by Jones, Rick
With an eye on the gate, he saw the Lexus stop at the guard post, then exit. When Shari turned east onto Nebraska Avenue, Judas made a U-turn and followed at a fair distance, wondering if she had discovered anything. If she had, he would gladly kill her, too.
#
Within the twenty minutes it took Shari to return to the JEH Building, traffic had picked up noticeably. Twice she found herself nodding off, only to snap awake with her fingers white-knuckling the steering wheel. After that she rolled down the window and turned up the radio, the station DJs talking about the Soldiers of Islam. Who were they? Where were they? Why haven’t they made contact? All questions that Shari had asked herself repeatedly over the past twenty-four hours.
Trying to keep one eye on the road, Shari grabbed her cell phone and thumbed a number on the keypad. After three rings the line was connected.
It was the president’s Chief Advisor. “Al Thornton.”
“Hey, Al, it’s Shari.”
“I know what you’re going to ask,” he said. “And the answer is no. They haven’t made contact.”
“I know. I’ve been listening to the news.”
“Then you’re calling to make a proposal?”
“Absolutely. By not contacting us, they’re trying to show the world that they’re in total control of the situation and that the United States has been rendered impotent. We need to show them that we’re not as powerless as they think.”
“I agree. The staff has been kicking around a few solutions, but hasn’t settled on anything.”
“We need to broadcast their photos,” she told him. “We need to let them know that this country isn’t spinning in panic but motivated to bring down the Soldiers of Islam.”
“We’ve considered that approach,” he said. “But if we do, Aljazeera will spread the news like wildfire across the Arab world. And that, my dear, would make legends out of the Soldiers of Islam, most likely fueling tension rather than suppressing it.”
“Believe me, Al, they’re already legends over there. I think it’s the best, if not the only alternative.”
“I’ll forward your proposal to the president,” he said. “And for what it’s worth, I agree. I think we need to show these bastards that they’re no longer without a face. Once they realize that we know who they are, maybe they’ll reconsider their intent. After all, there won’t be a spot on this planet where they can hide.”
“Thanks, Al.”
“We’ll keep you posted, either through Pappandopolous or Hamilton.”
“Good luck.”
Turning into the garage of the JEH Building, she found a parking stall, grabbed her items, and made her way to the elevator doors. Judas pulled silently into a spot several stalls away. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her, Judas called Pappandopolous to inform him that Shari was back in the building.
After a few moments of discussion, Judas was relieved of duty for a much-needed sleep.
#
Shari was so tired that she labored in her steps to the Operations Room, which was now at full staff for the new day. The files that she carried seemed much heavier, the distance to the office much further.
Lying on a couch in the hallway with his sports jacket draped over him like a blanket was Billy Paxton, his slack-jawed features indicating that he was fast asleep.
After dropping the files onto her desk, she called her husband to touch base with him and ask about the girls. Everything was fine, he told her. The girls missed her. He missed her. The family pooch, if they had one, would miss her. The goldfish missed her. The world in general, according to Gary Molin, missed her deeply. And Shari, being so fatigued, snorted in laughter. It was a wonderful moment, without any of the tension that had been brewing in their relationship. After a few more moments on the line, she hung up, placing the phone gently onto its cradle.
Exhausted, she fell into the chair, looked at the stack of files scattered across her desktop, and released a sigh that was equal parts frustration and fatigue. Finding the pope’s whereabouts would be a long, hard process. And with so little time, there was no guarantee he would be found alive.
Staring at the CD, she picked up the plastic disc and examined it as if she had never seen it before, turning it over and over, watching the iridescent streaks of color move across the surface.
“Abraham Obadiah,” she said to no one in particular and then picked up the phone.
Fanning herself with the CD, she dialed the number for Information. The operator then directed her call to the Embassy of Israel.
“Embassy of Israel, how can I help you?”
“This is Special Agent Cohen of the F.B.I. I would like to speak to Abraham Obadiah, please.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Obadiah is out of town at the moment,” said the receptionist. “But he’s scheduled to return by—” The sound of tapping on a keyboard came over the line. “According to his schedule, he’ll be back sometime tomorrow.”
“Is it possible to get a message to him right away?” she asked. “It’s crucial that I speak with him as soon as possible. It’s regarding the kidnapping of Pope Pius.”
“Just a moment, please.” And then the piped sound of Muzak played for nearly a minute before the receptionist returned. “Agent Cohen?”
“Yes.”
“If you give me a number where you can be contacted, I’ll make sure that Mr. Obadiah gets the message as soon as he comes in.”
“Is there any way that you can contact him today?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Mr. Obadiah is a difficult man to get in touch with when he’s out of the country.”
“Out of the country?”
“Yes, for the past two weeks.”
Shari released a heavy sigh. “Well, could you give me the contact numbers so that I can try to get in touch—”
“With all due respect, Agent Cohen, Mr. Obadiah’s matters are of a delicate nature. Therefore, we do not, and cannot give further information. But I’ll pass your number onto him stating that you need to be contacted immediately.”
“Ma’am, I understand your position, but you have to understand mine. This is regarding the welfare of the pope, and Mr. Obadiah may hold information critical to the situation at hand.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But our policy strictly states that due to the delicate nature of Mr. Obadiah’s position—”
“—we do not and cannot give further information,” Shari finished. “Yeah, I know. Can you at least tell me what time he’s due back tomorrow?”
There was another round of tapping on the keyboard. “His itinerary states that he’ll be here tomorrow for an afternoon meeting.”
“Then can you pencil me in for a morning appointment?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Obadiah makes his own appointments since his schedule is so erratic.”
Shari clenched her jaw in frustration. “Just have Mr. Obadiah contact me as soon as possible.”
“I’ll certainly give him the message.”
“Thank you.” She gave the receptionist numbers to her cell phone and office line and hung up.
Shari fell back into her chair in resignation. Of course she could pass the CD onto the NSA, since they were the cryptographers of the American government, but decoding would most likely take days, even weeks. Her only other viable option, and one she detested, was to wait for Obadiah to call.
And with every moment wasted, the clock was counting down the moments of the pope’s life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Team Leader moved to the end of the governor’s mattress and nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Get up, Governor. It’s time to put your best face forward and make history.”
The governor lifted his head, his eyes narrowing to penetrate the semi-darkness but failing to adjust accordingly. A haze still gathered in his mind, the effects of the ketamine derivative finally dissipating. To him, Team Leader’s voice sounded like a distant cry from the end of a long tunnel, the timbre muted and hollow.
<
br /> “Get up, Governor.”
This time the voice was closer, stronger, the articulation clearer.
“Governor, it’s time.”
Governor Steele saw the phosphorous green light suspended in space above him. And then he remembered the green lights, moving like fireflies in his bedroom. He remembered the struggle and the bite of the needle. He remembered it all. “Where am I?”
“It’s time, Governor.”
Steele struggled for coherency, trying to get his bearings.
Team Leader moved closer. In a voice far more affable than menacing, he said, “Please, Governor, it’s time.”
Steele raised his head enough to see a gray morning light working its way through the ribbing of thin boards that covered the windows like the slats of vertical blinds. Dust motes were floating in slow eddies in the shafts of light. The combination of feeble light and floating dust cast a tomblike pall.
Team Leader switched off his monocular and flipped up the eyepiece assemblage. In the dim light, Steele couldn’t make out the color of the man’s eyes, only that he was wearing a ski mask with piping around the eye holes.
“Governor, we’re ready for you.”
“I demand to know—”
“Kodiak!” Team Leader called out.
“—who you are!”
From the adjoining room, a man entered the holding area and stood silhouetted against the backdrop of a boarded-up window. He was tall, foreboding and massive. There was no depth to his shape, no indication that he was anything but two-dimensional. There was something preternatural about him, something blacker than black. In the governor’s mind, this thing was Death.
Team Leader took a step backward and gave a wide berth to the behemoth beside him. “I do believe it’s time to move along,” he told Kodiak. “Please bring the governor into the next room and set him before the camera.”
There was no noise from the shadow man. Nothing told the governor that Kodiak was more than a shape until he felt the large man grab him with unnatural strength and unfasten his shackle. While the governor rubbed his wrist, Kodiak lifted him to his feet and escorted him to the next room, sometimes giving a healthy shove to goad him in a certain direction.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Steele.
“You really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
“You’re moving the mile, Governor.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re a dead man walking.”
The governor finally understood. He was going to be executed.
#
The Oval Office was rife with tension as Vice President Bohlmer vented about the complacency of the Secret Service members who were killed during the abduction of the pope. Their guns hadn’t been drawn, nor had a single shot been fired in defense, except those from Cross’s weapon. The agents were simply caught unaware, and the Secret Service had no answers. There was no trace evidence, no physical evidence, nothing. Three hundred sixty degrees of direction and no one knew where to begin.
President Burroughs sat behind his desk listening to Bohlmer voice his anger. They had become one of the few political tandem teams who had a truly symbiotic relationship. The vice president was not chosen because his constituency was strong enough to garner electoral votes, but because the two shared a mutual respect and an awareness of the country’s needs.
Now that Day One had turned into Day Two without so much as a word from the Soldiers of Islam, the heads of the political machine were considering their next course of action. The word in the media was that the FBI had one of the nation’s best working on the situation—Billy Paxton of the Hostage Rescue Team.
There was no mention of Shari Cohen.
“Jonas, take it easy before you have a stroke,” the president finally said.
The vice president raised his hands in submission, fought for calm, and took his rightful chair located on top of the Presidential Seal on the bright blue carpet.
Also in attendance were several of the president’s advisors, including Chief Advisor Alan Thornton, Attorney General Dean Hamilton, CIA Director Doug Craner, and FBI Director Larry Johnston.
“So what have we got so far from the intelligence community?” asked the president.
CIA Director Doug Craner didn’t look at the sheaf of papers in front of him, but held it there for reference. “Our intel abroad is picking up nothing from Aljazeera or any other Arabic news agency, other than praise for the Soldiers of Islam. The Arab chat rooms are loaded, but no significant leads have been gleaned from them thus far.”
“What about intercepted emails and messages from those on the FBI watch list?”
Johnston shook his head. “Same thing,” he said. “There’s really nothing out there of any significance. Just a few dangling carrots that have already been discredited.”
“But you’re following up?”
“Yes sir. Every lead, no matter how insignificant it may seem, is being investigated.”
“And what about you, Dean? You’ve been pretty quiet.”
Attorney General Dean Hamilton sat in a tack-studded leather chair with one leg crossed over the other. “Well, Mr. President, I’m afraid that these Soldiers of Islam, for whatever reason, wish to remain unseen and unheard. I’m afraid that I have nothing to add to what these gentlemen have already submitted to you.”
“Which means that we now have to take the initiative and ferret out these animals on our own?”
“I would say so, yes.”
President Burroughs turned to his advisors. “Options?”
Thornton leaned forward, his hands raised and ready to gesticulate as he spoke. “We know the terrorists’ identities,” he said. “So I think it’s time to play to the media and post their photos. Maybe somebody—a co-worker, a friend, anybody—will contact us with reliable leads.”
The president rubbed the base of his chin, one of his many contemplative habits. After a moment of awkward silence he made his decision.
“Obviously, we need to initiate some type of action to at least appease the international community.” He rose slowly from his chair and gazed out the window overlooking the Rose Garden and jogging track. “Dean?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Inform Paxton. Get him in front of the camera for a live update as soon as possible. And inform Ms. Cohen, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see how the snake reacts when it knows the mongoose is on its tail.”
As the room emptied, the president continued to stand at the window looking out at the Rose Garden. His favorite was Joseph’s Coat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Boston, Massachusetts
September 24, Noon
The camera room was just as dusty, tomblike, and unkempt as the holding area. The walls were gutted, broken plaster laying in pieces along the dust-laden floor. Pop and beer cans lay discarded with old condoms that were now nothing more than dried husks, and dust motes floated with hypnotic grace. Against the west wall a canvas tarp was nailed to a header beam, providing a neutral backdrop for the camera. A twelve-amp generator hummed, providing power for two lamps stationed on either side of the staging area.
As Team Leader entered the room with Kodiak prodding the governor along, Boa was making the final adjustments to the camera’s tripod.
“Are we ready, Mr. Boa?” asked Team Leader.
Boa nodded. “We are.”
Although Team Leader turned toward Kodiak, he didn’t have to issue an order; Kodiak knew exactly what to do. Moving to a marked spot ten feet in front of the camera, Kodiak shoved the governor to the stage and forced him to his knees. Removing a pair of handcuffs from his duty belt, Kodiak cuffed the governor from behind and stood back. The stage now belonged solely to Governor Steele.
Here, Team Leader did a peculiar thing—he moved onto the stage and patted the governor on the shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Whenever you�
��re ready, Mr. Boa.”
Boa turned on the camera and directed the lens to Team Leader, who stood with military erectness in his black tactical jumpsuit, boots and ski mask. After counting down on his fingers from three to two to one, Boa directed a finger at Team Leader, who began speaking in perfect Arabic. “No doubt the nation is wondering what happened to your Devil’s Advocate, Pope Pius the Thirteenth.”
The camera slowly zoomed in for a close-up of Team Leader and the governor, a predetermined shot. The governor’s blanched face held the sallow color of a fish’s underbelly. The pallor of his face made the new growth of his beard appear darker, more dramatic.
“My name is Abdul-Aliyy,” said Team Leader, “of the Soldiers of Islam. Your nation has degraded our culture, murdered our children, and continually supported the evil Zionist state of Israel. If you do not meet our demands, then your Devil’s Advocate will die. There will be no discussions, no debates, and no negotiations. All terms are to be met without delay. For every day the demands are not met by your lying government, we will kill a member of the Holy See for your government’s resistance.”
Team Leader reached down and unsnapped the strap of his holster. “Our intent is not simple murder,” he stated. “Our intent is to enlighten the governing forces of your country that our demand for Arab sovereignty must be met. You and your allies will remove all occupying forces from the Middle East, release all prisoners from any custodial institutions, and most importantly, you will aid in the removal of the Zionist state of Israel from Arab soil.”
Team Leader paused for dramatic effect, then continued with harsh resolve. “You are no longer safe within the borders of your country,” he said firmly, evenly, with a hint of derision. “Nor are you safe in your schools, your churches, or within the confines of your own homes. The subjects we hold are proof that we can get to you anytime, anywhere.”
