by Vince Milam
Nadine grabbed one from the small kitchen. Cole asked him if he wanted ice.
“Nope. Like it warm,” said Wilczek. “Always have.”
Cole took a seat at the table and asked, “They have DP here?”
“Nope. Flown in. Warm Diet DP during the day, cold whiskey at night. About all I drink. Heart healthy. Now let’s get to it,” said Wilczek, as he pulled folded maps from his bag and opened them on the table.
Francois and Nadine scooted their chairs closer.
“I’ve already told Nadine what I think of all this, so I won’t bother repeating it. I can’t fix stupid. This mission of yours, or quest, or death wish, or whatever the hell you people call it, takes you smack into the middle of the most chaotic place on the planet. And it isn’t organized marches or loud yelling that makes it chaotic. Real bullets, real bombs, real artillery, real poisonous gas, and most important, real lunatics.”
Nadine, Francois, and Cole nodded. Wilczek went on to point out the locations and players.
“This is Aleppo,” he said as he pointed on the map. “Largest city in Syria. Larger than Damascus. Heartland of the Syrian civil war. The Syrian Army fights insurgents day and night while bombing the shit out of their own people. Tens of thousands dead, almost all civilians.”
He paused to sip some DP, following up with a loud belch. “The insurgents—a word used by the buttlicks at the State Department—consist of every shitheel jihadist from all over the Muslim world. Syrians, Iraqis, Saudis, Libyans, Chechens—even Frenchmen.” He looked at Francois, who waved a dismissive hand in return.
“These people, when not killing Syrian Army regulars, kill each other or torture and kill whatever civilians happen to be handy. Our State Department, run by top men, help support them.” Wilczek stopped to pour the rest of the Dr. Pepper and tossed the can toward a wastebasket.
“Assad isn’t much better,” he said, referring to the dictator who ran Syria. “Bombs and gasses his own people. A sweetheart. The same as his dear old dad.”
Wilczek pulled a more detailed map and spread it.
“Idlib,” he said as he pointed to the town on the map. “Thirty miles southwest of Aleppo. It’s full of Syrian Army regulars and surrounded by jihadists as well, but it’s near your guy Moloch.”
Wilczek paused and looked at Nadine, waiting for some input with regard to Moloch. She shrugged back, so he continued.
“Idlib may be your best bet for this little cannonball run. Near Idlib sit clusters of ruins, the Dead Cities. I’d focus on these,” he said, as he took a pencil and circled several areas five to ten miles north and west of Idlib. “So if you make it there, which I doubt, get a room on the outskirts of town with some villagers. Don’t stay inside Idlib proper.”
Wilczek tossed the pencil on the map, sat back, produced a toothpick, and rooted around a back molar.
Cole and Francois continued to study the detailed map. Francois used a finger to trace minor roads and tracks extending from Idlib. “And so,” he muttered, stopping to retrieve the pencil. He circled a tiny dot on the map labeled St. Anthony Monastery.
Cole leaned closer and asked, “And so, what?”
Francois lit a smoke and sat back, legs crossed. Wilczek continued working the toothpick as he stared at the priest.
“And so,” said Francois, “I have as well made several calls. The convent at St. Anthony is where we shall attend. They expect us. Do not underestimate the church’s resources.”
Cole and Nadine both looked at Francois with wry smiles. Nadine went so far as to give him a light punch on the shoulder and said, “Not bad for a chain-smoking French priest with questionable taste in clothes.”
Francois pretended to take umbrage at her remark. Cole looked back at the map. “Good for you, Francois. A base of operations. That’s a big deal.”
Wilczek remained unimpressed. “They just sawed the head off one of the monks there,” he said to Francois. “The monastery is now rubble. They made a video of the beheading. Wanna see it?”
“I am well aware, Monsieur, of this tragic situation,” said Francois. “Yet the nearby convent remains open, with several sisters continuing God’s work.”
Francois turned to Cole and Nadine to explain the long history of the Syrian Church and of how ten to fifteen percent of the population remained Christian with their own villages and churches. He further detailed how the Assad regime, for all its terrible treatment of citizens, never persecuted Christians, unlike the current crop of jihadists who appeared intent on wiping them out. This area of the world now saw the church’s presence, after century upon century, slip away.
The sheriff apparently connected a few dots and turned to Wilczek to ask, “So our State Department sends money and arms to the side slaughtering Christians?”
“Top. Men.” Wilczek pulled out a fresh toothpick.
Nadine dug further with Francois on the logistics and security of staying at the convent. In the course of the discussion, she let it be known that it sounded solid, although the large matter of how to get to the convent from where they currently sat hadn’t been resolved, nor had the question of how they’d move around the area searching for Moloch, but at least they had a base, if they could get there.
“I know you’re waiting, so let me start on Moloch,” said Nadine. “I’ll give the secular version and that way you can mentally prep and not choke on your toothpick when you hear from Francois.” She leaned back, crossed both legs under her, and moved an errant strand of hair away from her eyes. “Moloch showed in Texas. Cole saw him at the scene of those murders. I tracked him to Wales. We encountered him in a hotel bar there. He ran. Later in the day those blind kids got slaughtered. He wasn’t physically involved, the same as Texas. He flew to Damascus the same day.”
Wilczek fished in his bag on the floor and produced another warm DP and poured it. He waited for Nadine to continue. She’d cracked open her personal dossier on this case, probably sensing—rightfully—that he’d been waiting for this intel. The priest’s perspective didn’t matter. Hers did.
“So, it’s weird, Check,” she said. “Not just his physical location during these grotesque things, but I can’t find anything on him. I didn’t look inside your personal data stores—give me some credit—but e-worms inside all the usual places came back with nothing. Nada.”
He looked at Cole and Francois for any further feedback. None came. “Okay. Well I don’t have much on him either. A dozen years ago he showed on my radar in Syria. Came and went, but always returned. When the current shitstorm happened, he formed a group called al Garal. Murderous psychopaths. Just a few dozen of them, but it’s enough in the boonies to cause chaos and foment a tipping point. They aren’t religious jihadists. Nihilists more like it. Life has no value. Everyone and everything is offensive and corrupt. So better to just kill and start clean. I can’t pinpoint his whereabouts any better than what I’ve given you. He sounds like a real piece of work.”
Wilczek took another sip of warm, bubbling Dr. Pepper and turned to Francois. “So, since the Vatican seems to be in on all this, what might they have to say about our Mr. Moloch? Anything?”
“Oui. Quite a lot,” responded Francois.
“I’m all ears, Padre,” said Wilczek.
Francois took a deep drag of his smoke and exhaled across the table. “The hour is far too late to play games. He is not a man. He is a demon. A creature walking among us, driving evil. I, or rather we, have confronted him once. He ran. He ran from the power of God. I intend to confront Moloch again and, if it is God’s will, destroy him.”
Wilczek absorbed this for a moment. Nadine looked back and forth between the CIA operative and the priest.
“Alrighty then,” said Wilczek. “How about you, Sheriff? Any insights on Moloch you might want to share?”
Cole shifted and cleared his throat. “Francois is right. I’ve got a reason to chase him. He’s involved in mass murder in my jurisdiction. But Francois is right. He isn’t human. At least as far as
I can see. I’d appreciate the opportunity to put a bullet in the sumbitch to confirm the theory.”
Cole halted and leaned toward Wilczek. “He came to my town. My people. He had something to do with the deaths of some of those fine people. In my damn town. I want answers. If those aren’t forthcoming, I want to take him down. I know you think I’m sheriff of some Podunk county in Texas, and you’re right. But the folks in my Podunk county elected me. They have for six straight elections. They trust me. They expect me to keep the peace and not be an asshole. They expect me, on the rare occasion it’s necessary, to go right at the bad guys. That’s why I’m here, Check. And I’m not going to apologize for it. I’m after a very, very bad guy. Whatever the hell he is.”
An impressive response, particularly since he’d been prepared to dismiss this sheriff as a one-bullet wonder, elected as someone’s son or nephew. But this guy showed moxie. He had an edge. This was no dime-store sheriff.
He nodded in respect toward Cole and turned to Nadine. “Well?”
She took the time to reach toward Francois, her first two fingers separated to show an empty space for a cigarette. Francois lit it for her and inserted it into her hand. She sat back and took a puff without inhaling before she looked at Wilczek.
“Cards on the table, Check. I just don’t know. He’s at a minimum capable of preternatural activity. He talked to me and knew things. Knew things no one knew. And he expected us. The three of us, in Wales. He’s nothing I’ve ever encountered, tracked, or had a part in capturing. He’s dangerous to an extent I’ve never seen.”
Wilczek finished off his second DP, nodded at the three of them, reached into his pocket, pulled out car keys, and tossed them on the table. It all sounded more than a little crazy, but he lived in a sociopathic crazy world. The priest had a personal mission and was sincere about it. Raised a Catholic, Wilczek didn’t doubt the man’s conviction about demons. He didn’t buy into it, but it didn’t matter. The sheriff showed commitment. Cole’s mission had a solid purpose. It had a personal vendetta element, yeah, but he chased this guy across oceans and that for damn sure showed commitment. Nadine, on the other hand, came across as part of the team on some strange life quest, or deep-seated desire to participate in field ops, or both. He didn’t buy into the Cole-as-lover story, but she had committed for whatever reason felt right to her. And he didn’t want to lose her. He’d lost a twelve-year-old daughter. He’d raised her. Her mom, a Lebanese hooker, had handed the child to Wilczek at birth. “Take her,” she’d said. He did. His daughter was murdered in the Lebanese civil war. No one knew of her within the CIA, which meant no one knew of her. He’d do what he could to keep Nadine safe.
“So pay attention. Everyone. Especially you, Nadine,” he said. “Those keys go to a Land Cruiser parked outside. It’s white. The letters AHF are all over the damn thing. Arab Humanitarian Fund. A nonexistent NGO. Everyone got that?”
“NGO?” asked Francois.
“Nongovernmental organization. Not affiliated with any government. Do-gooders. Relief efforts. Food, medicine, whatever. Prevent human suffering. Cure psoriasis. Whatever the hell you think will sell over there so you won’t get pulled from the vehicle, tortured, and shot.”
“Got it,” said Cole. “Thanks, Check. Sincerely.”
“Stand by, cowboy. I’m not finished.” Wilczek pulled a wrist-sized GPS unit from his bag and tossed it on the table. “A route to Idlib is preprogrammed in there. It will take you on smuggler tracks across the border and back roads—all unpaved—to Idlib. Jerry can of extra gas in the back, two spare tires on the roof rack. You’re on your own finding the convent. Everyone got it?”
Wilczek looked at each of them with intent until he got an affirmative nod. “Dress in jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and ball cap. All of you. From a distance, Nadine, you might pass as a man. Got it?” Again, nods all around, although Francois’s nod was accompanied by a shrug. “Get your stories straight. Doctors, agricultural experts, yoga instructors. Doesn’t matter, but get it straight between yourselves. Oh, and ‘priest’ is not a good cover. Got it?”
“But, Monsieur Check, this is what I am!” said Francois.
“Yeah. I get it. But claiming priesthood endangers your friends. Understand?”
Francois looked off in the distance as he contemplated for a moment. “Oui. Then perhaps a culinary expert. A nongovernment culinary expert.”
“Yeah. They need those big-time in Syria right now. Nadine, I’m making you responsible for the cover. Get it straight,” said Wilczek.
“Okay, Check,” she said and touched a pouting Francois’s arm. “We’ll talk later, Francois.”
Wilczek stood, left the maps, and grabbed his canvas bag. “Nadine, give my number to the cowboy just in case. Cowboy, if it involves Nadine, call me. Not much moon tomorrow night. Good time to roll. Any questions?”
They all stood as the men shook hands and thanked him. Nadine hugged him, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “I owe you.”
“I’m counting on it,” said Wilczek. “Oh, one last thing, cowboy. There is a compartment under the back seat. Get to it by lifting the seat forward. You will find an ArmaLite M-15. Full auto with select fire. Keep it on single shot until things get too hot. Five thirty-round clips. Show Nadine how to use it. A Mossberg 12-gauge pump, eight in the magazine. Thirty extra rounds. All number four buckshot. For up close and personal work. Show Nadine how to work that too. And a Kimber .45 pistol. One extra clip on the holster. Nadine already knows how to shoot the pistol.”
Cole looked at Nadine, clearly not surprised. She responded with an imitation of a Francois shrug. Wilczek had heard her brag about her ability with a pistol during one of their conference videos. She belonged to a group of Houston ladies who would go shoot early on Saturdays before it got too hot, and then retire to a club swimming pool for bloody marys and a dip.
Wilczek pointed a finger at Nadine. “Call me. I can do things.”
“Will do, Check,” she said. “Thanks again.”
Later in the day Wilczek played the recording of their comments. “Well, what did you think?” asked Nadine.
“Glad he’s on our side,” said Cole. “Damn glad.”
“Exactement,” said Francois.
Glad I’m on your side? You had better hope God is on your side, dumbasses, he thought.
Chapter 30
They left at midnight the next day. The time spent prior to departure consisted of rest, food, and at least for Francois, the acquisition of clothing. They discussed terrain and approach. They each prayed.
Nadine scribbled “this place is bugged” on the back of a map and showed it to Cole and Francois. Cole nodded. Francois did not understand, so she wrote a more detailed descriptive for him. Francois snorted and waved a hand with broad brushstrokes across the room—a gesture of pure disgust.
She and Cole agreed that archaeologists mapping and cataloging Arabic antiquities made a solid story. They purchased several shovels, rakes, and small bags to lend validity to the cover. Even Francois agreed.
She accompanied Cole to check the vehicle and its special compartment. He let her know how much he appreciated Wilczek’s armory, stating that this wasn’t Wales and the firepower stowed in the truck alleviated a major concern for him. She understood where he was coming from, and his act of running his hands over the hardware, she knew, was a guy thing. Nadine shook off the brief thought that it would sure be nice if that kind of touch were applied elsewhere. They drove to the rugged terrain on the outskirts of town and he showed her how to operate and shoot the automatic rifle and pump shotgun. It was a good exercise, but one she hoped wouldn’t be put to use. François surely wouldn’t participate if it came to gunfire. That left her as half the equation for the team’s use of high-powered weaponry. She was okay with that. More importantly, a data map of wireless connectivity showed good coverage around Idlib. Real power lay there, not in guns.
She’d planned on jeans, shirt, and a ball cap, as did Cole, so dress did not
present an issue. Francois purchased baggy white linen pants and several pastel shirts large enough to drape over his round frame and extend to mid-thigh, secured at his waist by the rattlesnake belt. Cole told him he looked like an Arab pirate. Nadine sang the chorus of “Y.M.C.A.”
Francois took pleasure explaining to his companions about the straw hat he wore. It hailed from Montecristi, Ecuador, where they made the world’s finest. Montecristi hats folded into a suitcase, and would pop back into shape with the snap of a wrist. Apparently a common ball cap would not do. Neither Cole nor Nadine burned any calories trying to talk Francois out of his chosen attire.
Cole insisted—over dinner the night of their departure—on a discussion about the specifics of the potential encounter with Moloch.
“We need to do it together, Francois,” he said. “I’m doing this in part to find answers. If we corner him, I want to talk to him. I need you with me for that.” Cole cleared his throat, adding, “Nadine, I’d like your insights from the exchange with Moloch, if we can pull it off.”
She pushed Cole to further define his intent. She listened, asked a few questions, and focused on the context. Cole explained that any information gathered from Moloch might allow law enforcement to get in front of these type of killings in the future. She felt great personal satisfaction when Cole elaborated on his hope that she could glean sufficient data points from Moloch to do predictive modeling.
Francois ate, listened, and contributed little to the conversation. As the meal finished, he said, “The deceiver. The liar. Anything he says is a lie, meant to inflict more pain. Such questions as to context and selection and nature are beyond pointless.” Francois signaled for more wine. “I shall do what I can to support such an enquiry during the brief time you and I engage with him, but I must destroy this creature. My goal has not changed.”
The entire conversation revealed more of Cole’s thought processes and deep beliefs—information she relished. Francois’s assertion that he would bring the heavenly mojo gave her more than a little concern, although he’d certainly demonstrated sufficient ecumenical whup ass in the Cardiff encounter.
