The Babel Conspiracy

by Sylvia Bambola

  • • •

  Joshua adjusted his night goggles. In the darkness he could see that Camp No. 3 was well guarded. It was the same camp he and Cassy had found five-hundred miles west of Everman.

  Iliab Nahson and Nathan Yehuda hunkered in the dirt beside him; all of them clutching their Uzis. It had always been Joshua’s weapon of choice with its compact body and blowback system, its high cyclic rate of fire. It was battle tested and wouldn’t fail even in the grime of a desert.

  In addition to their Uzis, they each carried a foot-long carbonized dagger clipped to their belts along with four black pineapple grenades each; just in case things got sticky. And satellite surveillance would keep headquarters informed.

  He didn’t know why, but he always felt better when they had eyes in the sky.

  According to the recent text from headquarters, a small contingency of Israeli commandos had already crossed the Mexican border and would be here by zero-one-hundred hours. Joshua checked his black Breitling watch. That was only ninety minutes away.

  In the meantime, their task was recon: timing the changing of the guard, determining where they lodged, and, if possible, ascertaining the number of guards as well as how many were interned in the camp by using heat sensitive equipment.

  The mission was to rescue Senator Merrill, who, once martial law was lifted and elections held, would become the rightful president of the United States.

  It would be a disaster for Israel if anything happened to him.

  Yossi Behrman, Israel’s Prime Minister, had just ordered his generals to draft plans to strike Russian backed Syrian and Hezbollah forces bent on taking over the new oil fields in the Golan Heights. If possible, Behrman would wait for the lifting of U.S. martial law before ordering the IDF to strike, because after the strike Israel would need a friendly partner in the White House to stem the blowback from Russia.

  Joshua just hoped they could get Merrill out alive.

  • • •

  It was over before anyone knew it. The commandos in gas masks moved in swiftly, rendering everyone unconscious by firing pellets of an incapacitating agent into the compound. Joshua’s team had determined there were fifty-seven civilians in the camp and twenty guards, and had marked the guard house with his laser. Within minutes Senator Merrill was found and evacuated from the premises.

  Their mission did not allow for the rescue of the remaining fifty-six.

  Then the commandos, carrying Merrill, disappeared into the night as quickly and quietly as they had appeared. And amid the elation over the success of the mission, Joshua felt disappointment over the fact that he’d be unable to tell Cassy her uncle was safe.

  When she was questioned by the authorities, as she would be, she’d have no information to give away.

  • • •

  CHAPTER 12

  Trisha sat across from Mike in a small, dimly lit Gibs Town restaurant and watched the smile on his face grow larger.

  “It looks like Audra did it. One hundred successful simulated flights without a single sign of casing breakdown. But we need to keep this under wraps. I don’t want to give the government any excuse for seizing the company.”

  Trisha nodded. Mike had told her about the implications of martial law regarding PA. Peter Meyers said there was no indication of that happening. Yet. She tried to push away all the concerns still facing them in order to savor the moment.

  “Yes, Audra has done it,” she said, smiling, “And now you’re going to pay.”

  “Pay?”

  “That’s right. This is a celebration and I’m ordering a lobster . . . let’s say a three-pounder.”

  “Do you know how much that’s going to cost!” Mike wailed in mock horror.

  “I figure I have it coming. With all the overtime I’ve put in, not to mention the work I’ve taken back to the room every night, I estimate I’ve been making about eighty-two cents an hour.”

  Mike laughed. “What do you want? Everything? I did give you the weekend off, remember? And taken you to one of the classiest restaurants in Gibs Town.”

  “There are no classy restaurants in Gibs Town. That’s why I’m wearing jeans.”

  “After which,” Mike continued, ignoring her, “I’ll fly you to PA so you can avoid Everman’s Friday night rush-hour traffic. And you complain!”

  “Make that a four-pounder.”

  “Okay . . . okay, so I’ve overworked you a little.” Mike reached across the table and took her hand, his look tender, his feelings scrawled across his face like an ardent Browning poem. “Before we order, I want to ask you something about your doctor friend. Dave . . . Daniel? Actually about you and your doctor friend. You’re not in love with him are you?”

  Trisha shook her head and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m thinking about his brother, Joshua.”

  “You’re in love with his brother?”

  “No. But there’s something about him. He reminds me a little of Peter Meyers—secretive, mysterious, like maybe he’s . . . .”

  “CIA?”

  “No, his heart is in Israel.”

  “That means Mossad.”

  “Maybe . . . I don’t know. How did we get on this subject, anyway?”

  “By me wanting to ask you something . . . something important. And I had to be sure about Daniel, about your feelings, before I asked. But don’t say a word until I’m finished, okay?”

  Trisha nodded.

  “What I want to know is if . . . if we can build on this Rock of yours, if it’s possible, would you marry me? Right now we have to finish the P2, but when it’s done I want to spend time working on us. I love you madly, Trisha.”

  The familiar fragrance of Old Spice drifted across the table. It was his scent and she loved it. It was predictable, unpretentious. So different from his interior which was mysterious, changeful, sometimes arrogant. She had longed to hear him say these words. Had dreamed of them having a life together. But not like this. It would never work.

  Convictions couldn’t be tied on like a plastic heart.

  “I want to say ‘yes.’ You can’t imagine how much.”

  “But?” returned Mike. His smile faded as he pulled his hand from hers.

  “God isn’t a convenience. He’ll never be real to you as long as you’re using Him to please me. Your commitment to God can’t be because of me, but because God is, and because He’s worthy of that commitment. Please try to understand.”

  The handsome executive settled back in his chair. “I’m trying, Trisha, believe me, I’m trying.”

  • • •

  Audra inserted the key and turned the knob. She could feel the bulge of the .25 caliber in her purse which was tucked under her arm. Her head throbbed. Everman’s Friday night rush-hour had been brutal.

  She lingered a moment in the open door thinking of Bubba Hanagan and not wanting to go in. But he had taken everything he wanted from her. Why should he come back?

  She flicked the light switch by the door before entering. Everything was in place, just as she had left it. Nothing disturbed. She turned on every light as she made her way to the bedroom where she tossed her purse on the bed.

  She still hadn’t changed her lock. Before she could get a locksmith to come, she had been ordered to Gibs Town. Tomorrow. That’s when she’d do it . . . that is, if she could get someone to come on such short notice.

  Tonight she was going to Grobens.

  There was always Ace Corbet. He would help pass the long night. But first a quick shower and fresh clothes. She rummaged through her drawers wondering what to wear.

  This was the first weekend she had off in ages. Strange how she wished she was back in Gibs Town. She hated the place, but she felt safe there. Somewhat, anyway. But Gibs Town was as deserted as the Hamptons in winter. Michael Patterson, in celebration of her achi
evement, had given everyone the weekend off, with his usual admonition to maintain secrecy. He had also given everyone two hundred dollars in cash so they could have “dinner on him.”

  As she poked through her drawers, the desire to go out began to fade. The thought of having to drive the streets, to walk down dark pavements beneath the shadow of a thousand dangers suddenly made her queasy.

  And did she really want to spend another evening with Ace? Her lifestyle was beginning to make her feel dirty. A strange feeling. An uncomfortable feeling. Was it because she was thirty, now? And one-night stands weren’t as appealing as they once were? What she needed was something more wholesome, more substantial.

  Maybe she’d just stay home. She had plenty of wine in her pantry.

  She shoved her black lace stockings back into the drawer, failing to see the shadow that stepped from the bathroom; failing to see the large, muscular arm as it moved to encircle her. She only noticed a sweetish odor as a cloth was pressed against her face. She felt her legs buckle, felt herself sliding onto the floor, onto a pair of large, tan work boots, and . . . darkness.

  • • •

  Trisha dusted her languid rattan settee, then began wiping down her glass dining room table. She had missed her apartment. It was here she relaxed best, amid the tranquility of muted earth-tones. She should do this tomorrow. It was late. She missed the rush-hour traffic as Mike promised, but they had sat for hours at the restaurant talking. And after landing at PA, and while Buck chauffeured her home, they were stopped by a military patrol and would have been arrested for violating the curfew if it weren’t for their passes.

  All that took time.

  She thought of Mike and the tenderness she had seen on his face. But she had seen confusion and anger, too. She was still thinking about it when the doorbell rang.

  At this hour?

  Then she remembered Daniel. She had called him from Gibs Town after Mike had given the entire staff the weekend off. She had promised to let Daniel know when she had free time. She was eager to see him, to restore their friendship, if possible, and to find out how Joshua was doing after his thirty stitches.

  She glanced at the grandfather clock in the hall. Ten minutes to eleven. Daniel had told her if he finished his last surgery before it got too outrageously late, he would stop by. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one working overtime.

  “Well, it’s not too outrageously late,” Trisha said, opening the door. But instead of Daniel’s face, she saw a dark, scowling man holding something in his hand. Before Trisha could react, he grabbed her then pressed a cloth against her face. A strange, sweetish odor filled her nostrils.

  “Oh, God!” she gasped. Then everything went black.

  • • •

  “Any news?” Mike asked. Strands of hair fell into his eyes as he glanced at the man entering his office.

  “No, nothing,” Pete answered.

  It was Wednesday morning. Trisha was not home when Buck came to pick her up Monday and Audra had not shown up for work that day. Neither one had called in. Neither answered their phones, and Audra wasn’t home, either, when Buck went to check.

  Panic swept through Patterson Aviation and Gibs Town. Homeland Security, along with the Everman Police Department, began an immediate investigation.

  But so far, nothing.

  No one had seen or heard anything unusual. Neither apartment had been broken into. There were no signs of struggle, nothing amiss.

  It was all very strange.

  But there was a silent consensus. ISA. Who else would abduct two employees from the same company?

  Mike was exhausted. He had slept little since the news. His eyes darted from Pete to the phone. “If it was a kidnapping for ransom, shouldn’t we have heard by now?”

  “That’s what worries me. If it’s money they’re after, then yes, somebody should have contacted us before this. We may have to face the possibility that they have already been killed.”

  Mike swallowed hard. “I . . . can’t accept that.”

  Suddenly, one of the DHS agents came rushing in. “We just got the call. It’s official. ISA claims responsibility for both abductions.”

  Mike took a deep breath. “Are they still alive?”

  The agent nodded and smiled. “Yes! Both women are alive! And we will be contacted regarding terms for their release.”

  “Thank God,” Mike sighed, as if saying a prayer.

  • • •

  Mike leaned back in his executive’s chair, sleeves rolled up, his white shirt, rumpled. His fingers combed through his disheveled hair as he frowned at the pile of papers before him. He had hoped to whittle it down in an effort to keep his mind off the kidnapping. But no matter how hard he tried to hurl it to the peak of that white mountain, it would slide back to the one thing that had made the past few days the most wretched in his life—Trisha’s disappearance.

  Finally, he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small, pocket Bible; the one Trisha had given him after Renee’s death. She said it would help. He could use that help now. He opened the book randomly and began reading.

  “‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my . . . .’”

  • • •

  Trisha sat propped against the stone wall of the semi-dark room trying to get her bearings. The past several days had been like a bizarre Picasso. Hours overlapped, twisted, and ran into blur after blur. She was sure she had been drugged. Her head ached and the bend of her arm was tender. When she looked, she saw a cluster of needle marks.

  Whatever the drug, it was powerful.

  The fog was lifting only now. She noticed she still wore the same clothes from Friday. She remembered the sinister man at the door, the brief scuffle, the darkness, then a vague recollection of strange faces. Someone fed her, gave her water. There had been a ride in a truck . . . a hot, bumpy ride.

  Where was she? She shook herself then breathed deeply, hoping to fill her lungs with mind-sharpening oxygen. It was beginning to work.

  She looked around. The room seemed strange, foreign. The walls were whitewashed adobe, the floor hard and covered with straw mats. Aside from the heap in the corner, the room was empty. No furniture, no wall hangings, nothing. On the opposite wall was a closed door. The room was dimly lit. The single source of light came from a small, glassless window that only a tiny child could squeeze through.

  It had to be near sunset because even as Trisha watched, the light grew fainter. She’d have to get her bearings quickly. She struggled to her feet then staggered to the window, pushed her face through the opening as far as she could, then squinted in the twilight at the barren landscape, the dusty streets, at the adobe-like dwellings—all flat-roofed and clustered together. To one side, a large adobe oven belched smoke while women gathered nearby, wearing black robes and head coverings.

  She breathed deeply. The air smelled of dung, grain, fodder, all mixed together to make one singular odor that was neither offensive nor pleasing. From her vantage point it looked like they were surrounded by mountains. A few scrubby-looking trees dotted the embankment on the right.

  Suddenly, a loud, eerie wail floated overhead and Trisha knew it was the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. But instead of a minaret, she saw a stubby adobe tower where the sound seemed to emanate.

  Impossible. This couldn’t be the Middle East. She shuddered and hugged herself. Then all was silent and dark, and Trisha stood frozen by the window. Her mind was sharper now and had begun grappling with the gravity of the situation. She was sure she was no longer on U.S. soil, but didn’t believe she was in the Middle East, either. So where was she? Mexico? South America? The village didn’t look Mexican but then again it did.

  “‘In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust; let me never be ashamed: deliver me in thy righteousness,’” she whispered, trying to push back the blade of fear
that had begun cutting through her courage.

  When she heard a low, muffled sound behind her, she stiffened. “Who’s there?”

  The only response was a moan. How was that possible? The door had not opened. No one had entered. When the moan grew louder, Trisha moved in the direction of the sound. It was then she remembered the heap in the corner. The moaning continued until it turned into words.

  “Ooh . . . ooh . . . where am I . . . what . . . what is this . . . ooh . . . I’m sick. Please . . . someone help . . . ooh please . . . somebody.”

  It took Trisha a while to recognize the voice. She groped her way in the darkness until reaching the quivering mound.

  “Audra! Audra it’s me! Trisha!”

  “Ooh . . . I’m sick . . . help.”

  Trisha cradled Audra in her arms. She was sure Audra had been drugged, too. But in addition, she appeared ill and was both perspiring and shaking.

  “It’s okay. You’re going to be alright,” Trisha said softly, all the while hoping someone back home knew where they were. She thought of Mike and wondered if she’d ever see him again.

  Throughout the night, Trisha held Audra while trying to doze against the wall. In the morning, when she awoke, Audra was still feverish.

  “Are you injured?” Trisha asked, keeping her voice low so as not to alarm anyone on the other side of the rough, wooden door.

  “Ooh,” was the reply.

  Trisha scanned Audra for signs of a wound and found no blood stains.

  “I need a drink,” Audra muttered. “Please.”

  “Audra, try to understand. We’re prisoners. We’ve . . . .”

  “Please! Help me. Please give me a drink.”

  Trisha studied the quivering woman for a second. The symptoms were beginning to make sense. She had seen them at a mission where she used to volunteer when she had had more time. They were the same symptoms she had seen in other alcoholics who staggered, shook and begged for a drink or the money to buy one.

  Trisha’s hand stroked the perspiring head knowing this was a real crisis. The withdrawal process could be excruciating and sometimes even deadly.