The Babel Conspiracy

by Sylvia Bambola

  Mike, who seemed to be appraising the Israeli, tented his fingers. “You’re a man of few words. I like that. I’m not interested in boastful claims or false bravado. You say you have a plan. Let’s hear it.”

  “Seco Polvo is partially built into a mountain on one side, surrounded by desert on two. The fourth is flanked by a treacherous gorge. Strategically placed sentries patrol twenty-four hours a day. Impossible to penetrate without immediate discovery. And we have already discussed the hazard to the women once the village is alarmed.

  “But Seco Polvo has market day every two weeks. It, as well as the other terrorist camps in Mexico, is serviced by the drug cartels. On market day peddlers come to sell their wares. Surprisingly, many are Middle Easterners, some even members of the cartels. And all give a portion of their proceeds to them. The day is filled with confusion. It would be easy for us to slip in during this time.”

  “Maybe,” Peter said, looking unconvinced. “But wouldn’t four strange faces arouse suspicion?”

  “There is a risk,” Iliab responded. “But only two of the men would be new. The other two are Mossad agents who have entered Seco Polvo many times. One agent poses as a peddler of precious metals, the other as his assistant. Being a terrorist village, Seco Polvo is rich compared to the average small Mexican village. Money flows like the Euphrates from the coffers of Iran, Libya and Syria to fund them. Believe me when I say our silver and gold peddler does a good business.”

  “Fine. But how are you going to get the other two men in undetected?”

  “The drug cartels provide armed escorts for the peddlers. But once those peddlers, not directly linked to the cartels, leave the caravan they become easy prey for desperados laying in wait. A peddler of precious metals is an even greater target. We’ll stage a fake robbery of our agents; let the word get around. Then, when they show up with two heavily armed bodyguards, no one will question it. In fact, they’ll expect it.”

  “Alright, so you can get in. But how are you going to get the women out?” Peter asked.

  Iliab frowned. “That is the hard part. We know the exact house where the women are being held, and the number of guards with them. Our peddler agent was able to obtain that information the last time he was in Seco Polvo. These terrorists love to boast of their conquests.”

  Iliab paused as though thinking of the perilous journey. “It will be difficult, but you must leave the rest to us. Understand this, if I didn’t think it was possible, I wouldn’t attempt it.”

  “Then you’ll be one of the bodyguards?” Peter asked.

  “Yes.” Iliab looked over at Joshua. “And my young companion here will be our back-up. He and a team of men will wait for us in the gorge.”

  Peter compressed his lips. “Is rescuing the women your first priority? Or killing Kamal?”

  “Can I not do both?”

  “I don’t care who you kill,” Mike said, “as long as you get the women out. My only question is when . . . when will this rescue take place?”

  “In eleven days the peddlers are due to return,” Iliab said.

  “Nearly two weeks. So long?” Mike said with a frown. “The terrorists will contact me in three days. What should I say?”

  “You must stall,” Iliab returned. “And you must be convincing. If the terrorists suspect anything, your women will be killed. Do you understand?”

  Mike nodded. “I understand.”

  • • •

  “Mr. Patterson?” asked an accented voice over the phone.

  “Yes.” Mike jerked his head telling Peter Meyers that contact had been made.

  “Are you prepared to deliver the one million dollars?”

  “No,” Mike replied, sounding calm. He had rehearsed his answer a thousand times until he could say it matter-of-factly. But he couldn’t keep his palms from sweating.

  “What?”

  “These women have few family members. And they are not wealthy. But then, you knew that, otherwise you wouldn’t have contacted me.” Mike paused to give the caller a chance to comment. When he didn’t, Mike added, “Therefore, I have assumed responsibility and am, even now, in the process of liquidating some of my assets.”

  “Do you think this is a game and you can make up the rules as you go!” snapped the accented voice. “Perhaps you need evidence of our serious intent. A finger or toe of one of the women delivered to you in a package should convince you that we dictate the terms!”

  Mike’s heart pounded at the prospect of Trisha being maimed. But if he panicked now the outcome could be disastrous. “Do you expect me to pay for damaged goods!” he shot back. “These women aren’t family! They are valuable to me as employees. But everyone is expendable. If you’re so eager for bloodletting, I can’t stop you.”

  “Then . . . you do not care what happens to them?”

  “Of course I care, in the business sense. I assumed you were a businessman as well; that we could come to equitable terms.”

  “You have a proposal?”

  “I do. In nine days I will have liquidated enough assets to pay your ransom. In addition, I am prepared to pay you twenty thousand dollars a day interest, beginning today, until everything is settled.”

  There was a long pause and Mike hoped it was because the man on the other end had understood the obvious financial benefit. The ransom price was one million dollars. Anything over that amount could be pocketed and who would know?

  “I will call you in nine days,” came the reply which sealed the agreement. Then the phone went dead.

  Peter had been listening to the conversation on another line. “You handled it well, Mike. You kept a cool head. Now, there’s nothing more we can do.”

  In eight days Iliab Nahshon and his men would be in Seco Polvo. In eight days Trisha would either be rescued or killed. “We can pray,” Mike returned, tapping the black pocket Bible on his desk.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and gotten religion?”

  “I’m trying to keep my balance here, Pete. If you have a better suggestion, then let’s hear it.”

  The DHS agent just sighed and shook his head.

  • • •

  After driving up and down the streets of the Cherokee community for twenty minutes, Mike finally stopped and asked directions to the home of Mrs. Paddy Callahan. He followed the prescribed route, then parked in front of a modest brick dwelling with green shutters and a green door.

  Large, clay flower pots, clustered here and there on the porch, formed little rainbows of color. A wooden rocker, with a calico blanket thrown over one arm and an open sewing basket on the seat, looked like it belonged on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens. A red brick path, lined with shrubs, led from the porch to the street. All this on a back-drop of lush green grass that carpeted the front like a short, shag rug.

  If nothing else, the house beckoned people to enter, with the promise that they would find a warm welcome inside.

  He had not known what to expect. Trisha rarely talked about her mother or her life outside Patterson Aviation. He suspected it was another way of keeping her distance, of not getting too close to a man she had yet to fully trust.

  The green door opened and out stepped a middle aged woman in jeans. When she waved and smiled, then walked down the porch steps, Mike got out of the car. He had sent Mrs. Callahan a telegram after Trisha’s abduction. Now that the Mossad had gotten involved and there was the possibility of a rescue, Mike thought he should give her this news in person.

  Before he could take a step, Mrs. Callahan was beside him. He noted she was an attractive woman, but not a beauty like Trisha.

  “Mrs. Callahan?”

  “Yes. How can I help you?”

  Mike was taken back by her wide smile and sparkling eyes. He was a stranger. He could be anyone yet she greeted him like a friend. “I am Michael Patterson, from Patterson Aviation.”

&n
bsp; Mrs. Callahan took his arm and led him towards the house. “You must have news about Trisha. It’s best we go inside.”

  “It’s good news,” he said quickly as they headed for the porch.

  Mrs. Callahan eyed him. “That’s kind of you to want to relieve my fears. And yes, I was taken back when I saw your car. A stranger’s car. That’s how it was when my Paddy died, you know. Someone came to the house to tell me.”

  Once inside she made him sit down at the butcher-block table while she slipped a K-Cup into her Keurig. As he listened to it gurgle and pump coffee into a glass mug, he looked around.

  The living space was one great room where kitchen, dining and living area all opened into each other. Everything was clean and tidy and color-coordinated in various shades of blue and green.

  Mrs. Callahan’s tastes appeared simple and practical, yet pleasing, too.

  “You have a nice place here,” he said, trying to make idle conversation.

  Mrs. Callahan placed the steaming cup of coffee in front of him then prepared a small plate of assorted cookies before sitting down.

  “Tell me about Trisha,” she said.

  Mike told her about Iliab Nahshon’s plan to rescue the two women.

  “It sounds dangerous,” she said when he finished.

  “I won’t lie. It is.” He had already determined not to sugar coat his message. If Mrs. Callahan was anything like Trisha, she’d see through it in a flash.

  “My daughter is in big trouble.”

  “Yes,” Mike said, again not blunting his answer.

  “But she serves a big God. Nothing is impossible.”

  Mike looked into the pleasant face, at the large, hopeful eyes, and watched as a bright smile appeared. He wished he had such faith.

  “I’ve seen her in my dreams, you know. She’s weary, but holding up. And she prays often. As do I. But you don’t believe.” Mrs. Callahan searched his eyes as she covered his hand with hers. “It’s a sad thing to face trouble alone.” Her tender gaze seemed to penetrate his soul.

  In truth, he had never felt so alone, so desperate. These past weeks he had struggled to hold onto some firm ground, something that did not ebb and flow with the tide. Instead, he had been tossed back and forth, like a bobbing cork. The tide could be cruel, bringing you just short of land, then dragging you out again. This time, even Buck’s friendship wasn’t enough to anchor him.

  “Michael, you are a man in authority. A man used to controlling events and people.”

  “Trisha wrote you about me?”

  “No. Your name tells me this. Michael Patterson, of Patterson Aviation. You are the owner? The president?” The executive nodded. “It’s often difficult for a person of position and power to surrender, to give his life to God. To say, ‘I’m tired and weary. Take what I have, what I am. I give it all to you, Lord.’ But if you want peace, the peace that only God can give, then you must surrender. It’s the only way.”

  “Trisha has talked to me about God, but quite honestly, Mrs. Callahan, I don’t believe. I want to. I’ve tried but I just can’t seem to take that leap of faith.”

  “It doesn’t take a leap of faith but the sincere cry of a longing soul. Search the scriptures with an open heart. When you do, you’ll come face to face with Jesus.”

  “Trisha gave me a Bible. I’ve tried reading it, but it doesn’t penetrate. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “When you’re ready to humble yourself before God, that’s when you’ll find Him. God stands, as a loving Father, with outstretched arms, waiting for us to leave our folly and turn to Him.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It is.”

  Mike pulled his hand away then took a sip of coffee as he studied the woman in front of him. He could see Trisha’s depth and warmth mirrored in her mother, and couldn’t help but like the woman.

  “Well,” he said, at last, putting down the cup, “I just wanted to come in person and let you know what’s going on. I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything new.”

  Mrs. Callahan nodded and smiled. They remained this way for several minutes, Mike fingering his coffee cup, Mrs. Callahan smiling and staring with a strange expression on her face.

  “What are you thinking, Mrs. Callahan?” Mike finally asked, leaning across the table.

  “I am thinking how fortunate you are to have Trisha’s love. And how fortunate she is to have yours.”

  • • •

  CHAPTER 15

  The battered Ford pick-up and the two heavily armed men on horseback who flanked it, kicked up a large mushroom of dust as they entered the village.

  “May Allah and the Great Prophet curse the scorching heat,” shouted the stout gold and silver peddler through the open window as he pulled in beside another parked truck in the caravan.

  One by one, assorted trucks, and even a few donkey carts, stopped and uncovered their wares. While his assistant rolled back a dust-covered tarp, the gold and silver peddler stood up and addressed the villagers.

  “Warm greetings and all manner of blessings on your head,” he shouted into the crowd. “All gratitude and thanks to the merciful Allah, God of the seven heavens, for once again guiding me safely into your blessed village. I, Izzat, merchant of precious metals am your humble servant and await your pleasure.”

  So saying, he climbed onto the truck bed, seated himself on a stool, and began picking over the items laid out by his assistant. Then, with incredible dexterity he worked a tiny piece of gold foil. With a gas flame and quick, expert movements, he twisted cobweb like filaments of gold into a miniature Islamic crescent that could be attached to a chain or weapon.

  The villagers had seen him do this dozens of times, yet they looked on in amazement. Meanwhile, the peddler’s assistant held up shiny, silver worry-beads for their inspection. Within minutes he sold one. The uncertain life of a terrorist was best dealt with on the beads.

  The two guards mingled among the crowd. Their presence had caused no alarm. Everyone had heard how Izzat had been robbed; how both he and his assistant had been left with good size lumps on their heads and an empty truck. And everyone agreed that the shrewd Izzat always got his money’s worth. Were there any fiercer looking guards in all Mexico with their Arab headdress, black baggy shirt and pants, and fully packed bandoleers of ammunition crossing each chest?

  And what of the splendid rifles slung over their shoulders? Or their large daggers, with highly polished rhino horn hilts, lashed into scabbards on their waist?

  As Iliab Nahshon and his companion moved through the square, admiring eyes followed them. They allowed the villagers to satisfy their curiosity, taking pains not to appear rushed, but stopping here and there inspecting the different wares on other trucks or donkey carts. Iliab even purchased a new harness for his horse from the leather merchant then made a point of showing it to one of the cartel’s armed guards.

  As the novelty of Iliab and Nathan’s presence wore off, the pair moved further away from the square.

  “I didn’t see him, did you?” Nathan said.

  Iliab compressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head, trying to hide his disappointment. As Peter Meyers guessed, Kamal was his primary target. Iliab was to help Nathan and Izzat and the other Mossad agent get the women to safety, then after retrieving his sniper rifle from a hidden compartment in Izzat’s truck, he was to return and take out The Blade. Now, it looked as if that would have to wait for another day.

  He and Nathan stopped at the village perimeter and studied the topography, committing its layout to memory. They whispered in low tones devising their strategy. Both agreed that exiting to the right of the square was the best route. That way, there were only three walls to scale though they’d have to pass through a small animal courtyard and a long alley which, from what Iliab could see, would take them to the base of the mountain and another clu
ster of houses.

  There were at least twenty in that cluster, most of them attached by twos and threes, and rising steadily like giant stairs, three tiers high. The last row was butted into the mountain rock itself, with one house rising slightly higher than the rest. This house was their target; a difficult objective. The danger of being spotted by the half dozen lookouts positioned on the overhead rocks was great, not to mention the cartel’s own armed men who prowled everywhere and had Russian open-bolt PKMs mounted in their jeeps.

  The pair returned to the crowded square where vendors shouted exaggerated claims and villagers scrambled for a bargain or an exhibition. Again, they appeared unhurried, and Iliab even stopped to allow one of the fighters to inspect his rifle.

  Finally, they were able to make their departure to the right, then into the animal courtyard and alley, and over the three stone walls, keeping close to the sides of the houses as they moved. From time to time they stopped, huddled against the mud brick, and listened for sounds of alarm.

  There were none.

  Slowly, they moved forward. Twice Iliab had to get his bearings because the alleys formed a labyrinth. But his eye always found a landmark that he had previously etched in his mind. Then the journey continued, now up the tiers of houses. One tier, two tiers. Iliab signaled Nathan to stop.

  Still no sound of alarm.

  So far they had not encountered anyone. It seemed all the villagers were in the square. Next, the third tier and finally the very door of the house. They pulled out their daggers, then entered.

  Large jars and tins, used for fetching well water, cluttered one side. Nathan’s foot barely missed knocking one over as he passed. They were in the kitchen now. There was no fire in the open hearth where the cooking was done, but the room was well stocked. Lined against a wall were clay jars full of coffee, salt, cornmeal. To the other side were clay bins of nuts and dried fruit. On the third was a closed door through which male voices could be heard. Izzat, the peddler, had told them only two men guarded the women.

  Iliab raised his dagger. He would only have one chance to get his man. Nathan’s dagger would have its own target. When Nathan conveyed his readiness with a nodded, Iliab put one hand on the knob, then twisted and pushed. The door flew open, and both daggers sailed through the air, hitting their marks with a sickening thud.