EAGLE OF DARKNESS
New Edition
Martin Kramer's ambition is to become a deputy director of the CIA. But he brings the threat of nuclear war when he launches Operation Oracle, a personal campaign of hate against Israel. Sam Bolt gets caught up in Kramer's plans when he meets the mysterious Panya Pulaski from Unity Through Faith, a group trying to bring peace between Christians, Jews and Muslims in order to get aid and medicine to the Middle East. Sam is in trouble. With his children in care, and his partner missing with the lottery winnings, he is suspected of murder. And a relentless newspaper reporter refuses to leave him alone. When Sam hears of a wartime Gestapo officer buried in a Berlin cellar, he reluctantly flies to Germany to investigate. The body holds the key to an ancient prophecy that could blow Kramer's plans sky high. But all Sam wants is his children back. Eagle of Darkness -- a chilling chain of events running through America, England and Germany, coming to a gripping finale in the Red Mountains of Egypt.
Eagle of Darkness
by
Christopher Wright
First published in 2002 ©Christopher Wright by Hard Shell Publishing in the USA
This new North View Publishing edition ©Christopher Wright 2015
Eagle of Darkness is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Statements made by characters in this book may not always reflect historical fact, just what the characters choose to believe to be true. Racist statements are those of the fictional characters making them, and are essential to the plot. They do not in any way reflect the views of the author.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
North View Publishing
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Contents
Author's note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
1940
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
The Present
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
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Author's note
This book was first published in 2002 ("The Present"), shortly after nine-eleven, and reflects the political, military, religious and international situation at that time, before the 2003 invasion of Iraq. The technology is therefore the technology of 2002, which is why fax machines rather than the mobile Internet are in regular use, and so are public phone boxes (a dying breed now). Modern battlefield drones are far in advance of the basic Gideon drones here. The world of technology has changed so much in a few short years, and of course is changing still.
The only alterations I have made in this North View Publishing 2015 edition of Eagle of Darkness are minor edits and small additions that make some things clearer, but these do not change the plot or update the technology in any way. It is important to realize that it wasn't until later that websites like Facebook (2004) and Twitter (2006) became available to subscribers throughout the world, allowing users to spread information quickly and widely.
According to one biblical tradition, the Hebrews are descended from Shem, one of Noah's sons. Shem was the great grandfather of Heber (or Eber), although this origin of the name is not accepted by everyone. The Institute of Egyptologists in this story has understood the name "Sons of Heber" in their prophecy to be the Hebrews, and then by inference to indicate modern Israel. No one investigating the prophecy challenges this interpretation, so please accept it too as you read this work of fiction. (No correspondence on this, please!)
Christopher Wright
Prologue
"The large bird from Mitzrayim will destroy the chicks of the people on the holy mountain who will mourn their leaders."
A MIXTURE of hysteria and paralysis gripped the passengers as the explosion ripped away the rear of the aircraft. An icy blast roared through the cabin, scattering top secret papers and baggage. Several seats disappeared from sight, spiraling into space with their screaming occupants.
A few of the remaining passengers attempted to stand, but the increasing angle of the dive made standing impossible. Most gripped their armrests with white knuckled hands, trying to recall half-forgotten prayers as the dark blue water of the Mediterranean rose to meet them. There would be no survivors.
At a stroke, several Israeli cabinet ministers had been erased. Three days earlier the Institute of Egyptologists had predicted the destruction of the special mission from Jerusalem to Cairo. The prophecy of a major air disaster had been clear, and even the date was exact. But no one in authority paid any attention before the fatal flight. The findings of the Institute of Egyptologists seemed unimportant.
The Partners at the Institute were shocked by the tragedy, yes, but mostly they were elated. If proof were needed, they told each other, this was surely it. This was their third clear prediction in the past year. But there was little coverage in the press.
In Virginia, Martin Kramer reacted with frustration at the lack of media attention. He needed to generate worldwide interest in the prophecies, and he needed to do it immediately. The Eagle of Darkness was almost ready to fly.
Chapter 1
England
THE MAN stepped out of the shadows, blocking the way into the house. "Mr. Sam Bolt?" he asked quietly.
Sam stopped, the door key in his hand. If the thin man in the long raincoat was wearing a trilby hat with a press card pushed into the rim, he'd be a dead ringer for a repor
ter from a 1940s B movie.
"What are you doing here, Tolley?" Sam snapped. "Come to accuse me of killing my partner? Again?"
The man already had his notebook open. "I think maybe we can help each other." He looked up and smiled.
"Bill Tolley, the Sniffing Ferret." Sam shook his head. "Hasn't Fleet Street got rid of you yet?"
The smile disappeared instantly. "Now, Sam -- may I call you Sam? -- I don't invent the news. I only report it."
"With innuendo. Why the hell should I talk to you?"
"I have some information."
"About my partner?"
The reporter shook his head.
"My children? The money?"
"Sam, Sam, it's freezing out here. You're going to have to let me in."
Sam Bolt put the key in the door. Three months ago Tolley had been a persistent problem, like a neighbor's dog that never stops barking. "This had better be good," he said.
"I want you to run back over the events when your partner went missing."
"I don't like your tone," Sam warned.
"Do you want me to run a piece for you on police victimization?"
"Press victimization, you mean."
Bill Tolley pointed to the front door. "Let's start at the beginning. Can we go in?"
Sam sighed loudly, but decided it would be as well to keep on the good side of this reporter from the Morning Herald. He showed him into the lounge. "Leave your coat on, sit down, and don't muck up the furniture."
Tolley referred to something in his notebook. "Your partner Sally won ten million."
"See, you're making it up as you go along. You know perfectly well it was just over two million." Sam stayed on his feet. "I think you'd better leave."
Bill Tolley sank back into the large sofa. "Okay, so she won well over two million. And she decided to keep it for herself."
"Yes."
"Did you have a problem with your relationship?"
"What the hell business is it of yours, Tolley?"
The reporter studied his notebook again, although he probably knew his questions off by heart -- and most of the answers as well. "You told the police that Sally had bought the lottery ticket with her own money, so the winnings were hers."
"Technically, yes."
"Very noble of you."
"We weren't married, so I didn't stand a chance. That's what her lawyers said."
"Then she left you -- you say."
"Look, if you know where Sally is, tell me. I want my two children back."
Tolley nodded and wrote down something briefly. "Yes, that's a bad one. Of course, Sally gave up her job when you ... she ... won the money."
"Sally was a typist. Who wants to type when they've got two million in the bank?"
"Over two million." Tolley flicked his notebook shut. "Have you ever wondered what your partner was doing at the Institute of Egyptologists?"
"She typed letters for them. That's what typists do."
"And reports?"
"Probably."
"Bring anything home?"
"Not that I know. Why?"
"Would you say they're a weird lot?"
He knew he should never have let the man through the front door. He could imagine the headlines in the Herald tomorrow, implying he still had something to hide. "Sally didn't like the place, but it was a job."
"And you've no idea where she is now?"
"I don't know, and I don't care. All I want is to get the kids back from Social Services."
"Have you considered that your partner might still be at the Institute, with Dr. Wynne?" Tolley leaned forward with a studied earnestness. "He might have brainwashed her."
"Like a cult?" For a moment he felt caught unawares. The possibility had never occurred to him before. "What makes you say that?"
"Who knows what that crazy lot are up to? They seem to have their finger on something. There's talk of war in the Middle East. The Israelis have been acting offensively lately."
"They're on the defensive," said Sam. "They're caught in the middle with all these terrorist reprisals."
"They're caught on the back foot," said Tolley. "And suddenly the Arab nations are afraid of being nuked by them."
"I heard. But I can't imagine that lot up the street are selling Israel the bombs."
"Of course not, but they popped up all of a sudden to tell us it's been predicted." Tolley seemed to be running through a well prepared speech. "One moment there's a few old duffers at the Institute of Egyptologists muttering about an ancient Egyptian god called Aten, and now they're fixing up a press conference to tell us about the end of the world."
"I didn't know."
"That's why I'm telling you."
"You're enjoying this," taunted Sam. "You're just about finished as a reporter, but you think you could be a star again."
Tolley held up his hands. "Me? With a bloody piss artist for an editor?"
"You're investigating the Institute!"
The reporter yawned. "I'll probably be making a fool of myself but, yes, I'm interested in what Dr. Wynne is doing."
"Careful you don't overdo the enthusiasm."
"It's only a temporary attack." Bill Tolley stretched out full length on the sofa, and yawned again as he swung his legs up onto the arm. "It doesn't matter how long you've been in the game, the world always springs surprises on us. You still flying those jets?"
"I've been under suspicion of murder," Sam muttered. This reporter was a menace. "The airline was happy to let me go. They thought the passengers wouldn't be too pleased if they knew a murderer had his hands on the controls."
"Is that an admission?"
Sam stood up. "For Pete's sake, Tolley, can't you even recognize sarcasm?"
"She might be out there." Tolley pointed to the back of the house.
"She'll be cold if she is."
"Not if she's six feet under."
"She's not. The police dug up the garden eight weeks ago."
"Did they find any clues?"
"I think you'd know if they did."
"Okay, would you have her back?"
"You're not serious, I hope."
Tolley opened to his notebook again. "Ever thought about checking up on the Institute one night? If your partner's shacked up at there, it would prove you didn't murder her."
"I'm not breaking in." Tolley's visit was starting to make sense.
"You could look through the windows."
"What's in it for you?"
"I'll tell you what, Sam. My new editor is still wet behind the ears. I started to write something to send the Institute up, but he wouldn't have it. Said he wanted a sympathetic approach, not a lampoon. Wrote something groveling himself for the Sunday supplement a couple of weeks ago."
"And you're still mad at him?"
"He believes all this rubbish from Dr. Gresley Wynne. Tell me, Sam, what sense is there in being motivated nowadays?"
"Look, Tolley, I don't care what drives you, but whatever it is you're planning, you're not doing it with me."
"I was hoping you'd help me dig the dirt on the Institute."
"What, snoop around for you? You haven't got a hope in hell. You and the police have ruined my life."
Tolley stood up and waved his notebook. "Before I go, Sam, tell me one thing. You're definitely innocent?"
"Right, that's it." He caught the reporter by the back of his long coat and propelled him out through the front door.
Chapter 2
Cairo, Egypt
THE MAN found himself sweating, in spite of the cool November afternoon. The large Mitsubishi off-roader looked too smart for this area of the river, and he was painfully aware of too many eyes watching the bright blue vehicle as he pulled away from the water's edge onto the firm tarmac.
He half expected the Mukhabarat, the Egyptian secret service, to be waiting for him here on the Gezira waterfront, demanding to check his load. He floored the throttle and swung into the afternoon traffic. The sudden acceleration and the protesting
tires drew even more attention, but his nerves would allow nothing less. The fume-filled streets would take him south, away from the hectic city.
The unsteady ticking from the instrument on the front passenger seat became steadier now and he began to relax. He glanced at the reading. Just under fifty counts. Insufficient radiation was coming off the crate to cause any health problems, as long as the journey up the Nile highway lasted less than the estimated two hours.
*
Beni Mazar, Egypt
THE INDUSTRIAL complex on the outskirts of Beni Mazar came into sight two hours and fifteen minutes later, the site looking derelict. A small Coca Cola sign hung from an abandoned stone building on the corner, its enamel paint rusty from many stone chips.
He slowed and checked his mirror again. He'd attracted absolutely no attention on the journey south. Ahmed's photographs at the briefing seemed to have been adequate for the purpose. The empty warehouse across the sandy yard was exactly as he'd expected, and the key fitted the door. It was as though he'd been here before. The photographs weren't just adequate: they were excellent.
The Arabic fascia in red and black, advertising the Alexandria Packing Company, had peeled in the bright sun, and the blue paint on the door looked ancient and powdery. All around the musty interior he could see signs of previous occupation: pallets and broken boxes. The place must have been empty for over a year. Warily he slid the heavy packing case to the ground, down the two thick planks he'd thrown into the back of the Mitsubishi before leaving Cairo.
The instrument on the front seat stopped its irregular ticking as he dragged the container away from the Mitsubishi and into the warehouse. He'd been sweating before this exertion, and he was sweating even more freely now. Having to wear gloves didn't help. He paused to wipe the sweat from his face with his sleeve before removing a panel in the side of the crate. There were no markings, but the piece of paper in his pocket told him all he needed to know. Reaching in, he inserted the key, set the switch to the upward position, then locked it into place. The timer started running.
An anti-tamper mechanism had been fitted. Not even this key could disable it now. Any unauthorized interference would be devastating. Ahmed, the Lebanese agent, had given him definite instructions. He must not touch the switch again.
He climbed back into the bright blue off-roader. Without the high radiation source on board he could drive slowly and still be back in Cairo well before midnight, in time for a shower and a few Sakkaras. Then he would leave the Mitsubishi by the eastern approach to the el-Tahrir Bridge as arranged, and meet the woman at the bus station for his money.
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