The Hammer of God

by Tom Avitabile

  Janice grabbed the finger, pulled his hand to her lips, and kissed it. “God damn you, I am serious!”

  “Okay, sorry. I have Brent.”

  “He’s only a driver.”

  “A driver with a gun!”

  “No, I mean he’s only around when you are working.” Janice untangled from him and spun around, sitting up and locking her eyes into his. “Get a protection detail. Tell Mitchell I want you to have one. He likes me and I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me as a widow.”

  Bill rolled over, pulled the pillow over his head, and spoke into the muffling mattress. “I was feeling so good five minutes ago. Thanks for the buzz kill, kid.”

  She pulled the pillow off him and leaned into his face. “I love you. I don’t want anything happening to you because of fucking Time magazine. Promise me.”

  “Janice…”

  “Bill, promise me you’ll talk to Mitchell — tomorrow, or that was your last blow job!”

  “You play dirty.”

  “I like to think of it as, ‘below the belt.’”

  Rodney left the Lock and Store at 10:30 headed for the New York City Mayor’s Office for Motion Picture and Television. His mission today was to secure three film permits for what would ostensibly be the first two days of shooting the New York exteriors for the Iranian/American co-production of “Byline of Death.” He was instructed to get two shooting permits and one rigging prep permit. One was for filming on Park Avenue at 45th street across from the Waldorf Astoria hotel. He was to get the second one for that same day, a build/prep permit for the parking lot at Citi Field in Queens. The baseball team that played there was scheduled to be out of town those days. The second shooting permit was for filming at the Citi Field location the next day, ostensibly to film what was prepped the day before.

  Leaving Jersey, he made the big, sweeping turn that screwed down from the elevated roadway of the Route 3/Tunnel approach to the toll plaza below. All of New York City was backlit by the rising sun from the east out his window. He looked south to the hole in the lower Manhattan skyline.

  “No flat tire this time, Allah be praised.”

  He lowered the prayer tape playing in the AM/FM/CD cassette radio in the car as he neared the Port Authority tollbooths of the Lincoln Tunnel.

  “Sonia Hansen,” Joey said in Bill’s office. “Died in Vienna on Dec third last year. She was shot on the street. No motive, no priors, no killer. It’s in the books as open case. Crosschecking Ensiling’s travel itinerary, it would put him in Austria on that same day.”

  “Okay. That could just only mean what we already know — that this woman was killed the same time Ensiling was there. We need to put them together to see if Peter was right. Wait a minute, John said something that seemed to make it like Peter was there too. Can you check with State and see if they come up with a visa from the Viennese, er… Austrians?”

  “I am having Interpol check any street surveillance or traffic camera to see who was around the woman at the time she was gunned down. Maybe we’ll catch a glimpse of the professor and Peter.”

  “Also Joey, this is just a hunch, but have them check ATM machines and any hotel cameras where the professor was staying. That might tell us what he was wearing and what to look for.”

  “Good thought. You sure you don’t want my job?”

  “Nah, it’s easy to think up stuff when that’s all you have to do. It’s harder to actually do it.”

  “Duh,” Joey said as he left Bill’s office.

  Bill focused on the pile on his desk. Next on his agenda was to get the legitimacy of Peter’s book confirmed or denied. He had Kronos scan it then used a scan-to-text converter to make it all one big word-processing file. He then put it up on the SCIAD network. After a day or two, he expected to hear something back.

  With his commitment to “Johnny No” in the works, to investigate the book that got his brother killed, he was now free to focus on the suitcase nuke and how he and his team might possibly prevent any detonation.

  Or so he thought.

  “Mr. Hiccock, would you come with me into the Oval?”

  “Agent Renko, when you put it like that…” Bill stood from his desk and immediately followed him to the Oval Office.

  “Ah, Bill, you know Williams, head of the Secret Service Presidential detail?” the President said.

  Bill extended his hand. “Sure. How are you, Mr. Williams?”

  “Fine, Mr. Hiccock.”

  “Bill, Williams gets paid to think of this stuff, and today he thinks it would be a good idea if you had some protection.”

  “Is this about the article?”

  “Exactly.” Mitchell flipped through the magazine. “It’s made you very visible and since you hold NCA ranking, are the head of an investigation, and the lead agency on the loose nuke, you have become a high valued target.”

  “Well, this will make my wife happy, just last…”

  “She will also be afforded a small detail,” Williams said. “And we’ll need your permission to install some security and communications equipment in your home.”

  “Well, maybe she won’t be that happy.”

  “Bill, don’t even think of saying no.” Mitchell ordered as President of the United States.

  ?§?

  In the Mayor’s Office for Film and Television, Rodney filled in the columns on the Citi Field permit. Under “describe shot,” he copied the text from scrupulously written notes: “Bita Asayesh, ace reporter, exits news helicopter, into boyfriend’s arms. Crane up — End credits.” The other permit, for the day before, was to rig the helicopter and set lights. It was to be done by an advance unit of carpenters and riggers. Under props went the notation, “One Helicopter.”

  It stopped Hiccock dead in his tracks. “Say that again?”

  “You had a call on your private number,” Cheryl reported. “The caller asked for ‘Billy the Kid.’ When I said I’d take a message he hung up.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “How’s it impossible?”

  “Because I buried that guy last week. Get me Joey quick.”

  Bill closed the door to his office, a rare occurrence, and plopped into his chair. Who else called me that?

  Four minutes later, Joey knocked and entered. “What’s up?”

  Bill pointed to the single-line phone on the return of his desk. “Can you trace where the last call on that phone came from?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Do it. Five minutes ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “Do you remember anyone else who ever called me ‘Billy the Kid?’”

  “Anybody else? I never heard anybody call you that!” Joey said as he picked up Bill’s office phone. “Signals, please. Yes, Sergeant Anders, I need you to pull the luds on Science Advisor Hiccock’s personal line.” He held the phone away from his mouth. “Bill, what’s the terminal I.D. on the wall socket there?”

  Bill bent over to where the phone was jacked to the wall. “WW-143-04.” From down there, he saw one of his business cards, which had fallen behind the credenza. He reached over.

  “Okay, I’ll need a location as soon as you know.” Joey hung up and saw Bill pensively flipping the card in his fingers.

  “Where do you keep your wallet?”

  “I keep it in my pants.”

  “That’s a good practice for a married man… and an American.”

  “Where do Europeans keep their wallets?”

  “I guess you aren’t looking for ‘pants’ as an answer.”

  “Not if they are wearing jackets!”

  “What?”

  “You know, it’s very continental to have a billfold in the breast pocket of your jacket,” Bill said sliding his hand into his inside sport jacket pocket.

  “You gotta stop having a quick one at lunch, Billy boy.”

  “Just find out where the call came from and call France to find out where they found Peter’s wallet and my card.”

  “Oh crap!�
��

  “Exactly.”

  When Joey left. Bill clicked the address book icon on his desktop, found the number he was looking for, and dialed.

  “Johnny, it’s Bill Hiccock. How you doing? Listen, I wanted to ask you something. Your brother, Peter; did he live with anyone in Paris? Could ya? Great; let me give you my cell number.”

  Cheryl came in and waited for Bill to finish.

  “It’s probably nothing, but I just had a crazy thought. Later, Johnny.”

  Bill ended the call and looked up.

  “Joey called and said ‘14 Rue de Roosevelt, St Germain.’ Isn’t that Paris?”

  “Yes it is. Get me that CIA guy at our embassy in Paris.”

  “Does Joey know who the CIA guy you are talking about is?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry Cheryl… of course, you wouldn’t know who that is. Have Joey call, and request to have surveillance of that address.”

  “Who are they looking for?”

  “A dead guy.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Leads

  Bridgestone and Ross were active and fanning out from the source of the bombs, the refinery in Egypt. In a widening circle from the Nursery, they were trying to uncover any information about where the bomb was and where it might be headed.

  The best lead they had ferreted out yet was a truck driver who they now believed delivered the 24 nukes to the facility two weeks before the raid. They based that belief on information provided by the long trail of broken bones and soiled undergarments of those who needed some persuasion to cooperate with them.

  They were sitting in an old Range Rover at a truck stop along the desert road from Syria waiting for the truck driver.

  “Ever hear of this guy Hiccock before?” Bridgestone asked.

  “No, but he’s got enough juice to get us out of jail free. That’s all I need to know.”

  “So we are part of what now?”

  “Quarterback ops, or something like that.”

  “Ah, now I get it.”

  “Wanna share?” Ross hated when Bridge knew something he didn’t.

  “Bill Hiccock! Played for Stanford! Now he’s like the science guy for Mitchell. He sprang us!”

  “Like to meet him someday. Thank him face to face.”

  “You and I should live so long.”

  “Is that the truck?”

  “Plate number BH7234, roger.”

  They watched as the truck pulled into the rest stop. The driver, one Jamal al Najime, stepped from his cab carrying his thermos and made a beeline for the restroom. Ten seconds later, Ross climbed into the cab to look for any records or clues to his affiliation. Bridgestone positioned himself outside the truck stop’s men’s room. Not being listed in the Michelin Guide meant this roadside oasis essentially had holes in the ground for commode facilities and since ventilation was still two centuries off, the odor was very distinct.

  When Jamal emerged, Ross watched him walk to the counter, place his thermos on it, and sit. Ross entered and went straight to the men’s room. Bridge followed. They checked that they were the only ones in there and spoke English in low tones.

  “You take him, Bridge. He’s from the south; you’ll do better with him.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “He’s not real religious. He is on his way to Cairo out of Damascus with a load of televisions in the back. He’s got two daughters and one son. He takes pills for high blood pressure. He’s had riders in the shotgun seat. I found prescription glasses in the passenger door pocket. He doesn’t wear them and I don’t see contacts. He’s studying up on chicken farming.”

  “Stay close; I’m going to try and jump a ride with him.”

  “Got your back, Master Sergeant.”

  Bridgestone sat next to Jamal and ordered strong coffee. Jamal ordered and ate like a truck driver. Bridgestone started small talk in Arabic.

  “Sandstorm’s coming this afternoon.”

  “They always make it sound worse than it is.” The driver grunted as he tore off another piece of flatbread.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Cairo. Got four hours to make it.”

  “You have to go pretty fast, and then the storm.”

  “I’ve done it in three-and-a-half during worse.”

  “May Allah guide your trip.”

  “Thank you and a blessing upon you. Do you drive?”

  “I drove before I lost my truck. I’m hoping to get some relief work in Cairo. Trying to make my way there now.”

  “How are you going?”

  “On the charity of others. Allah has seen fit to have gotten me this far.”

  “Where did you start?”

  “Lake Nasser, early yesterday.”

  “You made good time for someone without a truck.”

  “Some of the drivers still know me, so I was able to beg a few rides.”

  The trucker dabbed the bread in oil. “Ever drive Syria?”

  “Sudan, Jordan, Sinai, Syria, yes, on many occasions,” Bridge said in perfect desert cadence. “Some a little less legal than others, but it’s not my place to speak.”

  “I am afraid it’s the only way to make a good living these days.”

  “Praise Allah. But they do pay like the devil.”

  That made Jamal laugh. “Shame on you, brother. You are going to need much luck in Cairo. Don’t get Allah on your bad side.”

  “My friend, if I am not already on his list, it is purely an administrative oversight.” Bridge stressed the vowels of the last two words in a manner consistent with…

  “You are from the desert?”

  “Yes, south of Al Kharijah. You are quite astute.”

  “When you drive as far as me, you get so that you can tell people.”

  “My father was a herder. I hated it. I started driving at 14, got my own truck at 22, but it seems like I have no head for business.”

  “No, it’s not your head, it’s the business. It’s madness! Rules, regulations, fuel, and insurance; they have many ways to put you out of business, but never help you stay in business.”

  “I was talking with someone who knew a Minister, to get a government contract. I thought I would be set for life. But he wanted too much money and I wasn’t able to pay for the introduction.”

  “Camel’s asses all. There is a special place in hell for people like that.”

  “If I can’t find another job. I don’t know what I’ll do.” Bridge laid that out there like a big fat softball pitch on a Sunday afternoon.

  “You still know this Minister?”

  Swing and a hit. “My friend does.”

  “It might be interesting to speak with him; how much did he want?”

  “Ten thousand pounds, then five percent of each load. But you get 100 trips within the Misr, guaranteed a year.” Bridge used the local term for Egypt.

  “Interesting.”

  “When I get to Cairo, if I get to Cairo, I can look him up if you are interested.”

  “Come with me; I have a seat.”

  “Why, thank you, brother. That is most kind.”

  The waiter returned with a full thermos for Jamal and a check.

  “Here, let me get that, er… the coffee I mean,” Bridgestone said sheepishly as he laid down enough coins to only pay for the refill of the thermos.

  “There’s no need.”

  “Please, to cover the fuel.”

  “Okay. What is your name?”

  “Mohammad Ali, and please no jokes.”

  “You must have heard them all.”

  “Regrettably so.”

  Ross watched as Bridge climbed onto Jamal’s rig. He started up the Rover and tailed them from a safe distance behind.

  Bill went into his den and turned on his secure laptop. It took two minutes for it to regain all its ability for SCIAD and would lose it all once again at the end of the session. During the boot-up time, he glanced out the window and saw a Secret Service agent was on post at the end of his driveway. T
he new 12-foot fence around his humble little home, motion sensors in the hedges, cameras on trees and 16-foot posts, and the gatehouse at the end of his driveway must have made the neighbors wish he’d never moved there. Bill scanned his retina and opened his in-box. It was stuffed with responses on Peter’s book. As he started to read, it became clear he needed a meeting with everyone. One response in particular rattled him to his core.

  To: Nucleus

  From: Abramson

  The treatise of the book, mathematical proof of UFOs, is compelling but the science is not fluid. Certain jumps in celestial and quantum calculations may invalidate postulates. From a scientific point of view, more research is in order. However, if I may editorialize on a personal observation, in the author’s attempt to tie natural and manmade phenomena into the mathematics of the grid, I noticed that each atom bomb and hydrogen bomb test he charted, a relationship between his extraterrestrial math and the success or failure of a nuclear explosion exists. In fact, 107 out of 110 successful blasts were correctly predicted by this confluence of the Earth and Sun’s “harmonical” relationship. More astounding was that 100 % of the non-explosions, or atomic duds, happened when his extraterrestrial math showed the Sun and Earth to be out of harmonic relationship. This extraordinary observation is well outside the laws of chance. I will apply his algorithm to nuclear tests conducted after the printing of this book in 1968, and see if the trend continued. How curious that an amateur investigation into aerial phenomena and the stuff of science fiction might have stumbled over a natural law regulating nuclear warfare.

  Bill blurted out the words, “Jesus Factor!” He found the printout of Peter’s copy of Harmonic Epsilon and read the three chapters entitled, “The Mathematics of the Grid,” “The Harmonic and Nuclear Testing,” and “Sorry, Mr. de Gaulle.” The last chapter recounted the many times the French nuclear tests kept fizzling and how many of those times then-French President Charles de Gaulle had flown to the Mururoa Atoll test site only to be disappointed. Bill then read the paper generated on his SCIAD ring calculating the dates and locations of those tests with the mathematics of the grid and the terra-physics involved.