The Inca Prophecy

by Adrian D'hagé

  President McGovern sighed. ‘The Israelis?’

  Crawford nodded. ‘I know you feel strongly about the Israeli– Palestinian question, Mr President, but we need to tone down our rhetoric in the lead-up to the election.’

  ‘Goddamn it, Lauren! That’s exactly what the Israelis and the Likud party are banking on.’ The President got up from the couch and walked across to the bay windows behind his desk. He stared out across the White House lawns. ‘This conflict in the Middle East is into its eighth decade,’ he said finally, ‘and we’re no closer to a solution than when Truman sat in this office.’

  ‘And as long as you stay in this office, Mr President, you’ll have four more years to do something about that.’ Crawford reached into her briefing notes for the ‘swing state’ map, which was annotated with a dizzying array of statistics on each of the crucial battleground states.

  ‘In terms of the Jewish vote,’ Crawford said, spreading the annotated map out over the coffee table, ‘it’s the swing states that will count … Michigan, Florida, Wisconsin, Ohio, Pennsylvania and even California. As things stand, you can count on anywhere between 55 to 60 per cent of the Jewish vote. The Republicans are only guaranteed between 10 and 15 per cent. Which leaves roughly 30 per cent who might swing either way, and with these guys, the swing factor isn’t abortion or gay rights … it’s Israel.’

  ‘I’m not convinced,’ the President said irritably, ‘but I’ll think about it.’

  ‘If you come down hard on Israel, Mr President, you’ll be history,’ Crawford insisted bluntly. ‘Carter did it in 1980. He was a shoe-in to beat Ted Kennedy in the New York primaries, but when Carter’s ambassador McHenry voted for Resolution 465 against Israel’s settlements, Kennedy whipped Carter’s ass. That decision in the UN not only cost Carter the New York primary against Kennedy, but ultimately, the election.’ Crawford was not about to take a backward step. ‘Get tough on the Israelis, Mr President, but do it after the election.’

  ‘So what else is likely to come up in the security briefing tomorrow?’ the President groused.

  ‘The director of national intelligence will brief you on the latest on Iran,’ Buchanan replied, ‘although the CIA will take the lead. And as you requested, the Nuclear Weapons Council is sending an expert along too, a Professor Hunter Lapinski from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. His bio’s in your briefing folder, but he worked on the development of our earth-penetrating mini-nukes in the nineties so he’s well qualified. As you’re aware, Mr President, there’s no doubt the Iranians are getting closer to producing weapons-grade plutonium, and the CIA is attempting to monitor the second centrifuge plant.’

  ‘The one that O’Connor and Jafari discovered buried beneath a mountain,’ Crawford reminded them both.

  The President nodded. ‘Is Wiley going to be at this briefing?’

  ‘He’s obviously required at the Senate inquiry, but they’ve agreed to release him for a couple of hours,’ said Buchanan.

  ‘Hasn’t he got a deputy?’

  ‘Yes, Larry Davis – although to be honest, in the few dealings I’ve had with Davis, I’ve found him less than impressive,’ Crawford interjected. ‘I know you’d prefer to avoid Wiley, but you have to continue with him as normal,’ she insisted. ‘Both Wiley and Davis have a lot of support amongst the Republicans on the committee, Mr President, particularly from Senator Crosier, and if the press gets a whiff of any distancing on your part, all hell will break loose.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. Do we know where O’Connor and Weizman are now?’

  Crawford shook her head. ‘We still don’t know, but we’re getting closer. The Maya Codex provided only some of the answers regarding 2012, but we’ve learned there’s a more detailed warning in the form of a yet-to-be-uncovered Inca prophecy. My guess is that O’Connor and Weizman will be on the Inca case – Peru.’

  A presidential smile broke the tension. ‘You’ve been watching too many Indiana Jones movies, Lauren. Do you really believe all this stuff?’

  ‘I have an open mind, Mr President.’ It wasn’t the time or the place to be raising the ancient Inca, she thought, or the untapped power of crystal, but Crawford had been briefed on what was in the Maya Codex. She had an uneasy feeling there was a link between the warnings from the Maya and the fabled prophecy from their counterparts in the Andes.

  Chapter 27

  Howard Wiley headed towards the operations centre of Task Force Inca, the team charged with hunting down O’Connor and Weizman. Known throughout the intelligence community as ‘the Weasel’, the second most powerful man in the CIA had a square face, a long, thin nose and a high forehead. His reddish, spiky hair was brushed back without a part. He had thin red eyebrows, steely green eyes and a narrow mouth that rarely carried a smile.

  Barely five feet four in his socks, Wiley waited for the biometric security scanner outside the door of the Inca operations room to turn green. No two irises were the same, and Langley’s powerful systems analysed Wiley’s eye in an instant. The light glowed green and he stepped into the room where his deputy, Larry Davis, was waiting for him.

  Overweight and out of condition, Davis was only slightly taller than Wiley. He nervously wiped the sweat from his bald pate. He figured the Senate inquiry would have put his boss in a fouler mood than usual, and he was right.

  ‘Update me,’ Wiley demanded, positioning himself in front of the bank of computer and video screens that connected Task Force Inca with every CIA station in the field. ‘Any sign of Tutankhamun or Nefertiti?’ The codenames Wiley had assigned to O’Connor and Weizman had given the DDO a perverse satisfaction. Tutankhamun and Nefertiti had both died young, and their deaths had never been explained. Wiley had every intention that history would repeat itself.

  Davis shook his head. ‘We’re monitoring their cell phone networks, emails, and checking bank statements, but so far there’s no sign of them.’

  ‘What’ve we got on Peru?’ Wiley demanded.

  ‘We’ve got it covered, sir.’ The voice belonged to Megan Becker. In her mid-thirties, the CIA agent had curly red hair, pale, porcelain-like skin and smoky blue eyes; at five foot ten, she towered over both Wiley and Davis.

  Wiley glared at Becker. ‘And who the hell are you?’

  ‘Agent Megan Becker, sir,’ Becker replied evenly, holding eye contact with her angry boss. She’d been well briefed on the irascible DDO. ‘I spoke with the chief of station in Lima on the secure link yesterday. He’s deployed assets to the port at Callao, to the Jorge Chávez International Airport and to the major bus terminals. But if O’Con— Tutankhamun and Nefertiti were headed for Peru, they may already be there,’ she added.

  ‘And what do you base that assumption on, Becker?’ Wiley spat the question, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘I worked with Tutankhamun once, and he always minimises his exposure. He’ll be applying the same principle to us,’ Becker said pointedly. ‘There are seventy-three main airports in Peru, and another 161 airfields on top of that. If Tutankhamun and Nefertiti flew in, they’d expect us to be watching for them at Jorge Chávez. In my opinion, they’re highly unlikely to come in through the front door, even with false passports.’

  ‘We don’t deal in opinions here, Becker, we deal in facts. How do you know they’ve got false passports?’ Wiley demanded.

  ‘I don’t,’ Becker replied, hiding her contempt. ‘But I’ve read the files, and so far they’ve used at least two aliases – and they’re just the ones we know about.’

  ‘The instant we have a lead, I’m to be told,’ Wiley ordered, motioning Davis over to the small soundproof office that allowed Wiley to hold private meetings. ‘Who the fuck is Becker, and how did she get on this team without my approval?’ Wiley snarled, his face incandescent.

  ‘She was assigned by the director this morning … I assumed that since her appointment came from the top, you’d have known,’ Davis replied nervously.

  ‘Let’s get something straight, Davis. The director’s a fucking
political appointee. When it comes to operations in the field, he wouldn’t know if a number nine bus was up his ass until the people got off. I call the shots around here, and no one’s allowed in here without my say-so. I don’t care if it comes from the fucking President. Is that clear?’

  ‘Absolutely. Yes, sir.’

  ‘The last thing we need is another fucking woman on the team. I had enough trouble with Rodriguez.’

  ‘Do you want Becker reassigned, sir?’

  ‘That might be a bit fucking difficult at the moment, given the DCI’s stuck his nose in things.’ Wiley stopped, infuriated by Becker’s knock on the door. He marched to the door and flung it open. ‘When I’m in here, Becker, that means I don’t want to be disturbed, if that’s not too difficult for you to grasp!’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir, but you did say you wanted to be advised the instant we had something.’ Becker smiled sweetly at Wiley, infuriating him even further. ‘Echelon has picked up a text message from Rodriguez’s Blackberry.’ She handed Wiley a printout. It had come from the highly classified system that allowed the US to view data traffic anywhere in the world. Day and night, the big dishes at top-secret satellite stations at Fort Meade and Yakima in the US, and overseas stations in England, Germany and Australia, intercepted and inspected private emails, faxes, phone calls and any other electronic communication ordinary citizens made as part of their daily lives.

  Wiley absorbed the message:

  Hope you and C are going well … wherever you are! Hearing tomorrow and hoping for good result. Stay safe. E.

  ‘So what’s your take on that, Becker?’ Wiley demanded.

  ‘It’s not definitive, sir. All we know is that it was sent from Rodriguez’s Blackberry at 3.05 this afternoon. The receiving cell-phone number is not on our data bank, but the service provider is Claro Peru.’

  ‘Peru’s a fucking big country, Becker. Exact location?’

  Megan Becker kept her cool. Even before she accepted the assignment, she’d known that Wiley would be the biggest challenge. The White House would owe her big time if she survived him.

  ‘I was coming to that, sir.’ Becker’s response was slow and deliberate. ‘It appears that the cell phone is in the vicinity of the Convento de San Francisco, known in English as the Monastery of St Francis of Assisi. It’s in the old historic centre of Lima, in Lampa Avenue, not far from the Plaza de Armas.’

  ‘Vicinity? Are you telling me we don’t have an exact location?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m telling you what you already know …’ Or perhaps you don’t, you arrogant piece of work, Becker thought, as she faced down the DDO. ‘We only have a single text message to work with, and the receiving cell phone was either in or close to the church. The cell has not moved significantly, and we’re still working on a triangulation between antenna towers.’

  ‘And the service provider? Have you approached them?’ Wiley snapped.

  ‘I was waiting for your authority. This is Peru, sir. It’s not as if we control the network.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Becker. Get me the Lima chief of station on the secure link now.’

  Thirty seconds later, the square-jawed face of Rodriguez’s replacement in Lima, Cameron Reyes, appeared on the screen. It was not the ex-marine’s first assignment in the CIA but he still maintained his close-cropped Marine Corps haircut. Some habits died hard.

  ‘You’ve seen the Echelon printout?’ Wiley asked.

  ‘Just read it, sir.’

  ‘Assets?’

  ‘Four teams covering the airport, bus terminals and the port. I’m about to deploy another to the church. All are on thirty minutes’ notice to move.’

  ‘Bring them all down to immediate.’

  ‘All of them, sir? I thought …’

  Becker smiled inwardly. She’d already christened Reyes ‘Jar-head’, and when it came to dealing with Wiley, Jarhead had a lot to learn.

  ‘The next time you think, Reyes, will be when you fart. Immediate notice to move, and I don’t care how you do it, but locate that fucking cell phone. Tutankhamun and Nefertiti are a clear and present danger and I want their heads on a platter!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ve got a green light to eradicate. Go!’

  Wiley cut the transmission and the screen went blank.

  ‘Let me know the second you have anything more,’ Wiley barked at Becker before turning on his heel and disappearing towards his office and a meeting with the visiting Israeli intelligence chief.

  Wiley didn’t trust the head of Mossad, but that was not the fault of Avraham Lerner. Wiley didn’t trust anyone, and the relationship between the CIA and Mossad was not without its difficulties. Wiley was well aware that recent Israeli intelligence chiefs had sometimes had a different definition of ‘intelligence’ to that of the Americans. More than one American intelligence chief had believed that he was being briefed in secret, only to find substantial tracts of the Israeli so-called intelligence on Facebook and Twitter the following day. But Wiley doubted this meeting would ever become public. For the Israelis, there was too much at stake. If the operation they were to discuss was successful, it would equal that of the capture of Adolf Eichmann in Buenos Aires.

  ‘Avraham, welcome back to Washington,’ Wiley said, mustering as much enthusiasm as was necessary.

  ‘It’s always a pleasure,’ Lerner countered. A man of average height and unremarkable features, Lerner distrusted Wiley as much as Wiley did him, but both men understood the dance of diplomacy. ‘This is Tomer Rosenstein,’ Lerner intoned, introducing the head of the Mossad section that dealt with the few high-profile Nazi criminals who were still evading capture.

  ‘Your first time in Washington?’ Wiley asked Rosenstein. He offered the two Israelis the comfortable couches in his office. The panelled walls were decorated with oils of the Civil War, and myriad photographs of Wiley with various visiting dignitaries were displayed around the office. Those behind his desk showed Wiley shaking hands with George W. Bush, and Pope John Paul II, together with the then Archbishop Salvatore Felici.

  ‘No, but I don’t get to Washington often,’ Rosenstein replied. ‘Most of my contact is with the Simon Wiesenthal Center so I find myself either in Los Angeles or New York.’

  ‘Anything we can do to help?’ Wiley asked, coming straight to the point.

  ‘Perhaps, although it might be a long shot,’ said Lerner. ‘There are still a number of Nazis on the run.’

  ‘After all this time? I thought they’d all be dead by now.’ Wiley knew well there was one Nazi in particular who was reportedly very much alive, but he played his cards close.

  ‘Far from it,’ said Rosenstein. ‘The Wiesenthal Center has ten prominent Nazis still on their most wanted list – murderers like Soeren Kam. Dr Albert Heim is another. Heim was colloquially known as Dr Death and worked at Mauthausen concentration camp. We have good reason to believe he’s one of those who’re still alive,’ Rosenstein explained. ‘Heim was responsible for the murder of hundreds of Jewish inmates and once killed a young prisoner because he had perfect teeth. But there’s another,’ he continued, ‘who is even more important. The commandant of Mauthausen, Standartenführer Karl von Heißen.’

  Wiley remained inscrutable.

  ‘We believe that von Heißen escaped from Mauthausen disguised as a priest, and with the help of the Vatican, went to Guatemala, where the Church protected him. With a new identity as one Father Hernandez, von Heißen served for many years as the parish priest at San Pedro in Guatemala.’

  ‘He’s no longer there?’

  Lerner shook his head. ‘Just before your agent – ex-agent – O’Connor and Dr Weizman arrived in Guatemala on their quest for the Maya Codex, we discovered Hernandez’s true identity. Within hours, we had a team on the ground, but someone tipped off von Heißen and we missed him by a matter of minutes.’

  ‘Since then, we’ve received more information,’ said Rosenstein, picking up the thread. ‘We’re convinced von Heißen escape
d in a truck along with a large wooden crate of his possessions. He took the back roads to Puerto Quetzal, a major port to the south. From there, he boarded a freighter bound for Callao in Peru. The shipping company manifests confirm that the crate accompanied him.’

  ‘Do we know what was in the crate?’ Wiley asked.

  ‘Gold.’

  The few who knew Wiley well would have recognised the change in his demeanour. His green eyes hardened with an almost metallic glint. It was a sure sign his mind was racing.

  ‘As commandant of Mauthausen, Standartenführer von Heißen was responsible for the murder of over 100 000 Jewish prisoners,’ Rosenstein added. ‘Von Heißen ordered gold fillings to be extracted from the bodies and melted down into ingots. Over the years, he accumulated more than 100 kilograms of pure gold, which at today’s prices is worth many millions of dollars.’

  ‘There is one flaw in your hypothesis,’ Wiley challenged. ‘How would a high-profile Nazi criminal be able to secrete that much gold across countries teeming with Allied soldiers?’

  ‘It’s not difficult when the Vatican is behind you, Mr Wiley. I’m sure you’re aware of the mounting evidence supporting allegations the Vatican was up to its holy neck in laundering the Ustasha Treasury.’

  Wiley nodded.

  ‘There’s also very strong evidence to support allegations that a ten-truck convoy carrying Nazi gold entered St Peter’s Square in 1946 and was received at the Vatican Bank,’ Rosenstein continued, ‘but for decades the Vatican has refused all requests to open its wartime archives. And if you think the shady dealings of the Vatican Bank are a thing of the past, then you would be wrong,’ he said bluntly. ‘As recently as 2010, an Italian court froze twenty-three million euros the Vatican Bank was trying to move across international borders without identifying the source, destination or purpose of the money. That’s a lot of offertory coins.