‘In other words, a beam of photons, a laser beam directly above the skulls, would simulate the sun’s zenith?’
‘Exactly,’ the old shaman agreed.
‘And where do you plan on taking these artefacts, which are the property of the Peruvian people?’
O’Connor and Aleta turned to find Howard Wiley, accompanied by a squad of the CIA’s Special Operations Group wearing black balaclavas and camouflage uniforms. Huayta’s guides, left on the perimeter of the lost city, had been no match for the most secretive paramilitary group in the United States.
Wiley turned to the commander. ‘The artefacts are to be loaded on to my helicopter. As for you two,’ he said, turning to O’Connor and Aleta, ‘you’re under arrest. You’ll be flown to our embassy in Lima, where of course, you’ll be given every support,’ he sneered. ‘From there, you’ll be extradited to the United States where you’ll be put on trial for treason.’ Wiley’s thin mouth twisted in a smile. ‘And the penalty for treason is death.’
Chapter 54
Megan Becker looked on in disbelief as the news video from Lima streamed into the Inca ops room at Langley. Images of O’Connor and Weizman, handcuffed and under heavy guard, faded to the media conference in the grounds of the US embassy in Avenida La Encalada.
‘I’m happy to announce to the people of the United States,’ Wiley began, ‘that the fugitive rogue CIA agent Curtis O’Connor, along with his accomplice, Dr Aleta Weizman, has been captured while attempting to remove rare artefacts from an ancient Inca site in the Amazon Basin. They are now under arrest.’ Wiley, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, surveyed the group of hand-picked reporters and opened the doorstop to questions.
‘Exactly what are the charges against them?’ one asked.
‘The charges include treason, although the precise nature of the remaining charges won’t be known until we’ve completed our investigations,’ Wiley replied. ‘In the meantime, the Peruvian authorities are cooperating and we expect extradition to be a formality.’
‘Will they be called before the Senate inquiry?’ another asked.
‘The evidence against both O’Connor and Weizman is incontrovertible,’ Wiley shot back. ‘I think the Senate has better things to do than go over ground that will be examined by the courts.’
‘And what about the artefacts? Is it true that O’Connor and Weizman discovered the fabled Lost City of Paititi?’
Wiley’s face flushed. ‘I think you will find that O’Connor and Weizman had very little to do with that discovery. The local guides have known about this location for a very long time. The main thing is the artefacts will soon be returned to the Peruvian authorities,’ Wiley said, abruptly terminating the conference.
‘Well, looks like O’Connor and Weizman are finally going to get what’s coming to them,’ Davis observed, flicking off the video feed.
Becker ignored him and went back to her desk. Her iPhone buzzed and her pulse quickened as she opened the text from an unknown number:
Rodriguez regained consciousness – wants to see you. Most urgent.
An hour and a half later, Becker was shown into the outer room of Rodriguez’s heavily guarded intensive-care suite in the military hospital.
‘Dustin Coburn.’ The avuncular lawyer stuck out his large hand to shake Becker’s.
‘Megan Becker. She’s regained consciousness?’
‘Yesterday morning, and one of the first people she asked to see was you.’
‘Has she identified her assassin?’
‘Yes, and it’s been proven, but I’ll let her tell you personally,’ Coburn said.
‘A few minutes only, ma’am, she’s still very weak,’ one of the intensive-care staff warned.
As Becker entered the room, Rodriguez smiled wanly. The agent’s painfully thin body was hooked up to a drip and festooned with tubes, but the ECG monitor was showing a strong, steady pulse.
‘Ellen … I’m so glad you’re going to be okay.’ Becker reached for Rodriguez’s hand.
‘Which is more than I can say for the bastard who knifed me … Wiley.’
‘Wiley tried to kill you?’ Becker gasped, her head spinning, dropping Rodriguez’s hand suddenly. ‘Ellen … forgive me, but are you sure?’
‘Wiley,’ Rodriguez rasped, her voice a whisper.
Dustin Coburn had come into the room silently after Becker, and he now spoke. ‘At the time of the stabbing, the FBI took samples of the skin underneath Ellen’s fingernails, but until now, they’ve not been able to match the DNA.’
‘And they’ve matched it with Wiley?’ Becker asked, still struggling to come to grips with a deputy director of operations who would personally attempt to assassinate a witness.
‘As soon as Ellen regained consciousness, she told us about Wiley. The FBI went over to his apartment, and the lab results are just in. The DNA matches.’
‘My God. I’ve got to get over to the White House.’ Becker leaned over and kissed Rodriguez gently on the forehead. ‘You’re so brave. I’m in awe. Know that I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘The chief of staff can’t be disturbed, Megan. He’s with the President.’ There were few people who would challenge Donna Ferguson, the keeper of President McGovern’s gate, but Becker was not about to be stymied.
‘You need to disturb both of them. Trust me, Donna. The President will want to hear this.’
Donna Ferguson shook her head. ‘The Israeli Prime Minister is due tomorrow, and the President is preparing for the meeting. Whatever it is will have to wait.’
‘I’ve just come from Bethesda, Donna. Rodriguez is conscious,’ Becker said. ‘I think the President needs to know who attempted to murder Rodriguez before CNN blurts it to the world, don’t you?’
‘This better be important, Becker,’ Chuck Buchanan snarled. He’d come out of his meeting with McGovern at Becker’s insistence.
‘Don’t take me for an idiot, Chuck!’ Becker responded. ‘Just listen.’
As she spoke, Buchanan’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. ‘Jesus Christ! Are they sure of it?’ Buchanan queried after she’d finished.
‘Would I be here if they weren’t? Dustin Coburn isn’t your average wet-behind-the-ears attorney, Chuck, and this isn’t going to stay quiet for long. More importantly, Wiley’s proven that he’s capable of murdering those who might be able to incriminate him – and I can think of two people, currently in Wiley’s custody, who fit right into that category. If you think there’s any guarantee O’Connor and Weizman will make it out of Lima alive, you’re kidding yourself. Their extradition needs to be personally overseen and fast-tracked now.’
Buchanan shook his head. ‘You’re boxing at shadows, Becker. The justice system can handle this. The White House isn’t going to get involved.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Chuck. Get real! How desperate do you think Wiley’s going to be when the Rodriguez news gets to him? The President needs to know now, and either he or you needs to get on the phone to the ambassador to Peru and have this monster arrested. Otherwise it’s on your head!’
‘I’ll ignore that last remark, Becker. I don’t take kindly to threats, from anyone, let alone you.’
‘And I don’t take kindly to being assigned to work with psychopaths, Buchanan. You and the President sold me a hospital pass at the outset. I’m resigning, and if you’re not going to take any action, I’ll tell the President via the media.’ Becker turned on her heel.
‘Wait!’ Buchanan said, suddenly unsure. ‘I’ll see if the President’s free.’
‘No, you won’t. You’ll show me in, or I’m out of here.’
Chapter 55
Ambassador Edwin Sanchez took the call in his office. The CIA had taken over most of the embassy since their arrival, but Sanchez’s office was still his sanctuary. Ever the diplomat, he’d quietly accepted the CIA’s ‘invasion’, but with grave misgivings. In his experience, the CIA was made up of essentially decent, honourable men and women, but there was a cowboy element, an
d he was convinced that the current black operation being run from his embassy fitted that description.
‘Edwin … William McGovern here.’
‘Mr President. How can I help?’
‘It’s a long story, but I’ll give you the abridged version.’
Sanchez listened with growing incredulity. In his nearly forty years in the State Department, he’d never had a situation as explosive as that which the President was outlining now. Partway through the conversation, he buzzed his secretary and handed her a note. A short while later, the leader of the CIA’s Special Operations Group, Hank Perez, a veteran of operations in Afghanistan and Iraq, strode into the ambassador’s office.
‘You wanted to see —’
Sanchez held up his hand for silence and continued talking into the receiver. ‘I understand. He’s with me as we speak.’ The ambassador held the phone to one side and spoke to Perez. ‘You are now under my command, and Mr Wiley is to be arrested and detained until further notice.’
‘The hell I am. This is a black mission, and if you’re not cleared —’
Sanchez smiled and put the receiver back in front of his mouth. ‘Mr Perez seems reluctant to take orders from me, but perhaps he’ll listen to you.’ The ambassador handed the phone to the ex-Delta team operative.
‘Who the hell is this?’ Perez demanded.
Sanchez watched the colour drain from Perez’s face.
Chapter 56
The media was not aware that Rodriguez had regained consciousness, nor were they aware of the arrival of the CIA aircraft from Lima at Andrews Air Force Base. Two black Secret Service four-wheel drives dropped the passengers at the West Wing, where O’Connor, Aleta and Carlos Huayta were escorted to the situation room.
‘Welcome back,’ Becker said, extending her hand to O’Connor, a warm grin on her face. As she was introduced, Aleta found herself wondering what past relationship there might have been between O’Connor and the attractive, feisty environmental scientist but her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the White House chief of staff.
‘I’ve allowed ten minutes for this,’ Buchanan said. ‘The President and the Prime Minister of Israel have a very tight schedule.’
O’Connor glanced at the technicians, who were conferring with Huayta. Under the shaman’s guidance, they were positioning the crystal skulls and the ancient Sun Disc on a heavy stand at the far end of the room. A laser source had been bolted to the roof, directly above. O’Connor winked at Aleta and turned to the chief of staff.
‘Once the photons of light energise those skulls, I think you’re going to have to revise that schedule of yours, Buchanan.’
President McGovern and the Prime Minister of Israel took their seats at the end of the long, polished table. O’Connor deferred to Carlos Huayta, but the old shaman kept his remarks to the bare essentials. The holograms would, Huayta knew, have far more impact than any words. The shaman nodded to the technicians.
A narrow beam of green light struck the large diamond in the middle of the disc at precisely the same point the sun had when it reached its zenith in the jungle. The light split into three beams, striking each crystal skull. A deep humming emanated from each skull and the President watched intently. Blue slivers of light from within the skulls joined together, forming a crackling ring of electricity around the disc and a shimmering hologram rose over its centre. The Israeli Prime Minister recoiled in shock as he recognised Israel’s Ramon Air Force Base in the Negev Desert. Israeli Air Force Colonel Erez Rosenberg was briefing his F-15 and F-16 pilots for the first of many attacks on Iran.
‘The route will take us south, to the Gulf of Aqaba,’ Rosenberg explained. ‘Once we reach the border with Jordan and Saudi Arabia, we will turn east and follow the border, just inside Jordanian airspace, but remember,’ the veteran of the 2007 attack on the Syrian al-Kibar reactor emphasised, ‘we maintain 150 feet above the ground and we use Saudi call signs. All radio transmissions are to be in Arabic. The Jordanians have to be convinced we’re Saudi aircraft slightly off course. When we cross into Saudi airspace, we switch to Jordanian call signs. External fuel tanks are to be dumped here.’ Rosenberg pointed to an area in the northern Saudi desert. ‘The Americans are being briefed, and the Iraqi airspace will be open, allowing us a direct route to the Iranian border.’ Rosenberg turned back to the map. ‘The key targets are the uranium enrichment facility at Natanz, and the heavy-water reactor at Arak, in this region here, 240 kilometres south of Tehran.’
The hologram changed from the briefing room to the deserts of central Iran. Israeli jets screamed towards the heavy-water reactor, metres above the sand. Suddenly, afterburner alight, the lead F-16 climbed rapidly, rolled and dived. At just 3500 feet, the pilot released a 2000-pound bomb. The dome of the reactor exploded in a massive ball of flame and smoke, releasing deadly radioactive particles that rose into the air, drifting north towards Tehran. More bombs hit the laboratories and the heavy-water plant.
The explosions faded, and the stone parapets of the Damascus Gate in the Old City of Jerusalem came into view. A large crowd of angry Palestinians were milling around the gate. A heavy Israeli security force, armed with rubber bullets, tear gas and foul-smelling water cannons, was preventing the Arabs from gaining access to the al-Aqsa Mosque and Friday prayers.
Suicide bomber Ahmed Shahadi was wearing a nondescript backpack. He grasped the nuclear detonator in his pocket and worked his way towards the police barricade. The Palestinians were being stopped, but the Jews were allowed through on their way to prayers at the Western Wall. A wizened Arab in a black and white keffiyeh was shouting abuse at the guards. Shahadi knew he was already more than close enough to destroy the remains of the second temple and the Dome of the Rock. He approached the barricade and a young Israeli soldier armed with a Tavor assault rifle stepped forward.
‘Allahu Akbar. This is for little Rashida!’ Ahmed yelled and he pressed the trigger, closing the detonator circuit. In a blinding white flash, the nuclear bomb reached a temperature of 50 million degrees, five times hotter than the surface of the sun. The Damascus Gate and the ancient walls of Jerusalem, which had withstood centuries of warfare and bombardment, were vaporised instantly. A massive plume of radioactive debris rose thousands of metres into the air, the cloud ballooning into an ever-expanding mushroom of death. The white heat was followed by a widening shockwave. The winds reached 600 kilometres an hour, and the rolling, thunderous blast destroyed everything in its path. The Old City of Jerusalem was wiped from history: the Western Wall, the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque obliterated, the souks and alleys around them destroyed. Further out, the bodies of thousands of Jews, Christians and Muslims, Israelis and Palestinians, tourists and locals, lay where they’d been at the moment of the firestorm, the textures of their clothing seared on to their charred skin. Thousands more, still alive but horribly burned, screamed in agony. Unseen neutrons, alpha and gamma rays and electrons pulsed in all directions at nearly the speed of light. Many thousands of people would not survive the deadly radiation, and hundreds of thousands more would succumb to slow, agonising deaths from cancer.
The hologram faded and was replaced by another. A light plane had entered restricted airspace over New York and air traffic control was frantically trying to reach the pilot.
‘Beechcraft November one eight zero nine Victor, you are in restricted airspace. I repeat, you are in restricted airspace. Turn right heading 270. I repeat, turn right, heading 270, maintain 2000 feet.’ The desperate calls from air traffic control went unheeded and above the Beechcraft at flight level 150, a combat air patrol of two F-15 Eagles from the Massachusetts Air National Guard 102nd Fighter Wing rolled into an intercept dive.
The lead F-15 Eagle pilot held the target on his heads-up display, but before the AIM-9 Sidewinder missile could find its mark, New York City was hit by a cataclysmic nuclear explosion. The plutonium bomb vaporised the memorial at Ground Zero, and amongst the blazing ruins of Manhattan, the bodies of tens of thou
sands of office workers were burned beyond recognition.
Across the Atlantic, another blinding flash appeared between Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, boiling the River Thames. The hologram changed to reveal the smoking, twisted, mangled steel of what had once been the Sydney Harbour Bridge. A pall of radioactive smoke drifted over the crater where the Opera House had stood.
A shocked President Ahmadinejad appeared on Al Jazeera, condemning the Israeli bombings, and denying any knowledge of the seemingly coordinated nuclear bombing of Western cities. For once, he was telling the truth. General Shakiba and the Yawm al-Qiyamah Jihad had seized control, condemning Western civilisation to destruction. President Ahmadinejad pleaded for a ceasefire, but it was too late.
As its solid-fuel rocket motor belched smoke and flames, a gleaming white and blue missile lifted from its silo at the Israeli missile base at Palmachim, just to the south of Tel Aviv. The 15-metre-long, 30-tonne missile gathered speed and thundered into the clear Mediterranean sky, leaving a long trail of white smoke. Another missile followed the first, and then another and another, the onboard computers programmed to strike Tehran, Qom, Esfahan, Shiraz and a dozen other Iranian cities.
The hologram switched to an image of General Shakiba, who was in his command bunker in a remote mountain range in the north of Iran. Shakiba watched the satellite photographs streaming into his command bunker with a growing fury. Tehran was a smoking ruin, the Majlis and the Ayatollah Khomeini Mosque reduced to smoking radioactive craters. Tens of thousands of bodies lay buried amongst the twisted, shattered rubble that was once a city. Hundreds of thousands more lay dying from shocking burns, with no one to treat them.
‘The West is trying to destroy Islam! Activate Operation Badr!’ Shakiba ordered, his dark eyes blazing with fury. Badr had been one of Muhammad’s most significant battles against the pagan forces of Mecca, signalling to the world that a Muslim power had risen in Arabia.
The Inca Prophecy Page 31
