by JC Ryan
A Rossler Foundation Mystery
The Sword of Cyrus
A Thriller
By JC Ryan
This is the fourth book in the Rossler Foundation Mystery Series.
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Copyright 2014 by J C Ryan
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
The oath
We’ve got to do something about this!
Persian supremacy
Meeting with an old friend
This is nanotechnology
Allah’s hand has stopped us twice
This is what you can do with nanotechnology
The President's speech
Let us be friends
The recruits
A valuable acquisition
The Rossler Foundation Nanotechnology Program
The Sword of Cyrus Nanotechnology Program
Déjà poo
Nanonukes
Roy's toys
Encoded with Fibonacci numbers
They could have everything
Mr. President
The deployment
It's about time
Pictures from the future
Fasten your seatbelt
By executive order
The Network
Now it was personal
The time puzzle
Welcome to Mother Russia
The mastermind
Volunteered for martyrdom
He’s my uncle
The power is incredible
I wanted to capture him
May I ask where you got those pictures?
Have they been told?
No weapon that is formed against you will prosper
Strike at the head
State of the mission
Three things we need to figure out
No trace of stutter
They’ll only use one type
If you can make it ten, we’re golden
Where the devil was Oleg Zlatovski?
We’ve already screwed up
Turn over your project
Let the training begin
Eureka
What if I can’t do it in time?
We have no choice but to go with your plans
The demo
The final plan
We’ve got one
Are you sure that’s a good idea?
Don’t be a fool
July 29, 2020, D-day
D-day in Tehran
All clear
July 30, 2020; D-day for the New Persian Empire
Prologue
October 12, 539 BC, the ancient city of Babylon, 55 miles south of modern-day Baghdad
From the lofty walls of the great city, guards and civilians alike looked down upon the invaders, mocking them. Babylon was known by all to be impenetrable, yet these foolish Medes set up camp outside the walls. Perhaps they didn’t know that there were provisions for a siege lasting twenty years. Jokes were hurled into the air. “Don’t you know that you will have to wait there for twenty years to make us open our gates?” A few even taunted, “Want some fresh bread and wine?”
None of the taunts reached the ears of the Medes, for they were too far away. But occasionally a soldier broke discipline and lofted an arrow toward the heads he could see above the ramparts. Seeing the mockers duck was well worth the mild disciplinary action that resulted.
None of Cyrus’s soldiers knew of the holy book of the Hebrews, where prophecy regarding their leader spoke of the favor of their one god, known to the Hebrews as YHVH, toward Cyrus. Perhaps Cyrus himself was unaware of it, but he was about to fulfill the prophecy in Isaiah and again in Jeremiah of the holy book, made 90 years before his birth. “I will dry up thy rivers…I will dry up her sea.” Babylon’s vulnerability was the Euphrates River, where it entered and exited below the transverse walls that bridged it. Cyrus diverted the river upstream, forming a lake and causing the river to become shallow enough for his men to wade, passing under the walls into the center of the city.
Even this would not have afforded them access to the city itself, except that the citizens had been celebrating their cleverness with wine and rich food, secure in the belief that no one could gain entry to the city. Once again, Jeremiah’s prophecy had predicted what would happen. “Thus saith the Lord to…Cyrus…I will…open before him the two leaved gates; and the gates shall not be shut.”
So had the prophets prophesied, and so it came to pass. The enormous gates that barred entrance from the riverbed to the streets that crossed the river were carelessly left open.
While the Babylonians feasted and drank, once again fulfilling prophecy, Cyrus and his invaders casually walked into the city without challenge. “I will make drunk her princes, and her wise men, and her captains, and her rulers, and her mighty men, and they shall sleep a perpetual sleep, and not wake, saith the King, whose name is the Lord of hosts.”
No one noticed the subsidence of the river, and the gates were left open to allow the citizens to cross at will. By morning, the city had fallen without a fight. “The mighty men of Babylon have forborne to fight, they have remained in their holds: their might hath failed; they became as women…. One post shall run to meet another, and one messenger to meet another, to show the king of Babylon that his city is taken at one end.”
July 5th, 2019; Tehran, the day of the Ayatollah Kazemi’s attack on Washington DC
Dalir Jahandar sat at his desk late in the afternoon. He had watched the coverage of the attacks around the world, and as he’d expected, the Ayatollah had failed. They had not been as prepared as they should have been. One mistake was to time the attacks for the same moment, which meant that most people in Europe were asleep at the time. Little loss of life meant that there was little stir in those countries. Anger at the destruction and the threat, yes, but little outrage. It was almost as if they had expected it.
When he was tired of the disappointing TV coverage, he turned off the set and took up a manuscript
that he’d had made in his early adulthood, a transcript of the Cylinder of Cyrus, which he’d read many times every year since he had learned the art of reading. Dalir thought of his father’s words, repeated throughout his youth and right up until the older man’s death from the accursed 9th Cycle virus.
“My son, you are destined to wield the Sword of Cyrus. There will be a great king of Persia once more, and he will rule an empire that encompasses the whole world. That destiny belongs to you. Use the knowledge wisely.”
As he did each day, usually several times a day, Dalir repeated his oath. He then opened the transcript and read the familiar words again, supplying the interpretation he put on each point.
“Nabonidus the ruler of Babylon has displeased Marduk, the lord of the gods. By his own plan, he did away with the worship of Marduk, the king of the gods, he continually did evil against Marduk's city. Daily, without interruption, he imposed the corvée upon its inhabitants unrelentingly, ruining them all.”
“The governments of the West have displeased Allah, they are doing evil against the people of Allah, they are ruining them all,” murmured Dalir, mesmerized by the words full of portent for his future.
“Upon hearing their cries, Marduk, the lord of the gods became furiously angry and decided to find a new king for Babylon.”
“Allah has heard the cries of his people, he is angry and he wants to have a new king in the west,” repeated Dalir, under his breath.
“Marduk surveyed and looked throughout the lands, searching for a righteous king, his favorite. He called out his name: Cyrus, king of Anšan; he pronounced his name to be king all over the world.”
“Allah has looked all over the world for a righteous man. He has found his favorite and called his name: Dalir Jahandar, the Brave, the Valiant.” Dalir’s lips moved as he spoke the proud words without sound.
“He ordered him to go to his city Babylon. He set him on the road to Babylon and like a companion and a friend, he went at his side. His vast army, whose number, like water of the river, cannot be known, marched at his side fully armed. He made him enter his city Babylon without fighting or battle; he saved Babylon from hardship. He delivered Nabonidus, the king who did not revere him, into his hands. All the people of Babylon, all the land of Sumer and Akkad, princes and governors, bowed to him and kissed his feet. They rejoiced at his kingship and their faces shone. Lord by whose aid the dead were revived and who had all been redeemed from hardship and difficulty, they greeted him with gladness and praised his name.”
Allah will be with him, at his side, he will save the world from hardship. The leaders of the world will bow and kiss the feet of Dalir Jahandar, the greatest leader of all. Dalir repeated these words only in his mind, as his eyes glazed and visions of the greatness to come replaced the words on the page.
“Cyrus, king of the world, great king, mighty king, king of Babylon, king of Sumer and Akkad, king of the four quarters, the son of Cambyses, great king, king of Anšan, grandson of Cyrus, great king, king of Anšan, descendant of Teispes, great king, king of Anšan, of an eternal line of kingship, whose rule Bêl and Nabu love, whose kingship they desire for their hearts' pleasure.”
Dalir Jahandar, to his certain knowledge the rightful heir of Cyrus the Great, the liberator, the conqueror, the favorite of Allah, considered his destiny.
The oath
Three months earlier…
Dalir Jahandar stumbled out of the Erfan Grand Hospital, Abad, no longer conscious that it was the best private hospital in all of Tehran. His beloved father, Dariush, named for one of the great kings of Persia, was gone, a victim of the infidel’s virus. Not only Father, but Dalir’s beloved wife Roxana, chosen for him with great care and sealed to him with two children and growing love and respect over the years. Remembering his children, his two sons Dariush, the eight-year-old, proud of being named for his grandfather, and Basir, the four-year old, so small and yet eager to learn, anguish swept him again. All gone, all dead, one by one, as he watched. It was more than a man should be made to bear.
He’d hardly noticed the stinging shower of disinfectant, the hospital staff who directed him to leave by way of a door that had no hindrances of sick and dying bodies. His thoughts circled again and again to the actions he’d taken to protect them. All for naught. If it hadn’t been for the mission his heart and mind whispered to him, he would have begged Allah to take him as well. But, that was not to be. He would have to wait to find his family again in Paradise, for first he had a sacred task; one that had been handed down to him in the blood of his forebears.
~~~
The present
He swore an oath that day, and had repeated it many times every day since then. Under his breath when he was in public; aloud with tears streaming down his face in mourning for his loved ones when he was alone. It became his sole reason for living.
Yesterday’s bombings in Washington, DC on July 4th were to have been part of his revenge, even though he had doubts that they would be effective the way Ayatollah Kazemi set them up. Today, US President Harper was to address his nation and the world in the wake of the attack. Contrary to what Dalir expected, perhaps what even the world expected, the president’s speech was conciliatory. Harper cited the high feelings about the medical disaster only recently contained as a possible reason for the attack. But then, he said that violence never solved anything and urged all countries to work toward peace. In particular, he pledged to work out a reconstruction project for the Middle East. To Jahandar, it was like a slap in the face, that this man he hated would so blatantly try to buy the good will of the people his countrymen had all but destroyed.
Now, as US President Harper’s speech was being broadcast to billions of people globally, Dalir Jahandar listened, his lip curled and eyes flashing. At some point, he jumped to his feet and paced, tearing at his hair as he answered Harper, at first mentally and then spewing forth in violent Farsi. What did this infidel know of peace? A peaceful man did not murder millions of people with an engineered virus designed to attack only his enemies. A peaceful man did not kill millions, making Hitler and Stalin look like saints.
Had there been a watcher, his conclusion might have been that Jahandar had taken leave of his senses, driven insane by the war of hate in his mind against the people whose evil plan had taken his father, his wife and two small children. His loved ones had died in the most horrific pain and agony he could imagine, and he wasn’t even allowed to go to them to offer comfort. He could only watch from behind a glass barrier as, one by one, they succumbed to the demon-spawned virus like millions of other men, women and children of his blood. Almost two hundred million in all. The mind balked at the numbers. Surely the earth would cry out in protest at so many dead, and yet it did not.
His oath, wrenched from his agonized mind as he left the hospital that day and a constant refrain in his head ever since, came into his consciousness now as he heard and rejected the falsehoods of the American president. May Allah let me die a death a thousand times worse than this if I do not avenge the death of my loved ones on the evil one who did this. By now, the faceless evil one of that day had found more than one face. One was the very man on his TV screen, Nigel Harper, with his honeyed words of poison and lies.
Another was Daniel Rossler, whose organization’s meddling in things that had no business being dug up had resulted in the virus being unleashed. Each face of the fateful expedition was also burned into his brain. These people had been responsible for the physical fact of the virus, if they had not engineered it themselves. They sent sick people home to the Middle East to infect others, much as the American government had sent blankets infected with deadly smallpox to wipe out the indigenous peoples who claimed the same land. It was a well-known trick of the Americans.
Now as Harper quoted from the infidel’s holy book, Jahandar, sickened beyond measure at the hypocrisy, added prayer to oath as he turned toward Mecca.
“Allah, I beseech you, please grant me my wish. Allah, keep me alive t
o be the Sword of Cyrus. If you grant my wish, I will kill millions of infidels for you. Allah, bless me in my undertaking, that the infidels may be wiped from the face of the earth and no longer offend you.”
His prayer complete, he spared one last glance at the TV screen, where Harper was answering the questions the foolish reporters had been fed to ask him.
“Peace, you want, infidel? Peace you shall have, in your grave. There will only be peace when my revenge is complete.”
Jahandar considered his options. He could join the thousands of suicide bomber volunteers who remained committed to the cause under the Ayatollah Kazemi, but that would exact his revenge on only one, or at most a few, of his targets, even if collateral damage was great. His despair in his personal life was enough to drive him to it; if not for the greater mission, he would pack his car full of explosives and drive it into the nearest Western embassy this very night. However, a plan was forming in his mind that held better promise. It would take all of the influence he’d built up among the ranks of the righteous of the rebellion. It would also take his most eloquent powers of persuasion.
Jahandar grew up with a father who practically revered Persia’s greatest king, Cyrus the Great. Over and over, he told his young son, Dalir, of the exploits of Cyrus, and that the great king’s blood ran in his veins. Now, he, Dalir Jahandar, would gather influential and wealthy ethnic Persians under one banner to restore the ancient kingdom in all its glory, people who, like he, could trace their lineage back to the glory that was once Persia, in the time of the great king Cyrus. People who understood their history and were proud of it. When they were ready, they would once more conquer the known world.
This time, however, instead of flinging themselves in reckless abandon against the superior military strength of the enemy as the rebels had been doing for decades, they would do as Cyrus had done to Babylon. While the infidel world reveled in its sin, drinking and whoring its way to perdition, he, Dalir Jahandar, chosen by birth and by fate to wield the Sword of Cyrus, would find his way into their stronghold by stealth and conquer the infidel from within.
