by Rick Jones
Sitting at an exclusively reserved area at the Çorlulu Ali Paşa Café and surrounded by his bodyguards which included Amal Purakayastha, who sat at a nearby table relishing a boza, a native drink, and Abesh Faruk who was in the company of a man by the name of Zahid Ahmadi, a self-proclaimed leader who affirmed himself to be the 'anointed one' by Allah. And like Faruk, he was a man of slight build and height, almost boyish, but he was also a man who carried the great weight of authority.
Sitting at a table that overlooked the city of Istanbul, Abesh Faruk was enjoying a Çoban Salatası salad, while Ahmadi dined on İskender Kebap, a dish served with beaten pieces of meat seasoned with suet, local herbs, and spices. Today, they were negotiating a deal for mutual benefit.
“Two days ago,” Faruk began, as he held up his fork with lettuce that dripped with dressing, “my technicians finished analyzing the documents of Moses’ Chronicles. It appears that the true Mount Sinai is not in Egypt, as everyone believes. According to the hieroglyphic Hebrew, it’s located in the Jabal al-Lawz Mountain range, the ancient land of Midian, in the far northwest corner of Saudi Arabia.”
“The Jabal al-Lawz Mountain range has many mountains,” Ahmadi returned. “Am I to simply choose and take my chances as to which mountain we should investigate?”
Faruk shook his head. “The Chronicles were specific, and something the Vatican chose to keep buried. The Church would have everyone believe that the relic was destroyed when, in fact, the truth is that it still exists. The Vatican, however, like us, doesn’t know exactly where it is.”
“How are we supposed to find this golden calf, if your analysis has not divulged its location?”
“We know the exact mountain,” Faruk told him. “But we don’t know exactly where upon the mountain it resides, outside of it being buried within a cave beneath weights of stone.”
Ahmadi eased back into his seat after leaving his fork on the plate, the meal barely touched. “There’s a lot at stake here, Abesh. To find the golden calf with minimal information would be like looking for a particular grain of sand within the Sahara Desert.”
“It’s not as dramatic as that, Zahid. Not even close. Yes, there would be a lot of ground to cover. But you simply look for a piling of stones against what could have been an opening against the mountainside.”
Ahmadi picked up his fork and began to eat. With his mouth full and the man still chewing, he asked, “And the bartered agreement, should I find it?”
“It still stands,” Faruk answered. “That hasn’t changed. This is strictly a barter covenant between the parties involved, for which you will receive certain items in exchange for the golden calf.”
Although Ahmadi nodded at this, he wasn’t entirely convinced. “And the details of our barter?” he asked.
Faruk locked onto Ahmadi with a problematical stare. “What? You don’t trust me?”
“It’s business. Nobody knows that more than you. Now, the details of our barter agreement.”
Faruk used his napkin to wipe away the dressing that had formed around his lips, then tossed the napkin over his salad. “Very well,” he said. “In exchange for the golden calf, you will receive three portable nuclear weapons that have been modernized with Israeli parts, each weapon a one-kiloton unit.”
Feeling appeased, Ahmadi brandished a marginal grin to let Faruk know that the deal was accepted and consummated. The golden calf would be worth a fortune. But the nuclear weapons would be priceless. Ahmadi’s plan was to provide the world with a red herring by targeting areas such as Baghdad, Riyadh and Kuwaiti City, all allies of the United States and states of Arab sovereignty. Once the pieces of these devices were examined and traced to Israel, the entire Middle East would retaliate against the Jewish State with every faction banding together—including the Taliban and al-Qaeda—to fight against a common enemy with the support of their people. Israel was about to become the sacrificial lamb.
“As agreed,” Ahmadi finally said.
“You have your team in place?”
“They are prepared, as always.”
“Then I have a request.”
“And that would be?”
Faruk pointed to Amal Purakayastha. “My man goes with you. He will be my eyes and ears on the mission.”
Ahmadi looked at Purakayastha, who looked like a capable warrior. And then: “Agreed.”
“My analysts created a map based on the data provided within the work of the Chronicles,” Faruk added. “Though Moses was not specific, he did provide hints of certain landmarks such as the celestial placement of the stars, which would be something to look for.”
“They could also be red herrings,” said Ahmadi, “since he was evasive about its exact location. You must remember, Moses did not want the relic discovered. And he was a wise man and a great military strategist.”
“True. But his accounts differ from his version of the Bible, meaning that the Chronicles were his personal accounts through his eyes only, as if he was inscribing his activities into a record which—perhaps—was something that was never meant to be discovered or seen by others.”
“Perhaps.”
“Either way, whether the golden calf exists or if it doesn’t, it is up to you to discover if his personal journal is one of fiction or truth.” Faruk pushed his plate towards the middle of the table, leaned forward, and placed his winged elbows on the top. “Find my golden calf, Zahid. To find my golden calf will forward your cause. Without one there cannot be the other.” He fell back into his seat, the man continuing his look on Ahmadi with a naturally fierce gaze.
“If it’s up there,” Ahmadi returned. “We’ll find it.”
“That’s what I want to hear,” Faruk returned. Then after pointing to Purakayastha, he added, “My man will bring with him all you will need to find the item. He will serve you well. But he also serves me.”
“Understood.”
“I will provide you with the transportation necessary to get you to the mountain range. You will have weapons, food, plenty of water, and the credentials necessary should questions arise from Saudi investigators, the police, or principals, in general. As discussed, when I receive the golden calf, only then you will receive the weapons as agreed upon.”
“One kiloton per unit . . . Will that be enough?”
“Do you want to destroy the Middle East or simply make a statement? Anything higher would turn these cities into an apocalyptic hellscape for a thousand years. For what you want to achieve, Zahid, a one-kiloton device is more than enough to achieve your goals.”
Zahid Ahmadi looked upon the arms dealer with study. Faruk had made his fortune dealing weapons to legitimate sources. But he also dabbled on the black market and made a fortune from those transactions that went undeclared to governments, by hiding these funds in secret bank accounts, mostly in the Caymans. As far as Ahmadi knew, however, through sources, Abesh Faruk had never fallen back on a trade or agreement.
Then from Ahmadi: “Within two days,” he began, “I’ll need you to get the necessary items that will see us to Saudi Arabia?”
“I’ll have everything by tonight. Do you have the photos of your team for the passports?”
Ahmadi produced a cellphone with a file that contained the necessary photos of his team and handed it to Faruk. “I can have my men ready by tomorrow,” he added. “Say, o-eight-hundred hours?”
“Eight o’clock is fine,” Faruk answered. “My personal agent will have everything prepared by tonight.”
“Excellent.”
Reaching across the table, Abesh Faruk extended his hand to Zahid Ahmadi, who accepted it and gave it a few minor pumps. And just like that an alliance was formed in the agreement of goods to be bartered, not sold. In exchange for the golden calf, Zahid Ahmadi would receive in compensation three low-yield nuclear devices.
And within that moment as the two shook hands, madness was born.
CHAPTER THREE
Çorlulu Ali Paşa Cafe
Carl Dennison was dressed as a tourist as he sat at a table inside the café—shorts, a loud-colored shirt, a boonie cap, and carrying a strapped digital camera around his neck. Though tourists were not uncommon inside the Çorlulu Ali Paşa Cafe, people like Carl Dennison were since he wasn’t a tourist at all but a Company man from Langley. He had been assigned to shadow Abesh Faruk and to gather intel regarding his prosperous black-market trading and ties to terrorist fronts. For six months he had tracked Faruk sometimes wearing the disguises such as a mustache or goatee, or perhaps a pair of wide-lens sunglasses, or a skin toner. Today, however, he was a traveler who used the brim of his cap to hide a good portion of his face.
Removing the camera from around his neck, he directed the lens at Faruk’s table where the billionaire was engaged in conversation with an ISIS lieutenant by the name of Zahid Ahmadi. While Dennison ate his salad, he often gave sidelong glances to Faruk’s table before going back to his plate. When the men were so deeply focused on each other, Dennison tapped a button on the camera to start the equipment. The lens automatically focused within its housing, until the picture was crisp. The camera’s recorder, which worked on the same principle as a parabola dish to hamper surrounding noises, began to pick up Faruk’s conversation that went directly to his earbud, and to the camera’s digital files.
There had been talk of a barter between the two, a trade for the treasure of a golden calf for three nuclear devices with each containing one-kiloton yields.
As the discussion between the two men started to wrap up with a handshake, Dennison waited for the last possible moment to grab his camera and be on the move. Throwing more than enough money in Turkish lira to cover the cost of the bill, Carl Dennison grabbed his camera and rushed out of the café.
* * *
Amal Purakayastha was a man with a sharp eye and a keen observer. He had seen a man sitting across the café wearing a loud-colored shirt, something a tourist would wear in the Bahamas or the Caribbean where such bright colors were the norm, but not in Istanbul. But that wasn’t the reason why he was drawn to the man. What caught his attention was the camera this man possessed, something Purakayastha recognized as something with high-tech capabilities that was designed to record from great distances because its remarkable lens feature could home in with 4-D technology to chronicle the clearest possible picture or video. More so, it had muting technology that could zero in on the targets without having their conversations compromised by surrounding noises.
As soon as the discussion between Faruk and Ahmadi was over, the tourist swiftly grabbed the camera and exited the café.
Just as Faruk and Ahmadi got to their feet, Purakayastha went to Faruk, leaned into his ear and whispered something so soft, it was as if he was mouthing the words. Faruk, who turned in time to catch a glimpse of the tourist’s brightly colored shirt as he left the cafe, nodded to Purakayastha and told him to ‘deal with the situation.’
Amal Purakayastha nodded and went after the tourist.
“Problems?” Ahmadi asked Faruk with a measure of concern.
The arms dealer nodded and waved it off as if it was no big deal. “Nothing that my man can’t handle,” he told him. “Everything will go on as planned.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Dennison was sure that he had struck gold, with the wealth of information he had gathered something priceless to his principals at Langley. For the six months he’d been trailing Abesh Faruk, he had little to show for his efforts outside of a few documents to prove that a few offshore accounts existed. But this was a bonanza-type hit, something like striking a gold vein that came in the form of intel.
Reaching his hotel, Dennison took the elevator to his room on the twenty-fifth floor. He was alone inside the cab. Looking up periodically to see where he was according to the numbers above the doors, he removed the SIM card from the camera and clutched a fist around it. When the elevator reached his floor and the doors opened, Dennison raced out of the elevator and noticed that the door to his room was open. A maid’s cart was outside his door with the maid inside, cleaning. Offering her Turkish lira to leave, which she willingly accepted, Dennison closed the door, locked it, then went to the window whose drapes were parted to show the cityscape of Istanbul, and held the SIM card up against the light to view the card as if it was a gem. Though it was small, it was not as small as the age-old microdot. But its capability to hold information was so much greater. Whereas the microdot did not have audio or video capabilities, this card did.
Going to his laptop, Dennison opened the lid and booted the unit that would automatically connect to an Ismarsat BGAN system, which was a mobile workstation that as long as it had a line-of-sight to one of the three geostationary satellites to receive a feed from, then he would have global coverage on a secured line. After inserting the card, the monitor came to life with a series of symbols and letters that scrolled along the screen. When the unit was ready to accept the feed, Dennison hit the ‘ENTER’ button, fell back, crossed his arms, and watched the laptop accept the upload.
* * *
Amal Purakayastha watched the tourist get into the elevator, then watched it climb as the numbers lit up. The cab went directly to the twenty-fifth floor with no stops along the way. Getting into an adjacent elevator, Purakayastha hit the twenty-fifth-floor button. Purakayastha found himself alone inside the cab, the hotel lobby virtually empty. Removing his Glock and grabbing a suppressor from his coat pocket, the assassin calmly screwed the suppressor into the barrel’s mouth, which would make the handgun extremely lengthy when fully attached. When he was done, he tucked the weapon in the waistband behind the small of his back.
When he reached the floor and got off, he looked down one end of the corridor, and then the other. The hallway had incredible length to it with too many rooms to consider. But after seeing the maid who was grabbing towels from her janitorial cart, he described to her in earnest of a man wearing a brightly colored shirt. With a smile, she pointed to the man’s room, which was right off the elevator: Room 2504.
Thanking her, Amal Purakayastha went to the door and watched the maid from the corner of his eye. As soon as she entered the room across the way for cleaning, he tried the knob.
Locked. But I have the key.
Reaching for his suppressed weapon, he took aim at the lock and set off a shot.
. . . Phffft . . .
The door opened.
* * *
Carl Dennison had his back to the door when he heard a muted sound that was all too familiar. Turning, he saw a man of dark complexion enter the hallway with a suppressed weapon. As his assassin raised his gun hand, Dennison ducked as three shots fired off in quick succession, the rounds smashing out the scenic window twenty-five floors above the pavement.
Dennison rolled, grabbed his firearm from his holster, a small weapon that was suppressed, and returned a volley. Three shots, all missing their intended target as the exotic woodwork next to Purakayastha erupted into splinters. The Bangladeshi bobbed, weaved, and then disappeared into one of the offshoot rooms to the suite.
Dennison maintained his position as the computer continued to upload the information, the data scrolling upward on the screen.
The CIA operative checked the area first to his left and then to his right, the gun poised to kill. Then he got to his feet and listened. He heard nothing outside of the marginal hum of the computer, as it absorbed the details of the conversation between Ahmadi and Faruk.
Dennison stepped to the side and into position to get a better look of the hallway. The door was slightly ajar, and the assassin was nowhere in sight. But he was close, something Dennison could feel rather than sense.
He moved slowly along the corridor with his gun leading the way.
Then he stopped and listened.
Nothing but a silence that was also thunderous, because the assassin was close and waiting in the wings of the shadows.
In the backgrou
nd, the computer had a long way to go, a lot of information to receive.
Stepping into one of the branching hallways, Dennison could suddenly see in his mind’s eye his assassin squeezing softly on the trigger of his sidearm from the shadows, the man pulling, squeezing . . .
Dennison ducked by the calculations of pure instinct as the assassin’s weapon went off, the room lighting up in a strobe-light effect from the muzzle flashes. Bullets stitched along the walls behind the CIA covert, the rounds missing. As soon as Dennison took to a knee to return fire, the assassin launched himself forward and took Dennison to the floor, the two fighting with the Bangladeshi on top.
The CIA operative tried to move the point of his weapon towards the Bangdeshli’s face and then to his throat—either would be a fatal wound if he could get off a shot. With the Bangladeshi trying to perform the same maneuver of directing his aim against Dennison, however, with his weapon, both men struggled until the guns went off in sparked unison, with both missing as Dennison’s bullet went into the ceiling and the Bangladeshi’s into the floor.
Then Dennison lifted his lower body and pitched the assassin off him. Getting quickly to their feet, both men converged with the two engaging one another. Dennison tried to maneuver so that he could find the opportune moment to fire off the entire clip into the man’s abdomen, but the assassin was quick with his hand as he deflected the weapon’s point to the side, the firearm going off and sending an errant round wide of its mark.
The assassin tried the same approach as Dennison, to fight with a combative hand while the Glock was in the other. But his opponent was a skilled fighter who tried to use his open hand to grab or push or torque the Bangladeshi’s wrist to create an opportunity to strike him down.
