Rebecca paused. It was so weird what Stark knew and didn't know. He was a random Wikipedia. “Yes that, Dr. Chen. He sent me an email a few days ago but there is nothing inside of it. I’ve written him back several times. No response.”
She could hear the tapping of the keys. Then the line went silent. “Stark?”
“Oh God, I'm so sorry.”
“What's wrong?”
“Rebecca, Dr. Chen died of a heart attack at the Beijing airport two days ago.”
She nearly dropped the phone. It had been a while since she spoke to the man, but she had fond memories of him during her PhD studies. How could he be dead? He must have sent the email just before he died.
“Rebecca?”
“I just… I don't… I mean,” Rebecca stammered.
“Send me the email, and I'll look into it,” Stark said.
Rebecca fumbled with her phone but got the task done. “Was Lau going on a dig that I didn't know about?”
There was the sound of keys clicking again. “It doesn't look like it. As a matter of fact he just got back from a test drilling.”
“Drilling?”
“Yah, it looked like he took a gig a few years ago, to certify that the company’s drilling sites didn't have any religious significance.”
Ugh. That was the kind of job an archaeologist took when they’ve given up. She should know. She almost took a job like it in Brazil. Poor Chen. And now he was dead.
“Ummm…”
“Yes?” Rebecca prompted.
“Well… This is pretty weird… It looks like everyone from that test drill is now dead.”
“Everyone? Dead?”
Stark cleared his throat. “There's no way this is a coincidence. Fifteen all perfectly healthy men now dead.”
Rebecca had to tear her attention away from the conversation as Lopez loaded them all into an SUV.
“I'm going to be in the air for awhile. You’ll look into this for me, Stark?” Rebecca asked.
“Of course, of course,” Starks said. “I'll have something by the time you land.”
CHAPTER 2
There were a few more pleasantries, which were always awkward for Stark, but somehow he muddled through.
His mother frowned, “What's wrong?”
“I'm not sure yet,” Stark replied.
“Sounds like it should be interesting then.”
“Yes, because this isn’t interesting enough,” Stark said as they walked through the hospital’s sliding doors.
They headed straight through the lobby ignoring the hand sanitizers and arrived at the elevators. So far no alarms went off. No guards tackled him to the floor. That had to be a good sign, right?
Stark and his mother got off on the third floor and headed for room 316.
“Hope this is worth it,” his mother said with a sly smile.
Stark opened the door to room 316 and walked in to find Bunny with her leg propped up on some pillows, typing on a laptop. She slowly looked up, clearly expecting to see a nurse, but when their gaze met her eyelids flew open.
“What in the Hell are you doing here?” she exclaimed.
Stark waited until his mother closed the door to answer, “I couldn't leave you rotting here by yourself.”
Bunny's concern transformed into a frown. “But you’re on American soil. That is way too dangerous.”
Stark tapped a small pen on his T-shirt. “Not with these”
Bunny cocked her head to the side. Her auburn curls tumbled over her shoulder. The risk was worth that sight alone. “And those contraptions do what?”
Stark got settled into a chair and brought up the hospital’s security footage. “These little babies are not just blocking our faces, they are projecting completely different visages.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bank robbers and such use coronal interference. Basically they mask their facial features with a bright light. But in our situation that would only call more attention to us. So we developed these.”
Stark showed her the security of the hallway outside her door. It showed two figures walking down the hall. However their faces were not Stark’s and his mother’s. They looked like completely different people.
“How?” Bunny asked.
Stark smiled. “A magician never reveals his secret.”
* * *
Vanderwalt walked into the small basement office of the MI-5’s technical unit. It was late at night, so only two of the bespectacled men were on duty.
“What is this that I heard about stigmata?” Vanderwalt asked the first one. He thought the guy’s name was Toby or Tobian or some such Anglo-Saxon name.
The other’s name, he couldn’t even hazard a guess.
Toby, he was just going with Toby, shrugged. “Yep. A woman out of Jordan, but it didn’t even warrant a level five warning. How did you hear about it?”
Vanderwalt ignored the question. He’d made enough friends upstairs and down that much didn’t get past him, especially a case involving religious intrigue.
“And?”
Toby shrugged again. “We get reports like this every few months. Never amounts to anything.”
Vanderwalt cocked his head. “Stigmata during one of the worst global storms in history. You didn’t think those two things might be related?”
Toby looked at him like Vanderwalt was an alien who had asked a question about trivalent metal ions.
“I’m sure the Vatican and the Americans have made that connection,” Vanderwalt commented.
The other nameless man grunted. “The Vatican sent a priest to Jordan yesterday. I have no idea about the Americans.”
“Well, I am sure about the Americans.”
And he knew exactly whom the Americans would tap for this mission.
His old friend and colleague.
Vanderwalt flipped open his phone and hit a speed dial number. It was his handler. “I need to get to the Middle East, pronto.”
* * *
Brandt bent and straightened his knee, rubbing his patella.
“You okay?” his wife asked.
“Sure, Sure,” Brandt said lying. His knee hadn't ached like this for months. It had been a long-ass flight from SFO to DC, then another even longer-ass flight from DC to the Middle East.
He dozed on and off, but his knee wouldn't let him sink into a deep sleep. His wife however, didn’t need to know that. He couldn’t let a little stiffness keep him from the mission.
The pilot came on the intercom announcing they were making their final descent into Jordan. Lopez rolled his eyes and muttered, “Finally.”
Brandt was afraid that the corporal was not getting any happier once they were on the ground. He knew that Lopez could have gotten them over the Atlantic much, much more quickly. However, when the King of Jordan offered you an olive branch such as using his private jet, you took it.
The landing was uneventful, as was their de-boarding. Usually they were taking fire or ducking RPGs. So this was a refreshing change. They had landed in the early morning rain, as a limo with presidential flags flying pulled up.
“Oh, for the love of Pete,” Lopez groaned.
Rebecca smiled. “I, for one, am going to enjoy myself.”
* * *
Rebecca stretched out in the back of the limo, she pulled her shoes off and kneaded her toes into the plush shag carpet. There was no alcohol in the minibar, but that was not surprising since this was Jordan after all.
The limo whisked them through the capital city of Jordan, Amman. The capital was a bustling metropolis with a variety of modern skyscrapers, but every once in a while you would find an older sand-colored building to remind you how long the city had stood.
Rebecca loved the city, even as rain-soaked as it was. Essentially, Amman had been her home away from home during her college years. It seemed like it had only been a few months since she’d been to the capital. During the dry season, they would be out the field. During the wet season, they’d return home to write up th
eir papers. With the gossamer veil of time, those days seemed idyllic.
It was so easy to forget all the turmoil that Lochum had caused. And his stealing her paper had been the least of Rebecca’s problems.
But still, the idea of just Rebecca and her work sounded appealing. The time before she was introduced to guns, RPG’s, and cultists. A time when her life wasn’t on the line every two minutes.
However, she wouldn't trade her life now with Brandt and the kids for anything. She just had an itch to be back out in the field. A change of pace from changing diapers and watching Dora.
Now she was out in the field with the best team money can buy.
Rebecca was roused from her thoughts as the limo took the exit heading toward the Royal Complex. Yes, Jordan had so many palaces that they were all lumped together in a complex.
“I thought the woman lived in the Eastern side of Amman?” Rebecca asked the guide who sat in the limo’s passenger seat.
The Eastern side was the much poorer section of the capital. It housed many of the refugees from Iraq and Syria. The districts were nearly filled to bursting.
The man nodded and spoke in heavily accented English, “She did, but for her safety, the King had her brought to the palace.”
Rebecca leaned back into her seat and enjoyed the scenery as they turned into the royal complex. Heavy rain splashed on the windshield, distorting the view, as the windshield wipers made a futile attempt to keep the windshield clear.
Luckily, Rebecca knew the layout of the complex by heart. There were seven palaces, several more royal homes, a beautiful sanctuary and the royal cemetery. She’d walked these grounds for hours after Lochum and she had fought. Yah, those were the days. Not.
Even though the Jordanian King was known for his benevolence, she checked her phone again, but nothing from Stark. Rebecca couldn't help but feel that there might be an ulterior motive for the King to bring the woman here.
Stark wasn't returning her phone calls either. If she didn't hear from him in the next hour, she’d have to loop Brandt in on her concern.
For now, she just wanted to meet this woman with the supposed stigmata.
* * *
Davidson got out of the limo, and despite the misting rain, pointed his fingertips high to the sky then did side-to-side stretches. He knew how sore he was. He could only imagine how Brandt’s knee felt.
Shrugging on his backpack, Davidson wandered away from the rest of the group. It was time for him to set up his nest. He was pleased to find that there was an abundance of possibilities. Each of the palaces had its own peak, and there are plenty of tall trees around. It was going to be a wet one though.
The Royal court, especially this early in the morning foggy mist was a tranquil haven. There were a minimal amount of employees and tourists. You really felt that you were special for being here.
It was all a little opulent for Davidson, but he could respect the beauty of the court.
“Anything on radar?” Davidson asked Stark.
The guy was there immediately. “Everything looks clean from this angle.”
Davidson couldn't help but chuckle. Isn't that how it always looked? Yet seldom was.
He knew that the rest of the team was headed to the Al-Qasr al-Sagheer, the little palace. Although it didn't look very little to Davidson. The palace had over thirty rooms and was probably three times the size of the school gym. The question was did he want to protect it from the front or the rear?
His answer wasn’t exactly strategic. It was as much personal as it was scientific.
Davidson headed up the moderate incline to the highest palace, Dar al-Bir. It was said that on a clear day you could see Jerusalem from the palace.
He was going to check that theory out, if only the skies would clear a bit. Because right now he couldn’t see the other side of the royal complex.
* * *
Rebecca followed their guide. She was pretty sure he was here to keep them out of trouble as he much as he was to help them.
They entered the Little Palace to find one of her favorite entryways in the world. The floor was marble and buffed to a shine. Despite the palace only being two-story, the foyer had a vaulted ceiling. Detailed calligraphy decorated the walls.
Since Muslims weren't allowed to paint their prophet, they showed their religious pride in calligraphy. Those beautiful letters represented an outward showing of their faith.
If she hadn’t already translated them all long ago, Rebecca would have been tempted to do so again.
Their guide eschewed the larger offices, and headed down a back hallway. Clearly, the King wanted to keep this woman under wraps. He had succeeded.
Finally they arrived at a non-descript door. Their guide knocked twice. A guard came out of the room. The two men bent their heads together and whispered quietly.
The guard didn't seem too thrilled with their guide, but finally he gave the nod and opened the door.
Rebecca peered through the darkened doorway. The drapes were drawn and the room was lit by only two candles. She could smell incense even before she walked in the room.
So Rebecca wasn't surprised when she entered to find a Catholic priest in the back corner. He wore the traditional black suit and white collar. In his hands he held a Holy Bible and a string of Rosary beads with a silver cross dangling down.
“I am Father Ashand,” he said with an Italian accent. No great surprise there. Most of the Vatican miracle inspectors were stationed out of Rome.
She gave him a nod. “Dr. Rebecca Brandt.” Even after all this time it still felt weird not to say Dr. Monroe.
The priest didn't say anything as she passed by and stood on the opposite side of the bed. The rest of the team followed, but stayed to the side of the bed.
Rebecca looked down at the woman in the bed. She might be a “visitor” here in this palace, but it was a gilded cage. The bedding was lush and there were at least twelve pillows to prop the woman up.
The woman's dark hair spilled over the cream pillows. She was asleep or at least feigning it. Rebecca noticed the corner of her eyes were pinched. Just like Kasa would do when she wanted to stay up past “lights out.”
The woman looked haggard, but who wouldn't under these circumstances?
Rebecca sat down in a chair that was probably over 100 years old. As rain tinkled against the glass, she gently pulled back the covers and pulled out the woman hand.
“I can find no trickery,” the priest said. “The stigmata appear to be genuine.”
“I believe that’s what I'm here to determine,” Rebecca stated.
The priest frowned and took a step away from her. It was all right, she was used to it.
Rebecca turned the woman's hand over. And sure enough there was blood on the palm. Just to be thorough, Rebecca picked up the covers off the woman's foot. Same thing. A bright red circle of blood on top of her foot.
She shook her head at Brandt. “This is no miracle.”
The priest stepped next to her with a frown. “That is not the opinion of the Church.”
Who was this guy?
If he was a miracle inspector, Rebecca was an exotic dancer.
“Father,” she used that term loosely. “You should know better.”
Rebecca indicated to the woman's hand. “This is the media’s portrayal of stigmata. However the palm is not where the iron spike was driven during crucifixion. The tissue certainly couldn't take the pressure. The spike would have torn right through the victim’s flesh.”
Brandt, himself well-versed in proto-Christianity, pointed to the woman's wrists. “The spikes were driven there… between the bones. And through the ankles.”
Rebecca nodded. “Like I said, no miracle.” She looked up into the priest’s eyes. Fury seemed to broil just under his collar.
She should have seen it coming, she supposed. Perhaps it was a classic Catholic uniform, but she just didn’t see the attack coming.
The priest balled his fist around the Rosary‘s cr
oss and dove for Rebecca.
She didn't scream or even try to get out the way. Her husband was here. She had no worries.
* * *
Son of a…
Really? You're going to try to hit my wife right in front of me? Right.
Brandt used the butt of his gun to crack the priest on the side of his head.
The man fell to the floor, blood, real blood, on his temple.
The guards snapped their guns up, shouting in Arabic. Brandt was proud to see that his team hadn’t drawn their weapons. Their palms were on their weapons, but they weren’t drawn. No sense to use bullets when you could just use brawn.
Bullets were tricky. They could go straight through the person you wanted to hit, without doing serious damage, then hit your friends behind him, killing them. Or that bullet could ricochet and nail you in the head. No. Brandt would rather use his hands if at all possible. And he had trained his men that way.
Just look at the two Jordanian guards. Their guns were up in shaky hands as they argued with the team's guide. One small movement could trigger a hail of bullets.
Brandt slowly put his gun down on the bed, spreading his fingers to show he had no other weapons. That didn’t seem to calm the guards any.
“I was only protecting my wife.”
The guide translated for Brandt. Brand knew Arabic and could speak for himself, however he felt like he needed the guide as an advocate. “Everything’s okay. They can put their weapons down.”
Of course, that was about the moment when gunfire erupted from outside.
The guards tensed, pulling their guns to their shoulders, preparing to fire.
Brandt’s hands went up. “That's not us. That's whoever he is with.” Brandt pointed to the downed priest. “I swear.”
As the guide rapidly translated for him, Brandt was glad to hear the guy was accurately relaying his words. Even though the gunfire intensified outside, Brandt didn't hear Davidson take any shots. The sniper was sitting this one out, waiting to take an important shot before he revealed his position.
“Look, they are only attacking because of this woman.” Brandt pointed to the figure under the covers. “If we take her and the priest, the gunmen will follow us.”
The guards listened intently, but still seemed confused. They looked like they were grunts, not accustomed to making decisions on their own. One lifted this radio to his ear but only static came out. Someone was jamming the frequencies.
The 3rd Cycle of the Betrayed Series Collection: Extremely Controversial Historical Thrillers (Betrayed Series Boxed set) Page 4
