The Golgotha Pursuit

by Rick Jones

“I told you all there is to know,” he answered. Then Farid’s face went neutral. “I don’t want to talk about my father anymore.”

  Kimball leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on Farid’s forearm. It was a calming gesture. “How about your father’s friends, hmm? He does have friends, yes?”

  Farid nodded. Yes.

  “Can you tell me the name of his friends?”

  Farid shifted uncomfortably in his seat, which Kimball picked up on.

  “We’re almost done, Farid. I promise. Can you give me the names of your father’s friends? Perhaps a close friend.” What Farid didn’t understand was that Kimball was searching for the name of a close courier, one that knew Mabus well.

  Farid nodded. “He’s good friends with Abbad.”

  “Abbad?” Kimball knew this to be a first name. “Does Abbad have a last name?”

  Farid nodded. “Chahine.”

  “Abbad Chahine,” Kimball muttered. Then he committed the name to memory. Now he would take this information to the SIV and start from there. Kimball then grabbed the back of Farid’s head and pulled him close until their foreheads were touching. “Thank you, Farid,” Kimball said softly. It had taken all these months for Farid to finally speak to him about his father and those within his father’s circle. And Farid had just given him gold.

  The boy smiled. And then they pulled away from each other.

  “Can I play now?” Farid asked him.

  Kimball smiled. There were other boys his age there, orphans who were being groomed to become Vatican Knights. Though they were much older and more adult, they readily accepted Farid to be among them, even though Farid would never become a Vatican Knight.

  Kimball patted the crown of Farid’s head. “Off you go,” he said. “And have fun.”

  Farid rocketed from the chair and ran out of the chamber.

  And Kimball smiled after him, crying out with his inner voice to Farid and telling him to be a child.

  Play while you still have the magic, he thought.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deep Inside the Syrian Desert

  In a small stone hut approximately 60 kilometers south of Raqqa, Mabus was poring over charts and notes from couriers as to what was going on inside the European Front, which included cities like Paris, London, Barcelona, Rome, Nice and many other major municipalities. Plans were just that: plans. After a resounding triumph against the Vatican, Mabus believed that the glory of the victory was by the hand and will of Allah. And now that the bounty of other cities was for his taking (as long as Allah directed him), Islam would spread across the land. All it took was patience. And that’s what Arabs were: a patient people.

  But Mabus was missing a key element: his son. His desire was to see Farid command by his side, and to one day lift the Qur’an high above his head to show the masses the new scepter of rule. But the boy was too much like his mother, soft and weak of fortitude.

  He remembered the day of his son’s baptism, the day in which he was supposed to run a blade across an infidel’s throat until the boy’s head fell free from his body. But Farid dropped the knife and sobbed, refusing his rite of baptism. So Mabus took the knife and finished the task, forcing his son to look on. And it was this defining moment that clearly divided father from son.

  In anger he stabbed Farid’s mother when she came to her son’s aid against a raging father. Mabus couldn’t stop himself, plunging the knife into the soft tissue of her belly until he could plunge the knife no more. He berated her, ridiculed her, calling her vile names for birthing him a coward who embarrassed him in front of those under his command. Oh, what they must be saying behind my back, he screamed at her, about my cowardly son.

  And as she laid there bleeding out, as her mouth moved in mute protest as the focus began to fade from her eyes, only then did Mabus realize the nature of his action. Regret soon followed. Then it quickly washed away because his love for Allah was much stronger.

  Surely I would be forgiven for this indiscretion, he told himself.

  Even Allah had to see and understand why I did what I did.

  Surely He has to.

  When he dropped the knife and stood over his wife while trying to justify his actions, he looked at his son whose face was flushed from sobbing. The boy was sitting against the wall in such a way that it appeared to Mabus that Farid was trying to press himself through to escape.

  It’s all right, Mabus remembered telling him. Allah understands.

  But Farid didn’t. His mother had been murdered in uncontrollable rage due to his father’s ideology, one he did not want to share. In Farid’s eyes his father had killed the boy’s god: his mother. So that night, when everyone was asleep, Farid ran into the arms of a priest who was on the run along with two nuns, and children who were orphaned by the skirmishes. To this day this memory continued to boil his blood and feed his rage. Nevertheless, Farid was still his boy.

  “My son,” he said to his right-hand man, Abbad Chahine. “Any word?”

  Chahine nodded. “We’re still looking,” he answered.

  Several months ago they tracked a small caravan of soldiers across the desert. No one knew who they were or where they came from. Some suspected the French, who were coming off the sudden attacks in Paris. Others said the Brits and the Americans, all guesses. But there was some indication that the Vatican might have been involved because of a report by Sayed, one of his lieutenants who had been found dead by mysterious means, who claimed that it was this man known as the ‘priest who was not a priest.’ But that man was killed–Sayed had seen this happen. And the boy, Farid, had been taken by those in unmarked Strykers believed to have come from Iraq, and later presumed to be American and British forces working on behalf of the Vatican. If this was the case, then Farid was most likely being mined for information, which didn’t sit well with Mabus. In the end his son had become a grave disappointment to him–much more so than when he was just a gutless little boy who had yet to find Allah in his heart.

  Mabus resigned himself to sigh deeply. Then to Chahine and somewhat drily, he said, “Keep looking.”

  “Trust me, Mabus, we have eyes everywhere.”

  Mabus feigned a dismal smile, a marginal uplifting at the corners of his mouth. Then in a manner and tone that sounded completely dispirited, he said, “Apparently not since he has yet to be found. But we will find him, Chahine. I truly believe Allah will see him by my side before too long.”

  Chahine bowed his head. Yes, Mabus. Then: “There is another matter. One of great news.”

  Mabus nodded. “The Holy Relic.”

  “Atwa and his team were successful,” said Chahine. “They were able to breach the Vault of the Holy Sepulchre and attain the relic with little difficulty. Now Atwa is requesting a meeting with you in order to place the True Cross into your hands.”

  The theft had been reported through international news venues such as CNN and Al-Jazeera who reported five dead, two guards and three clerics. But by whom remained a mystery. What wasn’t a mystery, however, was the obvious understanding of the church’s layout by the assassins, who had struck with speed and efficiency. They knew what they wanted. They knew where it was. And they responded with military sophistication. Now the True Cross was gone and several holy principals were already making pleas to the thieves for its safe return.

  But its destination was already settled: It was to wind up in the hands of Mabus, whose motives were strictly ulterior.

  “How far is he from Raqqa?” asked Mabus.

  “He’s there as we speak. He arrived early in the morning, before Fajr.” Fajr is the prayer before sunrise.

  Mabus waved a hand to him in an all-right-then gesture. “See him safely from Raqqa to here,” he told him. “Only him. None of his drivers. We’ll set up the meeting for two this afternoon.”

  Chahine bowed. “Yes, Mabus.” Then he ducked out the doorway, l
eaving Mabus to his thoughts.

  Mabus sat there staring at a fixed point on the opposite wall, a small opening that served as a habitat for a roach half the length of his forefinger, the creature darting in and out with its antennas gauging its surroundings. After a moment of watching, Mabus stood and walked to a brick-lined window with no glass, only wood shutters that had seen better days, and stared out at the landscape that was nothing but a sea of rippling desert sand.

  Then he raised his hands and stared at his palms. Within a few hours, he thought, it would be these hands that would hold the relic of the True Cross. But it would not be his to keep, only to hold. Because the True Cross had been promised to someone else. It was to be given to a man who had everything a man could possibly own, with the exception of black market relics. And in return Mabus was promised state-of-the-art weaponry that would alter the movement of jihad by enhancing the Islamic State’s proficiency of ground warfare that would be matched by no one.

  Mabus could almost feel the weapon in his hand more so than the True Cross, because it was the weapon he coveted more than the relic. In his mind, the state-of-the-art weapon was the real treasure.

  Mabus then closed his eyes … and dreamed of jihad.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Raqqa, Syria

  The drive to Raqqa was long for Atwa and his team of specialized jihadists. But caution was paramount. They had arrived at the city just before sunrise and took residence at a safe house. Though Raqqa was considered an ISIS stronghold, it definitely had its support system as well.

  The house of refuge was quite spartan with few conveniences, such as having feeble-looking chairs, a rickety table that had been lashed together by cords, and a badly soiled mattress that was lying on the floor. Just as Atwa and his team arrived an hour before Fajr, the room had already been cleared of the family of six who, when asked by an ISIS faction to leave prior to Atwa’s coming, asked no questions. They simply left as the points of assault weapons directed them to the streets at such an early hour. By the time Atwa’s team finally arrived, the residence had emptied and only those who were conduits to Mabus knew they were there.

  As Atwa’s teammates took to the decrepit chairs and made jest of them, Atwa carried the relic to the mattress and carefully laid it down. Slowly, and with the utmost sense of reverence, he peeled back the black fabric that covered the True Cross. The relic was designed as perhaps one of the most recognized symbols in the world: that of a Christian Cross. The borders were made of polished brass. And wedged inside the frame were the believed remnants of wood that came directly from the cross of Jesus the day he died. It was one of many such crosses. But this cross was left behind by Saint Helena, which meant that this particular wood never left Golgotha and was therefore the genuine artifact that had been unearthed in 326 A.D.

  Atwa traced the tips of his fingers over the cross, over the remnants, trying to get a sense of something magical like a simple tingle at the ends of his fingertips, like a light charge of static. Or perhaps to see an ethereal glow like a halo of gold to expand from the framework.

  He got neither.

  But this didn’t detract him from believing that Jesus was one of God’s greatest messengers to mankind. Many passages from the Qur’an supported and confirmed a virgin birth by Maryam, or Mary, along with similar passages that were in the Bible.

  “What did you expect?” Mushno called from across the room. “That to touch it would miraculously clear you of your boils, if you had any?”

  This line brought laughter from Ayid, who sat across from him with both men laughing in play. But Atwa didn’t find humor in this at all. Nor did he respond. He simply continued to run his fingertips gently over wood that was presumably the remnants of the True Cross. And he continued this act of showing homage until the time for Fajr.

  After the men prayed in earnest and Fajr had ended, Atwa sat in one of the chairs with his arms folded across his chest and appraised the cross. It wasn’t the most beautiful presentation in the world, he thought. But then again it was. There was something about it, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe that was its magic: to feel something indescribable.

  As Mushno and Ayid conversed with each other and their voices nothing but drones to the ears of Atwa, Atwa’s mind was accelerating with myriad thoughts while trying to figure out why Mabus wanted such a treasure. To have such a priceless relic would be blasphemous in the eyes of Allah. And to kill for it even more so, especially when the victims were Muslim. So why was it so vital to have this relic? Why breach the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and kill for it?

  Atwa would soon get his answers.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mabus had his rightful place in planning the schemes of all things wicked. He had planned the attacks in Paris, and against the Vatican. Now he was planning an attack against Washington, D.C. But a cell directed by a wunderkind recruit in the United States who went by the name of Mohammad Allawi, a person whose I.Q. was somewhere in the stratosphere, and was an equally devout hater of the Great Satan, had been taken down.

  As Mabus poured over the substantiated reports, he knew that Allawi was still active. The man was a genius in his own right, a converter who saw Allah as the Light and the way. But he was still an American, which brought the level of trust down to knee-level. Nevertheless, Mohammad Allawi remained an inside asset.

  Though Allawi’s team had been taken down by a special agent of the FBI who was as much of a wunderkind as Allawi, Mabus immediately ordered a rebuilding of Allawi’s cell by aligning five recruits once involved with logistics, to become operatives under Allawi’s command. Orders had been issued to recruits in Boston and New York City to meet up with Mohammad Allawi and, with the blessing of Allah, martyred themselves by striking a mighty blow against the highest political seat in the land. Despite the efforts of the FBI to dismantle one cell, Mabus insisted on proving to the world that the Islamic State had become militarily sophisticated with a long and deadly reach, by simply creating another.

  In five days there was going to be a political gathering of dignitaries from the United States, the United Kingdom, Germany, France, Spain, Israel and Belgium, that was going to be held at a political venue in Washington for a summit regarding the spread of terrorism along the European Front. The targets were key figures from Israel, reportedly high-end principals from Mossad.

  A rebound group was making its way towards Allawi in the States. The True Cross was for Mabus to barter with. And the recipient of the True Cross was willing to sell his soul to Satan for a few pieces of weaponry. Everything was working to design. And Mabus couldn’t have been more pleased with the way the Islamic State was staking its claim.

  Despite the air strikes by Russian forces in Raqqa, the Islamic State remained strong and continued to ooze its sickness across the land like slow-moving pus from a weeping sore.

  #

  Allawi was honored to be a vessel of Allah and a conduit of Mabus. He had received word through couriers that Mabus was rebuilding Allawi’s cell, and that new recruits who once served in logistics but had some military training, had been called to serve on the American Front.

  There was a new mission, though matters remained vague at this point. But Allawi was about to serve Allah greatly along with his new team. So he had to stay low, stay hidden, and keep away from the searching eyes of authorities, until Allah called upon him once again.

  Mohammad Allawi never felt so useful in all his life.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Washington, D.C.

  When Shari’s children had been kidnapped a few years ago in Paris, she thought that day was the worst day in her life. But when she lost her entire family in a deliberate act of savage cruelty, life had never been so painful. The agony of loss, the grief and mourning was something that ripped deeply into her core. She never felt so broken or fractured, never felt so alone.

  When it was time for the
internment so close after death, so as not to prolong the measure of heartbreak with unnecessary delay, recitations of psalms were read along with scripture readings and a eulogy that lasted for twenty minutes. To Shari Cohen, however, time seemed endless.

  But when the caskets were lowered prior to the Kaddish prayer and the subsequent filling of the graves, Shari lost it with loud and racking sobs as the coffins were lowered into the earth.

  Arms pulled her close. A large showing of FBI agents stood behind her, around her, all supporting a woman who didn’t deserve to lose her family to a man who was truly sick with a diseased purpose.

  Mohammad Allawi was now a hunted man.

  And he continued to remain at large.

  After the service the time of Shiva begins, which is a seven-day period of mourning when the members of the Jewish community come together and provide comfort. But, for Shari, in those moments of aloneness, in those times in between visits when the house seemed too big and too quiet, life became unbearable.

  On the third day of Shiva, Shari went to her bedroom and locked the door, proceeded to the closet where she hid a small safe, opened it, removed a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson, and sat upon the edge of her bed. On the nightstand was a framed photo of her family in happier times, all smiles, the photo taken when they went to Disney World a few months ago. It was a fabulous day with fabulous times. One for the memories and the ages.

  Tears began to spill from eyes that were red and rheumy looking. And her heart ached deeply.

  She grabbed the picture, laid supine along the bed, and placed the framed photo on her chest and close to her heart. “My babies,” she mustered. “My family.” And then she placed the mouth of the barrel against the soft underside of her chin, took deep breaths, and squeezed her eyes tight.