompromising expression before speaking.

  “I will help,” he said quietly.

  Ethan nodded slowly. “Start talking.”

  “I work for an organization in the United States called the American Evangelical Alliance. They called me some months ago to conduct experiments in America using DNA extracted from the fragmentary remains of a Nephilim, a fallen angel, that I discovered in Iraq three years ago. I had tried in the past to conduct genetic transfer studies, requesting through normal channels permission to conduct the procedures, but the Ethics Board of the American Medical Association refused me. I was due to return to Israel when the AEA stepped in and provided me with a cover for my work.”

  “What connection does MACE have to all of this?”

  “MACE provided me with security and equipment under the guise of experiments in battlefield trauma prevention. They did so in Washington DC at first and then here in Israel after it became too difficult to maintain secrecy.”

  “The reason why scientists like Lucy disappeared from the Negev,” Ethan realized. “You abducted them when they found useful remains. What’s MACE’s endgame?”

  Sheviz’s features screwed up in distaste as he spoke.

  “They are bent on procuring the profits of war. MACE is here to sell their unmanned aerial drones to Israel. In order to assure their success, they are supplying explosives to the insurgent groups here to continue the war.”

  “And the church provides the finance for your gruesome little experiments?” Ethan asked.

  “Money,” Sheviz agreed, “equipment and premises from which to operate. We conducted several tests in America on drug addicts who were less likely to be reported missing, but they were unsuccessful. Only one subject survived but he was severely impaired afterward.”

  Ethan felt himself recoil inwardly at the surgeon’s choice of clinical words. Tests. Subjects. Impaired.

  “Go on.”

  Sheviz spoke quietly.

  “After the fourth patient succumbed it was decided that we could no longer use drug addicts and so I was secretly flown here by MACE in their private jet. We needed new material from which to extract fresh DNA. I had heard from contacts at the Hebrew University about Lucy Morgan working in the Negev and had followed her work closely. I advised that she might find fresh remains near Masada, where once Neolithic villages had existed. When she succeeded, I called in MACE to abduct her and secure the remains. I then used the finds as leverage to effect further abductions and obtain clean bodies.”

  “And killed them in the process,” Lieutenant Ash snarled.

  “What about the remains that Lucy found?” Ethan asked.

  “Ah, yes,” Sheviz said, “a fine specimen of a Nephilim, a fallen son of God. I’ve found fragmentary remains in Iraq and India before now, but never a complete specimen. They are aboard a MACE jet at Ben Gurion airport, bound for the United States.”

  Lucy Morgan eased herself away from her mother.

  “You’ve found other remains?” she stammered.

  Sheviz smirked at her despite his pain.

  “You scientists, you think you know everything but you miss so much. Remains of Nephilim have been found before but discounted by science as aberrations or lost to history. My team and I have excavated such remains in the ruins of ancient cities several times in the past. We searched for years in the deserts, the jungles, and the mountains, only ever discovering fragmentary bones, but the DNA we extracted from them was unlike any terrestrial signature, the genetic code of God locked into them for all eternity. The evidence of angels, of the Nephilim on Earth, litters our earliest civilizations. They are out there right now, just waiting to be found by those of sufficient faith to locate them.”

  “Those remains aren’t the result of some biblical fantasy, no matter how much you want to believe it,” Lucy snapped. “That’s why your sick little experiments don’t work.”

  “What’s a Nephilim?” Lieutenant Ash asked. “What’s this about?”

  Ethan answered before Sheviz could speak.

  “It’s just a fossil that has black-market value,” he said quickly. “These lunatics think it’s the remains of an angel. How were you doing this, Sheviz?”

  “We used stem cells extracted from the Nephilim, reverse engineered to their embryonic state, to replace the nucleus of egg cells provided by Lucy Morgan. Our intention was to place those fertilized eggs in vitro into Lucy, inducing a viable pregnancy. She would carry the son of God in her womb, launching the Second Coming and the final solution to the covenant between man and God.”

  “What the hell would MACE have to do with all of this?” the lieutenant asked.

  Sheviz sneered at Lieutenant Ash as he spoke.

  “MACE has been abducting people for years and hiding them away, before negotiating their release for ransom. They’ve made a tidy sum for themselves all over the world, mimicking insurgent groups and corrupt police forces, and use an assassin to erase any trace of their deception. I have heard them refer to him as Rafael.”

  Ethan shook his head in disbelief. “I might have known.”

  “That’s insane,” Lieutenant Ash said. “They’d never have gotten away with it.”

  “Yes, they could,” Ethan said. “Desperate, wealthy parents make an easy target for predatory companies like MACE. They needed the extra income when the supply of arms contracts dried up in the United States after the Iraq War fiasco.” Ethan shook his head, amazed that he hadn’t thought of it before. “They wouldn’t have to worry about a damn thing unless someone looked into it and got too close, and then they’d have to …”

  Ethan’s voice trailed off.

  “Ethan?”

  Rachel’s voice reached him as though from the other side of the universe. Ethan stared vacantly as an image of Joanna appeared in his mind’s eye, clearer and sharper than ever before, her face watching him from a crowded but blurred street. Her gaze was boring into his, driving into and through him with an unshakable, unbearable certainty.

  The world shifted beneath his feet and he collapsed sideways, grabbing the edge of the gurney for support as his legs quivered beneath him. Rachel jumped up to his side, holding his shoulders.

  “How long has MACE been working in Gaza and Israel?” Ethan asked Lieutenant Ash in a feeble voice.

  “Four years, maybe five.”

  Ethan looked at Damon Sheviz.

  “Where else has MACE done this?”

  “South America, maybe North America too.”

  The doctor’s voice trailed off as Ethan spoke.

  “Joanna was tracking the movements of hostage takers and guerrilla groups in Colombia, writing reports on the corruption of governments and police forces. We barely got out of the country after receiving anonymous death threats. Shortly afterward we came to Israel and Joanna began working on the same thing in Gaza and the West Bank.” Ethan looked at Lieutenant Ash. “She was sure that someone was behind the abductions, but she never got to the bottom of it.”

  Rachel put her hand on his shoulder. “Maybe she did but never got the chance to tell you.”

  Ethan’s voice was a whisper in his own ears as he looked at her.

  “MACE. The Defense Intelligence Agency must have suspected them before we even left Washington. You were right. They weren’t interested in finding Lucy or Joanna, they just wanted the remains found and MACE investigated without arousing the suspicions of Congress.”

  Rachel nodded slowly.

  “MACE has strong connections with the administration,” she said
. “The encumbent president’s campaign could be derailed if any evidence of MACE’s activities here were leaked to the press.”

  “All lies lead to the truth,” Ethan murmured. He looked up, shaking himself from his sudden torpor. “We need to stop them, now.”

  Lieutenant Ash nodded.

  “We were tipped off,” he said to Ethan. “Someone let us know where Lucy was.”

  “If that’s so,” Ethan said, “then MACE’s operation may be collapsing. We need to find Byron Stone.”

  “I’ll radio General Aydan and let him know about this,” Lieutenant Ash replied. “Do we know where he is?”

  Ethan looked at Bill Griffiths, who had walked into the room with Aaron Luckov.

  “MACE has a private jet, a Gulfstream V550, waiting to leave Ben Gurion International.”

  “Then let’s get out of here,” Ethan said. “I need to stop that jet from taking off.”

  “What about him?” Lieutenant Ash asked, jabbing a finger at Sheviz.

  Ethan turned to the lieutenant and whispered in his ear.

  “Ayeem Khan lives near Bar Yehuda,” he said simply. “Don’t forget the videotape.”

  Lieutenant Ash turned and called to his men.

  “Time to move out!”

  Lucy Morgan moved to stand before Ethan.

  “I’m coming too,” she said.

  “This could be dangerous,” Ethan said, “and I don’t know if—”

  “I wasn’t asking,” Lucy snapped. “I want to see these bastards go down, understood?”

  Spencer Malik strode into Wadi al-Joz even as the distant sound of small-arms fire echoed off the ancient stone walls around him. He quickened his pace, and saw IDF cordons ahead near the entrance to the quiet little street where the MACE warehouses stood.

  The Israeli Defense Force had moved swiftly. Malik didn’t know how the operation had become exposed, and could only assume that everything had unraveled in Washington somehow. It mattered little. Soon, it would all be over.

  He carried a bag filled with vegetables bought from a local market nearby, and he wore traditional Palestinian dress that helped to conceal his features and detract attention from himself. Among the vegetables in the bag was a large pistol, just in case anyone attempted to stop him in his mission.

  Malik turned, entered a familiar apartment building, and climbed up the stairwell, slipping the pistol out of the bag and setting the safety catch to Off. The stairs opened out onto a single corridor that held four doors, two on each side, marked with hastily scrawled numbers on bits of paper tacked to the cheap wood.

  He moved silently between the doors, seeking the first on the left, and hugged the wall alongside it. He looked down at the thin strip of daylight beneath the bottom edge of the door for several moments, waiting to see any telltale moving shadows crossing the light. None came.

  “Rasheed, keef halak? How are you?” he whispered through the door.

  There was a brief pause before a reply came.

  “Salaam. Enter.”

  Malik opened the door and entered the apartment to see a Palestinian standing over a sniper rifle mounted on a tripod facing a broad open window. The weapon was pointing down to the MACE warehouse visible below on the street.

  “Salaam, Rasheed,” Malik said. “You have done well.”

  Rasheed nodded and backed away from the rifle as Malik put his pistol into a shoulder holster and lay down behind the rifle, sighting through it. Even as he did so, he saw the doors to the MACE warehouse open and figures appear in the bright sunlight, escorted by IDF troops. Malik settled in behind the weapon, gripping the trigger and controlling his breathing.

  He saw Ethan Warner and Rachel Morgan lingering just inside the building, along with surgeon Damon Sheviz. Malik smiled, and aimed carefully at Ethan’s head. He heard Rasheed’s footsteps behind him.

  “Time, Mr. Warner, for you to become another tragic statistic,” Malik said. “Which one shall I kill first, Rasheed?”

  Malik flinched in shock as Rasheed’s face smashed down onto the tiles alongside him, his nose exploding in a burst of blood as the Arab’s eyes stared lifelessly into his. Malik reached down for his pistol, yanking it from its holster as he jumped to his feet and turned to see an Arab in traditional Bedouin dress flash toward him in a blur like a phantom, the apartment door still swinging open from where he had slipped silently inside.

  An iron-hard forearm clubbed Malik’s pistol to one side, and before he could react the equally hard edge of one hand scythed across his throat. Malik felt his eyes bulge as he staggered backward and tripped over the sniper rifle, crashing down onto his knees.

  Malik, choking and his eyes flooding with tears, scrambled for the door of the apartment. A tiny, sharp pain pierced the underside of his elbow and Malik gasped as his body twitched and jerked uncontrollably as though electric currents were rocketing through his tendons. Another hand clamped across his face, yanking him up before pinning his back to a wall.

  The Bedouin glared at him, and Malik’s bowels flipped as he stared into Rafael’s eyes. A blade flickered in the light as Rafael whipped it up against Malik’s neck, the cold steel resting on the pulsing thread of an artery.

  “Salaam,” Rafael whispered. “We shall work together, you and I.”

  Please,” Malik said, “we can work something out.”

  Malik struggled like a trapped insect pinched between Rafael’s finger and thumb, the assassin twisting the pressure-point grip on Malik’s elbow. Malik felt himself spun around again and marched to where the sniper rifle lay by the window. A knee slammed hard into his legs and dropped him with a crack onto his knees. Rafael shoved him over onto his front and drove a knee into his back, grinding his ribs against the tiles. Malik’s hands were yanked behind his back and bound tightly with electrical cord.

  “This was Stone’s idea,” Malik said desperately. “He’s lost his mind.”

  Rafael said nothing.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  Rafael remained silent, binding Malik’s ankles and then removing his shoes and socks.

  “Stone is out of control,” Malik said, “but we can stop him.”

  “You can plead, bargain, and beg all you want,” Rafael said softly, “but rest assured that you’ll not be leaving this room alive, and your passing will not be pleasant.”

  Malik struggled to control himself.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “No, I don’t have to do this,” Rafael agreed. “But I am going to, I’m going to enjoy every moment of it and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Something trickled out onto the tiles beneath Malik’s body as he felt hot fluid spilling down his legs.

  “Please,” he gasped.

  Rafael moved across and squatted down beside him.

  “Tell me,” he whispered, “what is MACE really doing out here?”

  Malik, wracked with dread, dribbled as he blurted out an explanation.

  “They are trying to resurrect some kind of alien that they found out in the deserts. We wanted nothing to do with it, but Patterson insisted that he be allowed to—”

  “Who is Patterson?” Rafael demanded.

  “Kelvin Patterson, the head of the American Evangelical Alliance,” Malik spluttered.

  Rafael slowly reached down and from his waistband produced a slim, long blade with a needle-sharp tip. Malik whimpered and shivered as he caught a whiff of a pungent odor staining the breeze, that of his own feces and urine.

  “Now,” Rafael said quietly, “you’re going to tell me everything, from the very day you joined MACE. If you hide anything or fail to answer any of my questions, I will kill you. Begin.”

  Malik told him. Everything. Of Byron Stone’s plan, of the fossils and the girl, of Bill Griffiths and the Bedouin and Israel and the profits from weapons and abductions. When he was done, Rafael looked at his watch.

  “Let me go,” Malik begged, still trembling and with tears now blurring his eyes.
>
  Rafael looked down at him and nodded. “Very well.”

  A pitiful wave of relief and gratitude flooded Malik as Rafael turned and reached out for his wrist bonds. The assassin suddenly pressed down hard, and Malik’s breath caught in his throat as he felt something pierce the base of his neck, a quiver of motion that was gone as soon as it had arrived. Malik’s body stopped trembling as though a switch had been flicked. The assassin leaned back on his haunches.

  “I would pity you, were you not such a coward.”

  Malik managed to crane his head around to look at him. “What have you done?”

  Rafael leaned forward, raising one hand and revealing the blade now smeared with dark blood. Malik heard a pitiful sound crawl from his own larynx as Rafael spoke.

  “You are paralyzed for what little remains of your life. I’ve severed your spinal cord between the fourth and fifth vertebrae. Enough remains intact for you to breathe and speak, but little more.”

  Malik tried to move his body. Nothing happened. Tears scalded his face as he cried out in despair, only for Rafael to shove a pungent-smelling sock into his mouth.

  Malik watched helplessly as Rafael reached down, searching his body and retrieving his cell phone. Then Rafael turned to the sniper rifle, pushing it forward to poke out of the window and tying a length of thread to the trigger, unwinding it as he backed away. Malik could see that the rifle would be easy to see from outside the open windows, as would his body lying prone behind it.

  Malik screamed through the sock lodged in his mouth as sweat streamed down his face and prickly heat stung his skin. Rafael looked down at him for a few moments, an expression of absolute calm on his dark features, and then he turned and walked out of sight.

  Moments later, the apartment door closed behind him.

  Byron Stone settled into the plush leather seat of the SUV and picked up the phone, dialing a number and listening as the line clattered with digital activity, the scramblers coding and decoding the signal before allowing the line to connect.

  “General Aydan,” came the gruff voice on the line, sounding as though it were coming through a microphone rather than a mouthpiece.