“You referred to Special Agent Booker as a ‘rogue agent’. I’m not sure it’s an accurate description. Although he was the Special Agent in Charge, he’s answerable to someone above him. He may be just the tip of the iceberg. I suspect there is something bigger, uglier, and more sinister beneath the surface. Tony says we have enough evidence against Doug and his team to get them all indicted on multiple charges of murder and conspiracy to commit murder. Doug didn’t seem even a little worried about it, and we don’t actually know who all was on that team.”
Hafsah picked up a menu.
“I doubt you will ever know. It would not be the first time your government found a way to cover up something ugly. If you cannot identify the agents who did the shooting, you cannot charge them with the crime.”
I shrugged, picking up my menu.
“Someone knows who they are. We know for sure who one of the shooters was, SAIC Doug Booker. Everybody knows who he is and that he was in charge of the whole operation. Doug has his tail in the wringer. He’s probably in D.C. answering some hard questions, as we speak.”
Hafsah looked at me over the top of her menu.
“…Tale in the ringer?” What does this mean?” She asked.
I couldn’t help it. The question had caught me off guard, and struck me as funny. I started laughing.
Hafsah put down the menu, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, Hafsah. It was a strange thing for me to say. I’m afraid the reference is rather obscure. Before people had electric or gas driers for their laundry, they would take the wet clothes out of the rinse water and run them through a wringer (I made a cranking motion with my hand) to squeeze out the excess water…”
Hafsah’s face brightened. “Of course, if you were an animal like a cat or dog, having your tail in a wringer would be very painful.”
“Yes, and you wouldn’t be able to get away from it.”
“Yes, I see that. Now, what were we talking about?” She batted her eyelashes at me, and I no longer cared what we’d been talking about.
“You need a break, John. I’m looking forward to the concert tomorrow night, even if it is not a real date.” She said, playfully.
“Hafsah, could you have someone on your team go pick up those fliers and posters? I’d like to spend the rest of the day with you. Would you call that a real date?”
Hafsah smiled. “Yes, John, a real date. I will enjoy that, very much.” She gestured, indicating the restaurant. “ This is, in point of fact, the start of our second date. You may recall, I’d to invite you to the picnic.”
I remembered the picnic, and the slap. I guess I wasn’t the first man to have a date end with a slap. Perhaps things would go better this time.
After lunch, we went to the Caldwell Zoo. We walked hand in hand along the trails from one exhibit to the next, basking in the warm fall afternoon. Sitting on a bench, we watched the otters glide effortlessly through the water. We fed the ducks, and wandered around without any agenda. At the exhibit of animals on the African savannah, we observed the jackals. I couldn’t help thinking of Nat Baha. We were hunting him, even as he was stalking his prey. This moment was stolen from the hunt. While we were wandering around enjoying each other’s company, Baha was drawing ever closer to his objective. The clock was ticking. Time was running out. If we didn’t find him within the next few hours or days, he would kill again.
We purchased snow cones from the concession stand. Hafsah told me she’d never seen or heard of snow cones. I found that hard to believe. I’ve had snow cones or shaved ice on three different continents, even in Southeast Asia.
I didn’t want the afternoon to end. I didn’t want to think about what had to be done, but those thoughts were never far away. The weight of our responsibility was burdensome. I remembered that I’d been instructed to cast all my burdens on Him. He alone knew the future. He alone could provide the guidance we so desperately needed. Inwardly I began to pray.
Still thanking God for sending Hafsah into my life, she caught me staring at her and blushed, grinning at me.
“A penny for your thoughts,” She said.
“I was thinking my life is better with you in it.”
“Oh my! That is worth much more than a single penny. I believe I owe you a kiss.”
I collected that kiss, right there in front of the elephants, giraffes and warthogs.
After all, warthogs aren’t easily offended.
As the shadows began to grow longer, I asked her if she would join me for dinner.
“Thank you, yes I will. I don’t want to spend the evening without you. I don’t want this day to end. What do you have in mind? I will have to change clothes if we’re going in search of haute cuisine.”
I thought that was a fantastic idea. We could spruce up a bit and go somewhere nice for a romantic dinner. The whole concept was so far removed from my recent experience; I could barely remember what it would be like.
Shepherds are as human as anyone on earth, but we don’t age the same way other people do. When we accept the call, we are changed. Not in any obvious way. No, it’s a very subtle and cruel change. This change from ordinary person to Shepherd simply slows the aging process.
For other humans, a life span of three score years and ten is about average. A man might live about seventy years, more or less, from birth to death, barring any mortal injury or illness.
A Shepherd only ages about one year for every ten years other people live; perhaps only one month for every year of other’s lives. We have more time to learn, more time to attain wisdom, and greater opportunity to fulfill our assignments to influence and preserve what is right and good. We maintain the course of human events as has been ordained by our King.
Our original genetic predisposition, the effects of the environment, diet, nutrition and lifestyle have much less impact on our bodies. When injured, our bodies heal both more quickly and more fully.
If we accept the calling, we sacrifice the normal life as experienced by more ordinary people. With the exception of disease, we can be killed in any and all of the ways other people are, but our natural life span can be more than ten times that of the people around us.
This is the wonder and the horror of the change. Because of our slowed aging, we have to watch everyone around us deteriorate and die. After going through the grieving process early in the Twentieth Century, I’d avoided becoming too close to a woman…until now.
People who meet me tend to think I’m in my thirties. I was called to become a Shepherd on the day of my twenty first birthday –– one hundred and fifty five years ago. I saw the birth of commercial flight, radio, television, computers, ubiquitous telephones-all of them, supermarkets, even fast food. Everyone I ever knew, prior to the time of my calling, has been dead for nearly a century.
It’s been a while since I courted a gal.
After we left the zoo I dropped Hafsah at her hotel to dress for dinner, then I drove to my apartment to do the same. As I opened the door my phone rang. I recognized the number.
“Hey, Jack. What’s up?”
“Can you meet in an hour?”
“No. I just walked into my apartment. I have another commitment. If you want to talk, come here.”
He was silent for a second. I was about to ask if he was still there, when he spoke up.
“OK. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He hung up.
31
Exactly ten minutes after Jack’s phone call, he was standing in my front room. He wasn’t there to admire my collection of old paintings and sculpture, or lounge about on the antique furniture. As usual, he got straight to the point.
“I think we may be onto something.” He said.
I had to smile.
“Well, if DHS isn’t onto something, we’re all in a world of hurt.”
“Right, ‘Chuckles.’ The point is, we may have a lead on where Muktallah is.”
“Where?”
“There’s a hunting camp out in the deep woods. W
e’ve tracked a couple of these subjects out of town by monitoring the GPS in a guy’s truck. We have satellite imagery of the camp. Can’t tell who is who, but there’s a shooting range, and our subjects go there to shoot. At first, we figured it was just something guys do. Rifle season is right around the corner. Then we thought, what if? It looks like a training camp. The thing is, we can’t follow anyone directly there without the risk of being made. If we spook these guys, it might delay their plans, but it won’t stop them.”
“You could just raid the camp. They may have computers, weapons and who knows what out there. If Muktallah’s there, you’ll get him. I’d think you’d want to hit that place for sure.”
“None of these dudes have committed a crime. Going out to a hunting camp, and doing some target practice just before deer season is perfectly legal. If we raid the camp and don’t turn up anything, we’ve blown our chance to catch these guys.”
“So, have a team sneak in there. Have a little look around. Maybe you’ll flush the big bird.”
“We need to send someone in there. I thought maybe you and your friend from overseas, might want to take a run at it. You could pretend you’re a couple who got lost while bird watching or something.”
I shook my head.
“Send in a game warden. It wouldn’t be at all weird for a game warden to show up at a hunting camp. Be the perfect cover to have a look around. They’re federal, so they can go anywhere at any time.”
“Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Typically, you professional spooks tend to think along espionage and counter terrorism lines. The straight up, in your face approach isn’t in the spymaster playbook.”
“See, that’s why we need you. You’re just a plain old country boy at heart.”
“You don’t need me, Jack. You’re just using me. There’s a difference.”
“My, aren’t we touchy? What’s the problem stud, not getting any?”
I didn’t mean to, but I hit him pretty hard.
Jack hadn’t been expecting it, so it was kind of a cheap shot. It shook him, but he didn’t go down. He spun toward me, ducked and launched a kick at my head. I blocked it with my left forearm and stepped back away from him before he could follow through with another attack.
“Stop it! I’m sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was uncalled for.”
He was in a combat stance, ready for the fight. He straightened up and rolled his head around, twisting his neck.
“Damn, John. You used to hit better than that.”
“I mean it, Jack. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. Let me get you some ice.”
There was already some swelling starting on his cheek just in front of his left ear.
He put his fingers to the side of his face.
“Yeah, some ice would be good.” He said.
I found a bag of frozen peas in the freezer and tossed it to him.
“Seriously, you used to hit harder. Did you pull that punch?” he asked, placing the bag of peas on the side of his face.
I nodded.
“Too little, too late, I don’t even know why I hit you.”
“Ahh, don’t worry about it. You’ve got more than enough reasons. I should learn better manners. I tend to speak without thinking. We cool?”
I shrugged.
“We’re cool. Again, I’m sorry, Jack.”
“You won’t mind if I take this with me?” He held up the bag of frozen peas.
I grinned at him.
“Consider it a donation to the cause. Let me know what you learn from the game warden.”
“Don’t worry, pal. I’ll keep you in the loop. You do the same for me.”
When he was gone, I thought about our meeting. Once again, he was playing me. I resented it. His improper comment had irritated me. It was no excuse, but there it was.
When he’d run his mouth, I’d lost control. I’dn’t done that since the last time he’d pushed me too far, about a decade ago.
I wasn’t sure what he was up to, but whatever it was, it stank of political manipulation. That was his problem. My problem was my attitude. I needed to confess my sin. Jack was the one who’d been hit, but I was the one who had to repent. I wondered which was the more painful.
I took Hafsah to dinner at a restaurant abut twelve miles south of Tyler. The South African owner called it Kiepersol. The story was something about some men on a safari who were treed by a Cape buffalo. “How long will we have to stay up in this tree?” One of them asked the native guide. “It is hard to say. All night, a couple of days, who knows? Even if he goes away, he may wait nearby. When we come down, he might charge and plow us into a bloody rut.” The guide said.
“Oh Lord, keep us all.” One of the men said. That’s the story. At least that’s sort of the way the story goes. No matter how the name came about, the atmosphere and cuisine was as good as could be hoped for, anywhere in Texas
So was my dinner date.
“Oh my, John, that is quite a stretch.” Hafsah said, after listening to the story.
Changing the subject, I asked, “Will you be dressed in traditional attire for the concert tomorrow night?”
“Yes, John. That was the original plan, and I still think it best to maintain the charade. Aaron Parviz expects to see me there. If we really are permitted to go behind the stage, I must keep up appearances.”
“Sure, but if something goes wrong, you won’t be ready for a fight.”
Hafsah rolled her eyes.
“John, if there is to be a fight, I promise you how I am dressed will not determine the outcome. I can fight naked if it comes down to it.”
I’m blessed with a rich imagination.
It was my turn to blush.
32
It was another typically hot East Texas afternoon. Baha and Suliman were in the cargo container organizing equipment to put into a rental truck they would use to transport the band’s gear to the concert. There was a storage building on the outskirts of Tyler, housing most of the bulky sound equipment and set decoration the Honky Tonk Broncs used on stage. This cargo container stored the weapons and more specialized equipment they used in training, and for the upcoming operation. They still planned to take weapons to the concert.
It was nearly stifling in the storage container. Nat Baha used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe sweat away from his face as he closed a guitar case. His thoughts drifted back to how he’d come to be in this horribly humid place.
He’d always had a penchant for violence. Like a common house cat, he was a natural born killer. Unlike a domestic tabby, he was born in the right time and place to develop his skills and feed his need. He knew he was special—different from most other people. While he didn’t understand the relationship between cutting down countless strangers and finding his muse, he felt it within himself. He drew upon a hidden well of pathos mixed with malice, pouring it out in the sound emanating from his guitars.
Having taken so many souls, enriched by the anguish he’d caused, he distilled it into notes plucked from guitar strings. Although he never spoke of it, he thought of his music as the sound of stolen lives.
When he was younger, he’d feared he might be insane. Surely his peculiar lusts and needs could not be normal, could they? Over time, his angel had shown him he was not insane, but set apart for a special purpose. He was extraordinarily gifted, both musically and in his chosen vocation as a killer.
He was a chosen servant of Allah.
Nat Baha was also given special dreams. Sometimes the angel appeared in his dreams and told him strange and wonderful things, dark things. At first, he would awaken from his dream with only wisps and wafts of memory, the images and events driven away by the light of day. With the passing years the dreams had become more vivid. Lately they had become more frequent. In his dreams he received direction. Because he believed he was doing a holy work, he also believed Allah had sent his messenger to guide him. He believed the angel was Gabriel. Was this not the same an
gel who had appeared to the Prophet? Had he not been directed to this place by the angel? Perhaps here, his dreams of fame and fortune might well align with the more ominous dreams the angel inspired. He’d begun to feel the presence of the angel, even in daylight. Sometimes he thought he saw Gabriel out of the corner of his eye, but could never be sure.
Thinking these things, Nat Baha was certain the concert would go as planned. Everything would go as planned.
Suliman spoke up, interrupting his thoughts.
“A woman came to see me at the shop. She said she was an interior designer. She showed me photographs of copper and bronze vessels she wanted to have converted into lamps. You know pitchers, vases and the like. Some of them were pretty cool looking.”
Baha scowled at him.
“Is there a point to this story?”
“It just struck me as odd. She wanted to see where the work would be done and what type of equipment I used.”
Again, wiping away sweat, Baha shrugged.
“The thing is, she reminded me of the description Aaron gave us of the woman he met at the convenience store. She’s beautiful with dark eyes and complexion, a brilliant smile…”
“Is that so uncommon?”
“It is in my machine shop. There’s something else, too. She had an accent. She wasn’t born American. I’d bet my life on it.”
Before Nat Baha could comment, they heard a call from somewhere outside. “Hello! Is anyone here?”
Nat Baha produced his Glock without thinking of it. Just before switching off the light, he motioned for Suliman to go out and intercept whoever was out there.
He eased farther back into the darkness as Suliman stepped out into the yard. Baha heard him address the intruder.
“Hello. What can I do for you?”
“Good afternoon. I’m Tom Vincent, the Game Warden. I just need to have a look around. Bow hunting season starts tomorrow. Y’all haven’t been hunting, have you?”
“Nope. We aren’t even bow hunters. We’re just getting the camp squared away for rifle season.”
“Is there someone else here with you?”
The Ticking Clock Page 12
