by Rick Jones
THE SINAI DIRECTIVE
By
Rick Jones
© 2020 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.
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Also by Rick Jones:
Vatican Knights Series
The Vatican Knights
Shepherd One
The Iscariot Agenda
Pandora's Ark
The Bridge of Bones
Crosses to Bear
The Lost Cathedral
Dark Advent
Cabal
The Golgotha Pursuit
Targeted Killing
Sinners and Saints
The Barbed Crown
The Devil’s Magician
The Nocturnal Saints
The Brimstone Diaries
Juggernaut
Original Sins (a prequel)
In Between God and Devil
The Sinai Directive
The Eden Series
The Crypts of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Thrones of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Beneath the Sea (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Sacred Vault (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Within the Clouds (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
City Beneath the Ice (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
Standalone ADVENTURE: The Menagerie (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
Stand Alone Novels
The Man Who Cast Two Shadows
The Valley (Severed Press)
Mausoleum 2069 (Severed Press and Luzifer-Verlag)
Hunter Series
Night of the Hunter
The Black Key
Theater of Operation
With RICK CHESLER
First Strike
With NICK THACKER
The Eye of Moses (coming)
The Vladorian Keep (coming)
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Mount Sinai
1,446 B.C.
Under the assertive direction of Dathan during the six weeks of Moses’ absence when he ventured to the top of Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments, the people had become wicked in their impiety and had forged an idol of God in the image of a golden calf. When Moses returned and saw this wickedness, he condemned the Israelites to wander the desert for forty years as penance, rather than settle inside the Promised Land.
After Aaron—the brother of Moses—constructed the idolatrous piece that became known as the ‘Sin of the Calf’ under Dathan’s direction, Moses ordered the calf to be stowed in a cave that sat high upon Mount Sinai. Once the golden calf had been secreted away, Moses then gave the order to Joshua to leverage boulders that were situated on a shelf above the entryway with the use of a lever and fulcrum, which caused a landslide of stones to conceal the opening. Once the entry was disguised by tons of stone, it was believed that the idol would be forever lost.
Thirty-five hundred years later, however, the idol would again come into play by forces who were determined to gain a foothold in history by establishing an empire under the rule of Allah, the one true God. And this time the Islamic State would do so with uncontested power now that they would have teeth to gnash their enemies with. They would finally hold that scepter of rule that had eluded them for so long. But it would not come in the shape of a gemmed staff, but by the shape of nuclear weapons.
In the weeks to come inside a small café in Istanbul, the terms of negotiations between two men who had in their power to change the world would be discussed.
CHAPTER ONE
The Saint Catherine Monastery
Mount Sinai, Egypt
The Saint Catherine Monastery on Mount Sinai is located at the very place where God allegedly appeared to Moses in the Burning Bush, and beneath the Mount of the Decalogue. It is also the site of the second largest library of ancient antiquities behind the Vatican’s Secret Archive, and home to the Sinai Texts, which is the original autograph copy of the Torah written by Moses in 1446 BC. Written in hieroglyphic Hebrew, these texts include the first five books of the Old Testament: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy. Not only were these texts significant to the religious historians that poured over them, they were also one part of Moses’ greater history of the Exodus. In other writings not related to the books of the Testament, Moses also chronicled a history of the Israelites and their escape from Pharaoh. When Moses took leave to receive the tablets of the Ten Commandments, only to return to find that his people had become corrupt and, in his absence, had forged the image of a false god in the shape of a golden calf, he became incensed. He then had the calf buried within the hollow of the mountain and behind a fortification of stones. This, of course, did not lend itself to the readings of the scholars since this account in the Chronicles of Moses revealed a much different version of the event: which was that the golden calf had been burned in a fire, ground to powder and scattered upon water, for which he then forced the Israelites to drink as punishment. But to those few who read the Chronicles of Moses, they had deduced from it a different viewpoint: Moses obviously did not want the golden calf to be sought as a treasure; therefore, he deliberately misrepresented the facts that were contradictory with the writings of the Sinai Texts. Of course, this was more theory than conclusion since interpretations, especially when it involved ancient and dead languages, were always open to misconstructions when trying to untangle the truth. And nobody wanted the truth more than Abesh Faruk, a Bangladeshi arms dealer who had incredible wealth that amounted to billions of dollars in American currency. With his finances, Faruk had a long reach to employ those who could achieve the means to whatever Faruk wanted. And suc
h a man was Amal Purakayastha, a qualified mercenary and assassin who had trained with the Bangladesh Special Operations Forces, or the BSOF.
Beneath the light of a gibbous moon and within the shadows of the St. Catherine Monastery, Amal Purakayastha canvassed the perimeter of the abbey and made observations of the entry and exit ways, which were few along the walls. He had also taken note of the two guards who had grown fat and had seen their best years behind them. But he knew there were others—at least six according to the reports.
From the shadows not too far from the sentries, Amal Purakayastha fastened a suppressor to his firearm with the extension longer than the gun’s barrel, took aim, and pulled the trigger.
. . . Phffft . . .
. . . Phffft . . .
Two muted shots that sounded like loud spits took down the guards, their bodies collapsing into boneless heaps to the stones. After Amal Purakayastha approached with the point of his weapon directed at the bodies, he added two more shots to each of their heads for good measure.
. . . Phffft . . .
. . . Phffft . . .
Then he found a keyring full of keys on one of the guards. Patiently going through the watcher keys one by one, he eventually discovered the key to the main gate. As the lock clicked and the gate swung open without protest, Purakayastha quietly made his way to the central courtyard and took position behind the walls.
It was early morning, close to two a.m., and the remaining guards appeared complacent as two guards sat on an elevated wall close to him, the two talking about a recent football matchup between El Gouna and Smouha.
Taking a few steps back to place the guards within the crosshairs of his weapon, Amal Purakayastha set off two more kill shots. The heads of the guards snapped violently against the bullets’ impacts, with the wall behind them taking on the nonsensical designs of a Pollock painting that was created by their blood and gore. And like a wraith, Purakayastha slid back into the shadows beyond the fringes of light that had been cast by sodium-vapor lamps, disappearing.
From the dark veils, he took aim at the lights and expertly took them out with precise shots, the assassin never missing. When the courtyard was steeped in complete darkness, Purakayastha silently made his way up the desert stone incline and stood before the door that led into the monastery.
There, he waited and listened with flawless patience, the man never one to make mistakes. Assuring himself that he was alone on the upper tier, he entered the building. The hallways were long and dimly lit, the casting of light feeble. With additional shots from his weapon, Purakayastha took out the remaining lights one by one, the lamps popping louder than the suppressed shots.
Standing idle within the shadows, the Bangladeshi waited to see if the noises had alerted the two remaining guards. They didn’t. Then he moved forward with stealth and grace, smooth and unhurried, the man a true hunter.
Another door—this one old and ancient with thick timber pieced together by black metal bands and rivets. After discovering the proper watcher key on the ring, he opened the door. A darkened stairway spiraled downward like a nautilus into a chamber that allegedly contained a vault filled with Biblical treasures.
Taking the steps with silent footfalls, Purakayastha, with the point of his firearm leading the way, advanced. At the bottom, light was filtering into the staircase. Then he began to hear the conversation between the two remaining guards, which was distant at first, but grew louder as he approached.
When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he entered the chamber with his firearm raised and pulled the trigger to bluntly announce his presence. A bullet hole magically appeared in the forehead of the guard sitting at the desk by the vault’s access, which was a round and massive metal door that had a mirror polish to it. The fatally wounded man immediately appeared surprised by his own mortality. And then he started to exhale a final breath as his shoulders drooped with the crookedness of an Indian’s bow, the man soon dying in his chair before he came crashing forward to the desktop. The second guard, as soon as Purakayastha immediately turned his weapon on him, raised his hands in surrender.
As Purakayastha moved across the room with his weapon focused on the guard, he took note of the keypad and ocular scanner by the door.
“Please,” the guard begged, “I have two children.”
Purakayastha looked inquisitively at the guard and thought: Why do people always think that children make a difference in an outcome? They don’t.
“Open the door,” Purakayastha told him. His tone was flat, even, the man without emotion.
“Please—”
“Trust me when I say that I do not ask a person to perform an instruction twice.” For emphasis, Purakayastha placed a second bullet into the corpse sitting at the desk. “The next bullet is for you. Believe me.”
“I can’t recall the code.” The guard pointed to the keypad.
“Then you have exactly five seconds to do so. One . . . Two . . .”
“Please, I have children—”
“Three—”
“I don’t remember!”
“Four.” Purakayastha raised his firearm and drew a bead to the guard’s forehead.
“All right!” The guard waved his hands in appeal. “All right!”
“It’s amazing how people remember when there’s a gun pointed to their head, yes?” Purakayastha lowered his weapon, but not by much. “Now open the door.”
The guard’s courage began to abandon him. After typing the code, the lamp above the keypad turned from red to green, indicating that the ocular scanner had been authorized.
“Now,” said Purakayastha, “finish the process.”
“Please, I have children.”
“Finish the process.”
The guard placed his eyes against the ocular scanner which read the exclusive roadmap of capillaries and the red lacings of his orbs, which in turn validated the process by unlocking and opening the door, allowing the door to swing wide after the locking bolts had pulled back from their sockets.
The guard, praying that his compliance was enough to alter his fate, never felt the bullet that entered and exited his skull.
Purakayastha, after tucking his weapon in his waistband behind him, entered the well-lit chamber that went on as far as his eyes could see.
* * *
The ceiling to this subterranean Archive was high, and the surrounding walls were made of desert stone. With the monastery’s Archive second in size to the Vatican’s, which had more than fifty miles of warrens filled with books and tomes and ancient parchments, Purakayastha knew exactly where the Chronicles of Moses were, since his employer had greased the palm of a curator with a windfall sum of money. Purakayastha would find the Chronicles, do what he was appointed to do, then he would escape before the authorities could canvas the area.
To the side of the door was a motor pool of electric vehicles similar to golf carts. Getting in and starting a vehicle, Purakayastha began to make his way down the aisles to a room that was off the Master Chamber. Reaching the doors to the charted room that he had recalled from the blueprints that had been given to him by his employer, Abesh Faruk, Purakayastha parked the cart and opened the doors. As soon as he did the lights to the room went on automatically, the system connected to motion detection. This was the library that had been specifically set aside to house the Chronicles of Moses, the only true diary of his peoples’ plight during Exodus.
Amal Purakayastha, however, showed no emotion, no awe, within the company of the rows of glass cases that were filled with pages written or scribed in hieroglyphic Hebrew and Egyptian. Some were in clay form, but these were few. Most, however, were aged parchment that had yellowed and browned over time. If not for the display cases that were hermetically sealed to protect them, they would simply turn to dust by the handling of their custodian.
Grabbing a camera that was the size of a cigarette pack from his pocket, Amal Purakayastha began to snap digital photos of the te
xt exhibited within the cases that were separated page by page, until he had enough intel that was to be interpreted by Faruk’s team of analysts.
Not one page of the Chronicles had been removed, disturbed or appropriated from their display cases, since these pieces were not targeted for profit or gain. The whereabouts of the true prize was listed somewhere within the writings upon these separated parchments. What needed to be done now was for Faruk’s analysts to piece together the references within Moses’ writings and create a map of the treasure’s location, then forward a team to track it down.
Returning to his cart and checking his watch, Purakayastha noted that the operation had taken less than twenty minutes, but two minutes longer than expected. Making his way topside, Purakayastha slipped away from the monastery and disappeared within the shadows of the desert landscape.
CHAPTER TWO
Çorlulu Ali Paşa Cafe
Istanbul, Turkey
Three Weeks Later
Abesh Faruk was a diminutive man with a dark complexion, darker eyes and raven hair. Everything about his physical depiction simply announced a one-sided darkness about him. Wearing a top-end suit and jewelry that amounted to be more than the salaries of those in the middle class, Abesh Faruk thrived within a lifestyle that was surrounded by unique and one-of-a-kind relics.
In his luxury estate located in Zurich, he had a large room set aside to enshrine and showcase magnificent pieces such as the armor worn by Joan of Arc, or the bow that had been used by Genghis Khan, the steel helmet that Richard the Lionhearted had worn during the Crusades, and the quill-pen Martin Luther used to write his Ninety-five Theses. These were a few of his prized treasures and historical artifacts that were owned by those who had shaped history in the most influential ways. But in the center of his ballroom-sized arena was an empty glass booth that awaited a relic from ancient and Biblical times, something he would truly covet.
