by Rick Jones
And she pulled the trigger.
The Smith & Wesson sounded off with a dry click.
She forgot to rack a bullet into the firing chamber. After sliding the rack and feeding a live round into the weapon, she placed the point of the firearm against the soft tissue beneath her chin, and began to draw back on the trigger. The images of her husband and children played in her mind like loops of continuously joyous times.
She was almost there, her finger pulling.
Then the landline rang, which was odd because everyone close to her always called her on her cell phone. Finally the answering machine picked up, gave its automated speech about leaving a message after the beep, and then chimed. At first there was a sigh as if in resignation. She could tell that someone was there, but someone who was choosing their words well before speaking.
Immediately she thought it was Montrell Thompson, Mohammad Allawi, or whatever it was he was calling himself these days. Perhaps he was calling to give her a final dig. Just enough to push her over the edge.
“Shari,” the voice was filled with measurable grief, however. “Word just got to me as to what happened. I’m so sorry I didn’t call sooner. I just wanted you to know–”
She lowered the gun, barked a sob, and then she set the gun aside.
“–that I loved those children–”
She picked up the phone. “I’m here.”
There was a beat, a time of silence passing between them.
Then: “I just heard,” the voice said evenly. The period of awkwardness continued between them.
“I miss them.”
“I know. Losing someone you love is never easy. I want to help you through this … Can I?”
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then said, “You just did. In a way … you just saved me.”
The caller on the other end sighed. Then after a moment: “I can come if you need me.”
She shook her head. “You have your own problems.”
“It’s never good to be alone … Especially at a time like this. I know.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
She smiled lightly as her eyes once again began to well. “Will you call me later? I need someone I can talk to. Someone I can relate to. I need you to help me through this. I’m not sure I can do this alone.”
“Like I said, I can come if you need me.”
“No.” She was adamant. “I just need to … talk.”
“Of course. You know I’ll be there for you. Day or night, no matter the time, I’ll be there for you … You know how to reach me. Leave a message with the Holy See. You have the number Bonasero gave you. You’ve called it before, from Paris. I’ll get the message … So call.”
She nodded. “Thank you.” Then softly, she placed the phone on the cradle and fell back into bed. She pushed the weapon further away, thinking how close she had come to taking her life. Then she curled into a fetal position and began to weep.
She wasn’t one to believe in divine intervention. But the dry click of the weapon, the timely call–could it have been anything else but?
As she laid there she recalled every word spoken, and the shared sadness that was truly genuine in the caller’s voice. In time she fell asleep, her fatigue eventually pulling her under. But it was the voice of Kimball Hayden that had lulled her to sleep as well, with his soft tenor sounding like a hypnotist who was trying to bring a willing host to slumber.
Kimball Hayden had come back into her life.
And once again he had become her savior.
#
Vatican City
It was late in Rome. But Kimball had learned from Father Auciello, who was the co-director of the SIV, or the Vatican Intelligence, that the husband and children of a Special Agent with the FBI had been targeted and assassinated, presumably by a radical member of the Islamic State. In Europe, such news doesn’t quite top the list of media-reporting. But since Kimball and the Vatican had a personal tie with Shari Cohen, the co-director felt obligated to inform Kimball of the current events that surrounded her life, which was the right thing to do because of her past commitment to the church. Though her convictions remained deeply rooted in the Jewish faith, the Vatican had always looked upon Shari Cohen as one of their own.
A few years ago she had risked her life to save the pope after he was kidnapped in the States. And it was the first time that Kimball had laid eyes on her. He recalled such stunning features as the color of her raven hair, and eyes that dazzled because they were the color of newly minted pennies. He remembered her minor quirks and the way she walked with a strong gait. And then he recollected his brewing love for her, and the awkwardness that followed afterwards. She had been married to Gary, a good man, and together they had two beautiful children, both girls.
Now her family was gone.
Bonasero was gone.
And the world seemed so completely devoid without them.
The gaping wounds left in the aftermath needed to be filled for both of them. But Kimball wondered if there was enough time since the holes were so cavernously deep.
He continued to stare at the phone in his hand, thinking. Then he tossed it on the mattress of his bunk. Right now he wanted to be in D.C. to help her through her grief about as much as he needed her to help him through the loss of Bonasero.
But soon his commitments would take him elsewhere. And closure would have to wait.
Kimball looked at the stained-glass window centered high on the wall in his chamber. It was a magnificent display of the Virgin Mary holding her arms out in invitation. At a certain point in the day, when the sun was just right, the rays would shine through the glass like a heavenly beam and alight on the floor of the living quarters. But for the past few days it had been dreary with cloud cover.
There had been no light.
Kimball went to his bunk, sat upon its edge, and sat idle until morning. And during this time he thought about two things: He thought about Shari Cohen and about his commitment to the church.
Kimball Hayden had options to weigh.
But first he needed to start with the name given to him by Farid: Abbad Chahine.
He at least owed Bonasero Vessucci that much, even if it was against the man’s wishes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The day was blistering hot in a small town sixty miles south of Raqqa. But Atwa didn’t mind, having been conditioned to fare well in these conditions since the moment of his birth inside a stone hut in Syria. Abject poverty had been a way of life for the simple people like his mother and father who scraped and toiled for a living, until his father died at the age of thirty-three with skin that had the weather-beaten look of a ninety-year-old man.
Atwa wanted more out of life.
By the time he was twenty-four, and just as the civil war was starting to take hold in Syria, a war which took the lives of his wife and child, he had heard of a life that was filled with the promise of heavenly bliss. There would be no more of clawing at the dead earth to sow the seeds of plants that might not grow, or to drink the milk from goats that were drying up.
Food would be bountiful. Drink would be plenty. All he needed to do was surrender himself completely over to Allah, and Allah would pave the way to happiness.
Gua-ron-teed!
In time Atwa discovered a natural talent for double-edged weaponry, the knives he wielded he did so with expertise. He could spin them between his fingers the same as a majorette twirls a baton, the knives moving with the same blinding speed and revolutions. But his real skill came with the deadly and fatal accuracy of precision targeting, with the release of the thrown knife hitting the point of its intended mark close to ninety percent. If the first blade missed … the second one didn’t. With a very particular skill set, Atwa became known as the Man-of-Many-Blades and was used exclusively in close-combat situati
ons, which is why he got the call to appropriate the True Cross from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. With deadly stealth.
The hut was hot and stifling as Chahine directed Atwa to the room’s center where he was told to sit and wait. Atwa did, the man holding the cloak-covered Cross close to his chest. After Chahine left the room, Atwa quickly appraised the area. It was tight with a single canting wall that threatened to crumble inward. There was a mattress on the floor, a badly soiled futon. And the exposed beams of the structure appeared to be aged and on the verge of collapsing. Certainly this couldn’t be the residence of Mabus, he considered, the great servant to Allah. But when Mabus finally arrived, Atwa’s thoughts were confirmed the moment Mabus took to the futon.
Mabus said nothing as he sat with knees bent at acute angles and legs crossed while pinning Atwa with a stare. He was also wearing a face wrap of dark cloth that covered all but his eyes. “This,” he finally said to Atwa, pointing to his face, “is to protect you as well as me. Few know what I look like. If you should be caught or captured, should you be tortured for information as to what I look like, there will be no information to provide.”
Atwa bowed his head. “Understood.”
“So you are the great Atwa, the Man-of-Many-Blades. I must say, your reputation certainly precedes you.”
“This is truly an honor coming from you, Mabus.”
“Is that the True Cross you hold?”
“It is.”
“Place it on the floor and peel back the cloth so that I can lay my eyes upon the idol.”
When Atwa lowered the True Cross to the floor, the flaps to his black garment pulled back to show specially designed bandoliers that held his arsenal of throwing knives. After placing the relic gingerly against the floor, he began to roll back the fabric–first from one corner, and then from another, until the True Cross was finally unveiled.
Mabus stared at it with neutrality for a long moment before he reached forward and traced his fingers along the design. He ran them slowly along the Cross, a glancing touch, reveling in the idea that he was running the tips of his fingers over the actual wood of the cross that Jesus, one of God’s greatest messengers, was crucified on. There was no heated or stinging touch, no feeling of an all-consuming warmth that invaded his body. It was simply a relic at room temperature.
“It’s magnificent, yes?” said Mabus.
“It truly is.”
“And the cost of lives to get this?”
“Five,” said Atwa. “Two Muslim guards and three clerics.”
Mabus waved a hand at him. “Collateral damage,” he said. “Feel no regrets for what you have done, Atwa. The guards are surely in Paradise along with these priests. Allah will see that they are in His good graces. The matter could not have been avoided.”
Atwa did feel a measure of guilt, however. The guards were Muslim. Had they taken to killing their own to achieve the means, whatever those means may be? The answer was ‘yes.’ Killing their own kind was easily chalked up as moral sacrifices that were conveniently justified as necessaries that required no additional explanation. They had the cross. Certain measures had to be taken in order to attain it.
“May I ask you a question, Mabus?”
Mabus pulled his fingers back from the idol and brought his hands close to his body. “Of course.”
“Is it not right in the eyes of Allah to hold such a luxury?”
“You think I had you take this for my own personal gratification?”
Atwa bowed his head. “Forgive me, Mabus, for asking you such an improper question.”
Mabus waved him off dismissively. “It’s not improper, Atwa. What you did was take the first step in a jihad that will revolutionize the way we do battle. The True Cross is not for me, but for another. He is a seeker of unique goods. And in recompense, he will provide us with a great military advantage.”
“I see.”
“Atwa … what I now ask of you will be a great honor. Since your English is quite good, I’m going to ask you to serve as my liaison.”
Atwa continued to stare at the cloak-covered face of Mabus. I’m listening.
“I will make contact with the buyer,” said Mabus. “And you will serve as the conduit between us. You will go to London and inform Beckett that we have the True Cross in our possession. In a manner of the buyer’s goodwill, he will provide us with five weapons before he even lays his eyes on the relic. If the weapons prove to be as they’re claimed to be, then he will receive the True Cross for the balance of five thousand additional weapons. Make this very clear to him, Atwa. Very clear.”
“I promise, Mabus, that I will serve you well.”
Mabus nodded appreciatively. Then: “The reason why I ask you to honor me, Atwa, is that you will be staying in London to serve Allah. A cell will be created and you shall lead the push into the United Kingdom. And when you obtain these weapons, use them wisely.”
Atwa bowed his head; a great honor, indeed.
“In time, my friend, your course will be ended by the infidels. But you shall pass into Paradise with the greatest of honors. Allah will embrace and bless you with all honors bestowed upon you as a true vessel of this holy war.”
Another bow of Atwa’s head. “A great honor,” he said.
“You’ll be given new clothes and be well-versed as to what needs to be said and done. As soon as you contact the buyer, he is to understand that there will be no negotiations other than the terms that have already been discussed with me. He will try to negotiate down, nonetheless. He might even promise to back off from the deal because he needs to feel like he’s in control, not you. But his taste for black-market goods is too great. He’ll bend the moment you try to leave the table. Stay your course, Atwa. I know this man well. He’s very intelligent and will try to manipulate you. But you will be wiser.”
“Yes, Mabus.”
“We will need to prep you for your trip for London, where you will meet an arms dealer by the name of Oliver Beckett. He prefers the safety of his own territory.”
“I see.”
“In two days’ time, Atwa.”
“I will need my team as part of my cell,” he said.
Mabus shook his head. No. “It will be difficult enough to get you across the border alone. Your people will stay behind and serve by my side.”
Atwa understood without question, and then when he began to fold the cloth over the relic Mabus stopped him.
“Leave it,” he told Atwa.
“Yes, Mabus. Of course.” Getting to his feet, and with the room hot and stuffy and glad to be gone from it, Atwa hastened his way out of the stone hut.
When he was gone, Mabus looked upon the idol. It was in the shape of a Christian Cross with the wood imbedded within the metal framework–the wood that once supported the body of Christ. He looked at it with a longing stare, but knew he could never have it since Allah would not approve. But it would serve better by strengthening Allah’s army.
Mabus never moved or minded the heat that lingered inside the room. It was dead and stagnate, the warmth never moving. But Mabus never drew a bead of sweat because the air was dry.
He stared at the relic, measured it with his eyes and appraised it. It was a glorious piece, he considered. Not only would it help bring glory to jihad, it would also bring glory to Allah. This cross would be the centerpiece of bringing triumph to the Islamic State.
And beneath the cloth covering his face, he smiled.
Allahu Akbar!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Washington, D.C.
Less than a week after the death of her family, Shari Cohen was watching the news from her home in Cathedral Heights. To her the rooms appeared larger, grander, and with far more space than she could possibly use. The house had a sepulchral feel to it as well, a tomblike silence that hung in the air like a pall that never diminished. And if she closed
her eyes tightly enough, she could almost hear the delightful cries of her children laughing and echoing throughout the hallways of the house, a hollow sound that quickly faded.
But the voices weren’t voices at all … They were just memories.
She opened her eyes, though misty, and watched the TV for almost an hour before she realized that she didn’t register a single scene in her mind, or the actors in the serial.
What she needed was involvement in her work. She needed to engross herself into something meaningful. What she needed to do was hunt down Mohammad Allawi.
But her director would say that she was too close to the case, which would impair her judgment. And of course she would rebut his claim, stating that she had never been more focused.
In the end she would win.
No more TV. And no more empty house.
Shari Cohen once again had purpose.
I will find him.
And I will stop him.
It was time to engage and correct.
When she showed up at the station later that morning, heads turned as Shari walked the aisles attempting to look strong with a gait that had purpose. The economy of her motion stated to those around her that the department needed her as much as she needed the department.
As soon as she sat in her seat inside her office, she immediately asked for all case notes regarding Mohammad Allawi in an attempt to glean something about him that she might have missed in the past.
She examined the ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos–before when he was Montrell Thompson, and the after shots when he became Mohammad Allawi. He was an African-American with strikingly handsome features. In the ‘before’ photos his eyes were light brown with flecks of gold, the color of forged copper, and intelligent. Even when the photo was taken at the precinct, his eyes appeared to be calculating something.
Then she examined the ‘after’ pictures. By the time of his release from Brockbridge, he had cultivated a beard and mustache that had covered most of the features of his face. Two different photos of the same man: one a lost soul before entering the pen, the other a radicalized individual who left with a very cold heart.
