Abdullereda was confused, but he didn’t remain so. Shortly thereafter the men from Mossad came. He tried to be strong but they were very persuasive and he was already weak. Soon, he told them everything they wanted to know and more. Once he satisfied their curiosity all they seemed to want was for him to make a full recovery. They gave him excellent care, he couldn’t complain, and then they informed him they were sending him home.
Reality hit Abdullereda. The humiliation! The failure of his mission! He consoled himself though; it was really the guards that failed him. He had done everything a martyr could do but actually die. Surely people would understand.
The day arrived and the Israelis gave him a nondescript grey jumpsuit to wear. Abdullereda shuffled onto an Air Malaysian flight with two escorts. They were there, they said, to make sure he got home okay. The short flight, only seven hours, landed in Kuala Lumpur in a driving rain. They got him off the airplane but instead of taking him through the terminal they took him down the jetway stairs and put him in a van, one man on either side.
“Where are we going,” he asked, but then he answered his own question. “Oh, right, we probably want to avoid the press.”
Undoubtedly there would be questions about his involvement in the jihad. However, seeing as most people were sympathetic there would probably be a time and a place for the press. Maybe he could salvage his pride. Maybe this would all work out.
Still, he couldn’t quite understand why the Israelis of all people were so nice to him. He expected to be tortured to death. It didn’t happen. In fact, he owed his health to them. He could easily have died.
The van didn’t leave the airfield as he expected but instead it drove to one of the airfield hangers.
“Why are we going here?”
“It’s the only place big enough for all the families,” said one of the men gravely.
“What families are those?” Abdullereda was truly mystified. They drove through the hanger doors and he saw hundreds of people gathered within. There were several portable grandstands and a raised central platform. The platform had a wooden scaffold mounted on top.
His heart leapt. A hero’s welcome!
No.
“These are the families of the people you killed on board Malaysian Flight 666,” said the man with grave venom. “You’ve been convicted in absentia and sentenced to hang for your crimes.”
Abdullereda went cold and limp. The van stopped and they half carried, half dragged him up the stairs to the platform. He couldn’t register what was happening, but he felt the concentrated glare of hundreds of eyes. He looked out at them; and they all seemed luminous, fiery white eyes that burned him with their stares.
The men on either side pulled his hands behind his back and put them in cuffs.
“Tight!” he yelped. “Too tight!”
A hood was pulled over his head, stifling, black, and musty. It stank of vomit and death. Abdullereda started to panic, to hyperventilate. Then a rope tightened at his throat and a voice whispered in his ear.
“I am the man who will hang you! My niece, my beautiful eight year old niece was on your plane. It was your job to take care of her. Now I will take care of you!”
Abdullereda heard him step away. Clarity came to his mind. It was all about to end. Mustering his courage, Abdullereda shouted, “I did it for the sake of Allah!”
“You did it for the Devil!” replied a hollow, distant voice.
He waited, trembling uncontrollably. Nothing happened. The tension was so great he soiled himself, crying out in despair. Now he wanted, he prayed for the trap door to open and end the terrible anticipation, to bring about death, swiftly.
Abdullereda was only partially right.
The trapdoor opened and he fell—six inches—not the four feet needed to snap his neck. The narrow gauge rope tightened around his neck painfully, slowly strangling Abdullereda over the next twenty minutes.
The last thing Abdullereda heard was the sound of a jet aircraft taking off, as if it were a reminder of the respectable life he could still be leading had he not fallen into darkness. A shudder rippled through his body and then Abdullereda heard voices, thousands, millions of voices screaming, shouting and howling. He couldn’t see, but he could feel. His body was suddenly immersed in an intense, skin curling heat.
CHAPTER 42: Coffee With Friends
Slade awoke in an apartment and not in a hospital. That was strange, he thought, because he recognized the effects of anesthesia wearing off. He didn’t fight it. He allowed himself to drift comfortably in and out of sleep until such time as his bladder told him it was time to rise.
Putting on a robe, Slade took care of things, made some coffee and went out on the balcony of his room and sat down to enjoy the view of Tel Aviv.
Killer and Bernstein met him there.
“Director Gann congratulates you on a job well done Slade,” Bernstein told him. “He passes on that even the president was pleased.”
“I must have screwed something up then,” Slade smirked, sipping his coffee.
Killer laughed, slapping Slade on the back. “Thanks for leaving most of the freighter guys and almost all the jihadists in Singapore alive! You’re slipping. My boys finally had something to do!”
“You cleaned everything up then?”
“Sure, you know how badly those guys shoot,” Jake said. He dug in his pocket and produced a photo. Handing it to Slade, he said, “Thought you might like this for your trophy wall. It’s the shark that gummed you!”
“That tiger almost bit me in two!” Slade protested.
“It was a nurse shark Jeremiah,” Killer laughed. “Only a six footer at that; you probably woke him up on the bottom. Probably scared him as much as he scared you.”
Slade perused the picture of four grinning Deltas holding a six foot nurse shark full of bullet holes.
Killer chuckled, and added, “His teeth were barely long enough to get through your wet suit!” Then he shrugged and shook his head. “You know, it’s kind of embarrassing to have a Delta Force scared of sharks.”
“I guess you’re going to kick me out then,” Slade sighed, putting the picture face down on the table.
“Can’t,” Killer shrugged. “You still killed the shark and an awful lot of bad guys.”
“Speaking of bad guys, I got a special cable this morning,” Ari told them. “As you may know, in light of the horrific crimes committed by ISIS in its rampage across Syria and Iraq the Pope has approved the use of force to stop them.”
“No I didn’t know that,” Slade said gravely.
“It’s significant for it to have gone that far, but the Pope has gone farther,” Ari said. “Cardinal Martel contacted me this morning. The Vatican is of course working through diplomatic channels, the Holy Father sees to that, but Cardinal Martel has been instructed to see if there are certain people within the Free World that would be interested in comparing notes, sort of streamlining things behind the scenes.”
They all looked at each other. Finally Slade said, “If that will cut the red tape I’m all in. We were close this time; very close.”
“That feeling is not so unique. I’m afraid it’s not shared by all, however. There are too many in positions of power who seem to blind themselves to the obvious. Perhaps those of us actually fighting the battle can overcome not only the obvious enemy but the blind friend as well.”
“We need to,” Slade sighed. “The price of failure is too severe. We can’t leave that kind of world to our children.”
#
The Iranian President Aliaabaadi met Colonel Nikahd in front of the presidential residence. He led the colonel inside. They joined Ayatollah Hayayi for tea in the reception room. The Ayatollah was curt. He got right down to business.
“We cannot allow this setback to further aggravate our plans,” he told them both. “I am already hearing it from our ISIS and Al Qaeda confederates as well as the Grand Mufti of Saudi Arabia. Our Shia-Sunni alliance is cracking. The rise of ISIS is not
something we anticipated.”
“It has, however, created an unexpected strength in our understanding with our Al Qaeda brothers,” Nikahd said. “The ISIS barbarians prey on them as well as the Shia who fall into their hands.”
“We should encourage the Americans to view ISIS as a grave threat,” Aliaabaadi said. “Perhaps then the Americans can take care of that problem for us.”
“That would be a great help,” Hayayi assented. “Though I hate the idea of using the Devil for our deeds it is all too clear that our greatest threat is ourselves. We risk various factions even various communities going forward without coordinating with us. ISIS is one example. Had they waited two years they might have done us a great service. Now, however, they risk focusing the West on the threat we pose them. Hamas is another example. Of what use was it to anger the Zionists before we were ready to strike? Their rocket attacks and the ensuing Zionist offensive nearly ruined this latest operation before it got started.”
“To that end we have some problems with our brothers in London,” Nikahd reported.
“Problems? What problems?”
“The community has implemented sharia in our neighborhoods and conquest by the right hand; they’ve been taking Western women and girls for their harems. It is all right and well of them to do so, of course, but those in Manchester have been caught. The resultant trial may very well send things out of control.”
Hayayi sighed, “It will be the downfall of our people if we do not learn the patience required for conquest. What good is it to wait ninety-nine years when all that is needed is to wait one hundred? We have fallen short many times before. My fear is that if we do so again we may not be given another chance.”
CHAPTER 43: A Bumpy Ride
Captain Bashir climbed into the hot cab of the old, rickety truck with his first officer and navigator for the long ride back to Bandar Abbas. It could have been worse. He could be in the back with the fourteen members of his crew that shared the truck bed with thirty goats. So much for the elite of the Iranian Navy!
As they drove, bouncing along the coastal road in the ancient truck, the driver turned on the radio.
The announcer was reading the headlines, “Last night a Singapore passenger jet, the same jet missing from a hijacked flight from Kuala Lumpur two months ago, landed unexpectedly at military airfield in Israel.
“Rumor has it that it was being flown by the captain of the hijacked flight who was himself involved in the plot. Unfortunately all the passengers are now feared dead. In a strange twist, the flight reportedly had on board the missing three tons of Iranian Uranium that was being transported under United Nations auspices for quarantine in Abu Dhabi.
How the Uranium got on board the aircraft and why it suddenly appeared in Israel is unknown. The Israelis have taken possession of the Uranium purportedly for safe keeping. Iran is thus far silent on the matter. The captain is in Israeli custody and awaiting extradition to Malaysia, where he has been convicted in absentia for the murder of hundreds of innocent civilians. He has been sentenced to hang.”
Captain Bashir was struck dumb. The navigator shook his head in wonder. The first officer blinked and asked, “Do you mean to tell me we went through all of this just to give the Israelis our Uranium; couldn’t we have just flown it there to begin with?”
CHAPTER 44: McLaren
Slade was tired, sore, and grumpy from a semi-circular shark bite that wasn’t even going to leave scars. Already the neat row of tooth marks had faded to pink. The doctors steadfastly refused to make them look presentable or even to waste stitches on them.
The Israeli surgeon told the American, “We’re at war here in Israel. I can’t waste the thread; I’ve got real casualties. Really, I thought you Americans were made of tougher stuff.”
Now he was home—almost.
Helen and the kids were back. The danger wasn’t completely over but it was manageable. They’d never again be able to lead the carefree life they once did, but that was the price the world had to pay to wage war against the jihad. It was a burden shared by everyone, whether they knew it or not.
Slade had only his rollaboard. He wore dark slacks with his black boots, a gray shirt with no tie, and a charcoal herringbone coat. September in D.C. wasn’t cold, it was cool, and the leaves were just giving a hint of turning. He waited at the curb of Dulles International, waiting for Helen to drive up in his old silver Jaguar to pick him up and take him home.
He looked for the Jag, but it didn’t come. Slade checked his watch. As he did another silver coupe pulled up. It wasn’t a Jaguar. It was long and lean, with a huge hood and a growling giant beneath the bonnet. The driver’s side door lifted up in its trademark gullwing. Slade peeked beneath the door to see Helen grinning from ear to ear.
“I had no idea driving could be so much fun! Get in!”
He tossed his bag in the back and got into the car, stammering, “Do you know what this is? It’s an SLR, A Mercedes-McLaren. What’s wrong with the Jag; don’t tell me they gave you this as a loaner? We can’t even afford the insurance!”
The door closed and Helen pulled back out into traffic. “I should be mad at you, or at least a little jealous,” she said. “You must have made that woman very happy, very happy indeed!”
“What woman?”
“Eva! She left you a letter in the glove compartment!”
“Slade opened the opened the door and took out a purple envelope with gold leaf edging. Inside was lavender stationary. The note read,
Dear Jeremiah, it may be cliché, but words cannot express my appreciation for everything you did. My father is even more appreciative, and he hopes you will accept this token of his thanks—don’t worry, everything’s taken care of—enjoy!
Eva
P.S. Give Helen a big kiss for me. I hope she puts out, LOL!
P.P.S Christian sends Skol!
There was a big lipstick kiss below the note.
“Who is Eva?”
“A bored heiress who got herself mixed up the wrong crowd and needed rescuing,” he said simply.
“I see she expects me to put out. What did you tell her about us?”
“Not that!” he assured Helen. “We made small talk during dinner in Paris. I wanted her to know I wasn’t available so that we could get down to business.”
“I see,” Helen remarked, ignoring most of his answer. “You saw her in Paris?”
“We had dinner on one of the river boats—business—I have to take you one of these days.”
“Is that what this car is for?”
“No, the Iranians hijacked her husband’s freighter,” he started to say.
“Not the one from the news? The one with the Uranium on it?”
“That’s the one.”
“You were there Jeremiah?”
He sighed and said simply, “Now you know what I do for a living.”
“No wonder she was appreciative!”
“By the price tag of this car, I suppose so.”
“This is from her dad,” Helen noted. “How did she show her appreciation to you?”
He shrugged, admitting, “She did flash me.”
“She flashed you?” Helen started.
“Kind of like you did when you were seventeen,” he reminded her.
“I was sixteen,” she corrected. Then a scathing look came across her face. “You’re trying to change the subject!”
“I was in her shower. It was the only way I could communicate with her and her husband without the Iranians catching on. Don’t worry, I was in a wetsuit. Nothing happened.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t have any right to be jealous after all you’ve done for me and the kids. It’s not like we’re really married; you’re free Jeremiah.”
There was a long silence.
“Did she look good naked,” she asked, coloring.
“Not as good as you.”
“At sixteen maybe. I was pretty hot.”
“I meant now.”
“You don’t have to say that Jeremiah.”
“No, I don’t,” he agreed. “But you wanted to know the truth—didn’t you?”
Helen smiled, trying to appear like she didn’t care when she did—a lot.
He patted her knee.
“Do you want to go to dinner? We’re in a nice car and you’re all dressed up.”
“Tomorrow,” Slade said. “Let’s get some pizza and head home to the kids. We’ll make it a movie night.”
Helen hit the gas and the SLR leapt forward, heading home.
Back Cover: The Ghost of Malaysian Flight 666
An airliner disappears over the ocean without a trace.
Three tons of Iranian enriched Uranium disappears in the Straits of Hormuz.
A CIA agent on the edge.
A father desperately trying to reconcile with his son.
A son trying to reclaim the honor of his name.
A woman trying to salvage a future for her children.
A president watching his world fall prey to reality.
An exotic Heiress held hostage by maniacal killers.
The fate of all these things, and the course of the world, depends on the Ghost of Malaysian Flight 666.
The Ghost of Flight 666 Page 32
