The Hand of The Prophet (Adventures of a spymaster Book 4)

by James Ward

  The agent’s training was kicking in and he stiffened a bit. “This will only take a few minutes, sir.”

  Inwardly desperate, Ralph put on his best business smile and said affably, “Maybe you could talk with agent Carstairs here, on my cell phone.”

  Carstairs had heard the entire conversation through Ralph’s phone. Ralph handed the phone to the somewhat apprehensive Canadian agent. “This is agent Robert Carstairs of U.S. Immigration,” he said. “Ralph Baker is okay. I can vouch for him. Look over here and I’ll wave to you.”

  Surprised, the Canadian looked over toward the U.S. Station, across and down the street. He saw a uniformed agent waving, cell phone held to one ear. “Are you the agent Carstairs that taught the anti-terrorism course at the Seminar last month?”

  “That’s me,” he replied, “You must be Larrivee.” Hearing that, Ralph relaxed, seeing the name tag B. Larrivee on the breast pocket of the Canadian’s uniform.

  For a moment that seemed like eternity, the Canadian agent considered the information before him. Finally he said, “Okay Mister Baker, you can get to your meeting. But the next time you come through, expect to spend some time here.”

  “Thank you kindly Mister Larrivee,” said Ralph. “I’ll be back next week and I’ll be ready to stay for as long as it takes.”

  As Ralph Baker drove away, he thanked his friend profusely for helping him get to his appointment on time. Switching off the cell phone a mile or so into Canada, Ralph pulled the car to the side of the road and let the repressed sweat and shakes run through his body. After a few minutes, he opened a can of Coke, took a long draught and resumed his drive to Creston, British Columbia.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ryall Morgan stood at the large projection screen in SECURE MEETING ROOM #3 housed in a long single story cement block building at the former Oceana Naval Base in Virginia. He was briefing the JUMP team about events in Charleston on the day of the hurricane. Steck was sullen, but attentive. Missing Paul Roche by what appeared to be only minutes weighed heavily on his mind. Steck knew Paul well enough to believe him capable of eluding the feds’ best efforts for days. Roche knew how lead a merry chase-to-nowhere better than anyone Steck ever trained. The trick would be for the teacher to find the pupil. He knew he could do it, he just didn’t know how much precious time it would cost the team, or how finding Roche would help in the primary investigation. This meeting was allowing Roche’s trail to get colder.

  Morgan was recounting the facts known thus far. There were for the moment two separate incidents under investigation. One was Grayson’s murder at Sullivan’s Island, top suspect Paul Roche. The other was an apparent murder and a theft at the Navy warehouse. There was a suspicion, not yet confirmed, that Roche was somehow involved in that crime as well.

  Ryall’s meeting at the director’s office was recounted. Meeting minutes hastily recorded on Morgan’s laptop were projected for all to read as Ryall moved methodically through his personal notes. The missing crate was identified as having contained some “artifacts” from the seventh century. There was gold, mostly in jewelry and coin, a “figurine” made of plaster and an ancient book written in Arabic on papyrus. Estimated value of the gold and jewelry was eighty thousand dollars. The value of the book and the figurine were unknown, but had been entered into the inventory of Iraqi goods made by the FBI at the time of seizure as “estimated value under ten thousand dollars.” The curious thing was that adjacent crates contained millions of dollars in gold bars, but were untouched by the robbers.

  One by one, Morgan displayed photos of the contents that the FBI had taken to inventory the seized items. When he came to the last picture, showing the book and the figurine, Greg Liss came to attention, whistled softly and uttered, “Oh, dear.”

  “Whatcha got, Greg?” drawled Lindsley.

  Liss didn’t answer. He just got up and went closer to the screen, staring in awe and amazement. After a long time, he held out his hand as if to touch the image of the plaster figurine of a human hand, laid out in the picture next to the ancient Arabic book. The paint on the figure was faded and cracked, clearly very old. It was a casting of someone’s right hand, rather delicate, the fingers touching the thumb in the manner of blessing or greeting customary to Muslim men. Greg’s fingers touched the screen, startling him as if awakened from a trance of fascination. He slowly turned to face the group.

  Steck turned up the lights, while Morgan turned off the projector.

  Greg Liss was in a cold sweat. His face was pale, his eyes wide. “Tha-that could be The Hand of Mohammed,” he half stammered.

  Ryall Morgan stared at the young agent intently. “You mean the prophet of Islam, that Mohammed?”

  “Yes, that Mohammed,” replied Liss. “When I was at Dartmouth, we studied ancient myths and religions under the great professor William Wigglesworth. Doctor Wigglesworth is an expert in historical analysis. His life’s work has centered around investigation and verification or exposure of Para-religious myths, such as the so called Shroud of Turin, the Holy Grail, the Greek pagan gods, the…”

  “I get the picture, Greg,” interrupted Lindsley, waving his hand in a gesture to move along. He leaned across the table, eyes fixed on Greg Liss. “What about this plaster hand?

  Greg sat, drew a deep breath and began speaking as if he were the taking on the role of teacher. “Well, the teachings of Mohammed are followed by nearly a quarter of the world’s population, but no direct links to his corpse have ever been made public. Islam teaches that Mohammed was taken bodily to heaven. In his efforts to find whether Mohammed’s body was in fact rotting in the earth just like any man’s, Doctor Wigglesworth uncovered an ancient text that mentioned the existence of a plaster casting made from the prophet’s own right hand, left as a legacy to his true followers. According to this legend, Mohammed had decreed that only one figure be made from the cast, which he himself painted to look like his own hand. After that was accomplished, Mohammed himself reportedly broke the mould.”

  The room was silent for a long moment, while the team absorbed Greg’s story. “So,” said Morgan in a measured tone, “how do we verify all this?”

  “Simple,” declared Susan Deet. “Start by contacting Wigglesworth.”

  “That’s not going to be easy,” Liss remarked, “Doctor Wigglesworth left teaching at Dartmouth two years ago, retaining only a lecture chair at the college, along with a residence for his wife. He has become obsessed with this hand thing. He’s determined to either find it or disprove its existence once and for all. It has become his life’s work.

  “So where is he?” asked Steck.

  “He’s somewhere in the middle-east. The last I heard, he was in Yemen, living in the desert and traveling from place to place along the old caravan trade routes, looking for clues.” Liss held his hands palms up, eyebrows raised. “I don’t know how to find him.”

  “Okay,” offered Lindsley laconically, “so we’re not going to just ring him up on a cell phone, eh?”

  “Let’s call Dartmouth College,” suggested Deet. “We can get to interview family, friends, people who know this professor. Someone’s got to be in touch with him.”

  Steck’s patience was growing short. “I think we should split up, one team going after Roche, who is real, and the other team working on this imaginary Hand of Mohammed theory. Whatever was stolen, it looks like the heist was accomplished by a well organized bunch that included Paul Roche, one of the best agents I’ve ever known, whose services do not come cheap. Even not knowing more, I consider that reason enough not to let him get away. And then there’s the crate, which is being taken God knows where. The whole track on this is going to get cold, fast. By sitting in this room all day, we’re allowing just that to happen!” Steck ended with a gesture of supplication to Ryall Morgan.

  Ryall made eye contact that showed he agreed with Steck, but decided to defer to Lindsley, who looked like he had something to say. Lindsley caught the gesture in Morgan’s eyes, acknowledged it, leaning fo
rward to engage Steck by looking him straight in the eye. “Well, it seems, Mister Steck that you might be forgettin’ that a member of our team and colleague of five years has been killed. I assure you sir that we are just as anxious as you are to find his killer. I do hope you will assist us in this matter.” Steck slumped, mildly exasperated. Satisfied that he had effectively delivered his admonishment, Lindsley continued in even tones. “Notwithstanding that the JUMP team has an urgent agenda, as Mister Bob here has correctly observed, I believe Greg should take a couple of minor staff and spend the next two or three days chasing this Hand of Mohammed theory. Greg, you will have a full report in my hands not later than three days hence. Steck, Deet and I will continue the search for this Roche fellow and the whereabouts of the Navy’s missing crate.”

  Steck caught Ryall’s warning glance. He understood that it was in the best interest of the investigation not to take on Mort Lindsley over some stupid turf issue. “Understood,” he replied tersely.

  ___________

  Ralph Baker delivered the crate to his contact at the Kootenay Hotel precisely at 8:30 am, finished his business in Creston and started the drive home. Crossing the border at Porthill, he sped toward home, satisfied that he had done his part in whatever deal Colonel Randy was up to and planning how he would spend the money he had earned. After fantasizing about taking his wife to Vegas, he decided the two thousand would have to go towards catching up payments for the mortgage on the farm.

  About ten miles from Coeur d’Alene, Baker dialed up Brandt on his cell phone.

  “This is Brandt,” said a raspy voice at the other end.

  “Baker,” Ralph replied. I made the delivery and I’m back, about ten minutes from home.

  “I’ll meet you at the end of your driveway in ten.” Brandt clicked off and poked the girl, who rolled out the other side of the bed. He motioned her to get her stuff. She protested that she wanted to shower. “Just pee and dress,” he said sternly. “We go in five minutes.”

  Ralph waited at the entrance of his driveway, reading junk mail he had collected from the rusty rural route mailbox with faded black letters that spelled BAK_R. He made a mental note to fix it or get a new one.

  The Suburban rumbled to a stop in a cloud of reddish dust, just behind Ralph’s Explorer. Brandt got out, taking the keys and locking the doors with the remote. He figured the girl was stupid enough to believe the child locks would keep her inside, even though the driver’s door could be opened from inside. He carried an envelope.

  “That’s my money?” asked Ralph, uneasy as ever in Brandt’s presence.

  “Only if I don’t see a crate in there,” smiled Brandt. He walked past Baker, opened the tailgate and rifled through the stuff in the back of the Explorer. Not finding the crate, Brandt stepped away from the SUV to a spot where he had both Baker and the Suburban in plain view, flipped his phone open and selected Colonel Randy’s cell phone.

  “Brandt?”

  “Yes sir. Am I authorized to proceed?”

  “Yup, Pay the man. The goods are safe and on their way.” Colonel Randy’s voice was relaxed. “Complete your mission, son.”

  With blue steel eyes flashing and the trace of a smile, Brandt snapped, “Yes sir.” He stowed the phone and walked slowly toward Baker, proffering the envelope. As Baker reached for it, Brandt pulled it away. “What if we split this?” teased Brandt. “I think I need some extra cash for the ride home.”

  Ralph Baker, angry and scared, blurted out. “You sonovabitch Brandt, That’s my money. I earned it. Give it to me!”

  “Or what?” taunted Brandt. “You gonna beat me up?”

  Raging, Ralph lunged at Brandt, grabbing at the envelope. Brandt’s combat training snapped on. He moved aside deftly, bringing a strong right arm up to punch Baker’s head just above the left ear. Ralph slumped to the dirt in a limp heap. Brandt strode over to Baker’s hunched form and placed a boot on his face. “Like I said, I think we should split this money.”

  Ralph Baker did not move.

  “That’s better,” growled Brandt. “Get up!”

  Ralph Baker still did not move. Brandt reached down and grabbed Baker by the shirt, rolling him over. “C’mon Baker, get up!”

  Baker’s head rolled to the side, revealing a large gash at his left temple, blood streaming down his face. Instinctively, Brandt felt for a pulse.

  No pulse. Brandt’s face flashed alarm, as he realized Baker was dead. Then he heard the front door of the Suburban slam. Dropping Baker, he set off at a full run after the fleeing girl. She wasn’t so stupid after all.

  Brandt threw open the driver’s door of the Suburban and reached for the glove box to retrieve his sidearm. The glove box was open and the gun was gone. He cursed and shouted after the girl, who had now run into a field of tall dead grass. Suddenly, she turned and dropped to one knee, raised the weapon, clicked off the safety and pulled off a careful shot at the charging Brandt.

  “Crap!” shouted Brandt half to himself, as he recognized in the fleeing girl a trained adversary. His body slammed onto the ground as the bullet whizzed just over his head. He knew that he would not survive another exposure to her line of sight. He drew a knife out of his boot and began to slip through the grass in a flanking move.

  At once, she was standing nearly over him, the gun pointed at his groin. “Get up!” she shouted. “Get up or I’ll neuter you right here!”

  He lunged at her leg with the knife, but she was too quick for him, spinning on the other foot, rotating to a spread-eagled stance, still holding the gun true to its intended target.

  “Throw the knife over there!” she shouted, gesturing with her eyes to the left.

  Brandt saw his chance. In one deft motion before her eyes re-focused on him, Brandt let fly the knife. It slammed to the hilt in her gut. She grunted, fired two shots wild, and fell. In a rage Brandt was on her, beating her face bloody. He grabbed the gun and leveled it at her head. “Okay, who ever you are, you are going to tell me who you really are, or I will kill you.”

  Groggy and clutching the knife wound with one hand, she rose up in a furious move to strike at him. Brandt pulled the trigger. The bullet went through her head. Now he would never know who she was.

  Brandt cursed himself. He loaded her body into the Suburban, cleaned up the field as best he could by digging up the bloody soil and loading it too, then ran the Suburban back and forth over the field to mask the effects of the struggle in the grass. He pulled the vehicle out to the road again. He had retrieved the money and was about to deal with Baker’s body when he perceived the dust of a vehicle at some distance down the straight country road. Slamming into gear, he sped off in the opposite direction.

  _________

  Paul Roche drove out the entrance road to the Lazy Daze dude ranch near Emporia, Kansas in an old Chevy pickup he had just bought from the ranch manager, Jim Buel. After a stop for fuel in Tennessee, his pilot friend had dropped in to the dirt strip used by the Lazy Daze for VIP guests. Roche had known Buel from an assignment in Eastern Europe some years back. He hoped Buel knew how to keep quiet, but was not confident of it. Buel owed Roche for keeping mum about some difficulties in Buel’s past when asked by several would-be employers for a reference.

  Roche now had two days growth of beard, some western clothes and a good pair of western boots, along with a dog-eared leather valise replacing his Samsonite.

  Stopping by a small crossroads post office, Roche mailed a package containing money and ID along with his clothes to a private mailbox in Salt Lake City. A few hours later, he parked the truck in the long-term lot at Kansas City airport. Presenting a Canadian passport with the name of Terry Jansen, he boarded a flight for Calgary. On the plane, he ordered a scotch and soda, feeling good about his prospects for a clean escape. Every change of ID and appearance from here on would widen his margin of safety. He relaxed, reading a paper novel purchased at the airport stand.

  CHAPTER 7

  In his motel room just off the VA Beach expresswa
y, Bob Steck sat at the small desk crammed between the TV and a coat closet that barely held one coat. Government rate motels weren’t very elegant in this military town. He was sipping free lobby coffee and munching some kind of fake cake out of the vending machine in the hallway. Bob tapped out notes on his laptop, organizing his files about Paul Roche. Morton Lindsley had flown to Charleston immediately after the meeting at Oceana. Morgan was back at Langley. Greg Liss was off to hunt for the professor. In the past few hours, Susan Deet had proven her value as an agent in Steck’s eyes. She had quickly picked up Roche’s trail, working with the local police to find Paul’s Buick at the Hampton Roads Airport. She set up a stakeout using two local FBI agents who waited for whomever Roche would have arranged to pick-up and dispose of the car. Shortly after mid-day, it paid off. She was now interviewing the pilot of a small plane that had landed at noontime. Having tied his plane down, he approached the Buick. He was carrying Roche’s car key.

  The phone rang, snapping Steck out of his concentration on the keyboard.

  “Steck.” He answered.

  “Hey, Mister Bob,” drawled Lindsley. “I got a strange report from our folks in Charleston. Just before the storm hit, some wildlife photographer took pictures of an Army zodiac with four soldiers in it, coming right up the Cooper River. These guys were in combat fatigues and armed. We checked with the Army and the Marines, and they did not have any training or other mission going on at that time. Anyway, I had them send me the photos. Maybe you can have a look, on the secure link we gave you this morning?”

  “Sure, Mort, I’m on it.” Steck was already logging in to a secure internet site. Two passwords, then an encrypted message from the USB memory stick retrieved from his jacket pocket. After one more password, he found the link and double clicked on the photo file.