The Sinai Directive

by Rick Jones

  Walking up and extending his hand to Kimball, he said, “Mr. Hayden.”

  Kimball took Jackson’s hand and gave it a few quick pumps. “Jackson?”

  “That’s me.” Jackson turned and beckoned for Kimball to follow him through the terminal and to their transport. “Tonight,” Jackson continued softly as he constantly examined his surroundings with darting eyes, “you’ll chopper to a boat in the Red Sea. From there you’ll be taken to a point approximately two miles off the Saudi Shore via a Zodiac. And it’ll be there that you will meet with Sherpa who will take you to the Jabal al-Lawz Mountain range and to the base of Jabal Maqla.”

  “Is he Company, too?”

  “He is. Ever since the Vatican offered its insights to the communication between Faruk and Ahmadi, we became most concerned. If this relic does exist and the plan is to exchange WMDs for the golden calf with Israel in the crosshairs, you can sure as hell bet that the Mossad has taken a valued interest in this, as well.”

  “Yeah. I bet.”

  “I’m sure they’re working hard to contain the situation on their end, if the Vatican’s right.”

  “They are.”

  “Yeah, we figured as much. Makes sense. We now have operatives working the case abroad to establish validity. And if validations are made, then the Company will respond accordingly with the aid of the Mossad’s ultra-secret assassination unit, the Kidon.”

  After they got into a vehicle, which was a multi-paned van whose windows were heavily tinted, Jackson continued with his briefing.

  “We’ve just received confirmation that Zahid Ahmadi and his team made it through Saudi security under false credentials that were most likely provided by Faruk. Saudi authorities remain unaware that they have allowed an active cell within their borders. At that time the Company tried to link up an overhead eye-in-the-sky view, but we were too late. Same with the Mossad. The whereabouts of Faruk’s team at the moment is anyone’s guess.”

  “Yeah. But at least we know where they’re going,” said Kimball.

  “From what we can gather,” Jackson returned, “with the aid of Vatican Intelligence who agreed with our assessment, there are nine terrorists attached to this squad, including Zahid Ahmadi and a Bangladeshi by the name of Amal Purakayastha.”

  “The former Bangladesh Special Operations Forces operator.”

  “You know of him, then?”

  Kimball nodded. “I’ve read his biographical record. It’s also believed that he was the one who killed your operative that was following Faruk. At least that’s what was gathered by the hotel’s CCTV images that were intercepted and reviewed by Vatican Intelligence.”

  “We have the same images,” said Jackson. “And we came to the same conclusions. Makes sense since Amal Purakayastha is Faruk’s right-hand man. Anyway, he’s an acting participant in Ahmadi’s radical cell, and the eyes and ears of Abesh Faruk.”

  What Jackson was telling Kimball was nothing new, the information simply a rehash telling of what Vatican Intelligence had already informed him of.

  As the van turned into a subterranean garage of a nondescript building, then drove onto an elevator that was created for the transport of vehicles from level to level, the cab descended another six floors beneath the surface until they came to a lower-level garage, 6-G. After driving through a tunnel that appeared to have been bored through, they finally came to a well-lit chamber. Similar vans were parked in the carpool.

  After exiting the vehicle, the Vatican Knights, with Jackson taking lead, made their way to another set of stainless-steel doors that had a mirror polish to them, an obvious elevator, and descended another two floors. The level they stopped at was an open and vast chamber, a secret hideaway from the eyes of the Egyptian government.

  There were tables filled with state-of-the-art weaponry and mini drones that were half the size of a man’s thumb, though they had the massive memory to record and videotape their perspective targets. There were different types of Kevlar and dragon-skin vests, all super thin and virtually undetectable beneath clothing, which were being tested with high-caliber rounds. Everything smacked of a James Bond-ian type lab where manufactured weapons could move freely throughout the Middle East without crossing through ports or border patrols.

  In one area was a table that held five specialized weapons specifically created for military operations, the HK MP7a1 sub machine gun with fitted suppressors and high-end scopes. It was also the Vatican Knights weapon of choice because it was quiet and precise, but more importantly, it was highly lethal. On another side were seven KABAR combat knifes. And at the far end of the table sat the doughy bricks Kimball knew all too well—Semtex, which was a highly explosive and powerful plastique.

  Jackson rounded the table until he stood by the Semtex, then waved his hand over the items to emphasize them. “The Vatican informed us of your weapon choices—said that you preferred nothing else.” Then he laid his hand over the Semtex bricks. “They also said that the plastique would be necessary.”

  Kimball nodded. He knew the power behind such a weapon, then recalled the moment where its power had lifted him off his feet and broke his body.

  “Should be enough here to achieve the means, I would say,” Jackson added.

  Roman rounded the table to examine the plastique. Since he was the team’s explosive specialist, he knew what Semtex smelled and felt like, the putty soft and pliable. A simple wad that could fit within the palm of a man’s hand was deadly enough. Five pounds would be devastating, which was the valued weight of the plastique.

  Then from Jackson: “You’ll also be given 40-round magazines. So, if there’s anything we forgot to add or supply—” He let his words trail.

  “Yeah. We’ll need an Ismarsat BGAN system so that we can be in constant communication with Vatican Intelligence.”

  “We have the unit ready and available. And the geospatial satellites will be in orbit to provide linkup with the Vatican’s Comm Center by the time we commence with your directive. Anything else?”

  Kimball reassured the CIA operator that the Vatican Knights had everything necessary. “We’ll handle everything from here.”

  “Good,” Jackson told him. “Gear up and be ready by twenty-two hundred hours.”

  Kimball looked at his watch. He had time to go over the mission objectives with his team, how they were going to proceed.

  Grabbing the weapons and the Semtex, the Vatican Knights began to ready up.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Zurich, Switzerland

  That Evening

  Abesh Faruk was a man of many tastes which included high-end and fashionable clothing, fine spirits, expensive drink, and an appreciative eye for the opposite sex. Tonight, he was holding a gala for his associates, one of his many get-togethers that had become a constant over the years as a means to groom new clients for the arms trade.

  The ballroom was striking with a ceiling decorated with the paintings of leaders riding through significant battles while seated upon their steeds. Million-dollar chandeliers hung with the crystals made of the most expensive quality to show off their glittering iridescent hues against brilliant lighting. The floor was fashioned from the most magnificent Italian marble that money could buy; and the drapes, all floor-to ceiling, were made of the finest silk. His most preferred color was gold, which accented the railings to the staircase that wound to the second floor. Abesh Faruk was in his element. Anything less than these luxuries would have been insufficient, since his exquisite tastes for material goods made him feel uncompetitively superior to others.

  In a suit that cost more than most vehicles driven by the middle class, Abesh Faruk welcomed his guests and sized them up at the same time. He was an astute businessman who could read people like the pages of a book—a speed reader, in fact. To those he perused as anemic or having weak contacts, he simply provided a nod and a smile and moved along. To those who had ties to cabals rooted and steeped in violence, however, he would invade th
eir space and become their ally in a world badly in need of allies, when your business was war.

  To his left and wearing a spangled dress that was so tight-fitting that it left little to the imagination, was a woman who caught his eye. She was talking with others and laughing with a drink in her hand—red wine, he believed. She was also a blonde whose hair was perfectly coiffed and styled in the way that Faruk liked. And her eyes, even from across the room, were a deep shade of green, like emeralds.

  Excusing himself from his guest, Faruk waded through the crowd with a cognac glass in his hand and stood beside the woman. She was about his height, and elegant. And by the way she spoke, with her clipped accent, he guessed her to be German.

  When she saw the glimmer of admiration of her within Faruk’s eyes, it was also a broadcast to others that Faruk wanted to be alone with this woman. After her guests departed, Abesh Faruk grabbed the woman’s hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed the back of it. Still holding her hand, he asked, “And who might you be, my dear?”

  “Angelika Hartmann.” Her smile was perfect and, if nothing else, magnetic.

  “Ah, Angelika. How fitting for such a lovely woman. I believe it means ‘like an angel.’”

  The woman shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  He leaned into her until their faces were inches apart. “Still, it fits, yes?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  There was no doubt in Faruk’s mind that the woman was German by her accent.

  “Tell me, Angelika, how does a woman like you find yourself invited to my gala? It seems that I don’t recall such a name as pretty as yours on the guest list.”

  “Do you remember Hans Wulfgar?”

  “I do. It’s unfortunate what happened to him. I believe he was killed in a questionable car accident.”

  “There was nothing questionable about it,” she told him. “He was murdered by his adversaries. Those adversaries, however, remain unknown.”

  This was true. Wulfgar was killed when his car had veered off the autobahn at a high rate of speed when it appeared that it had been forced—If not for the second set of tire prints that revealed that Wulfgar’s car was most likely struck—before losing control. The assessment was automatic by those within the trade: he had been killed by a rival.

  “True,” Faruk finally stated. “And you will be taking over his post as buyer and distributer, I assume?”

  “Do you have a problem with a woman standing in as Wulfgar’s proxy?”

  Faruk smiled. This woman was saucy, he thought. “Someone as pretty as you should be adorning the arm of a successful man.”

  “If you think I would be best suited to be someone’s trophy wife and nothing more, perhaps I should take my business elsewhere.” When she started to look around to place down her glass, Faruk backpedaled. “It was not my intention to insult you, Ms. Hartmann. Your beauty is somewhat, how shall we say, against the ugliness of my profession. Somehow, you bring a shine to it rather than a disturbing air that usually comes with the territory of the type of people I deal with.”

  Her smile returned with such a trolling pull, Faruk wanted to lean in and kiss her right there in front of everyone. But he approached the situation with caution. “Would you like to discuss business matters, Angelika—perhaps in my vaulted study?”

  “Alone?”

  “Such matters are not to be discussed openly when guests abound.”

  “True.”

  “I have a room—quite impressive, really—that I believe you’ll find of great interest. It’s a trophy room and a museum—both, I guess.”

  “Trophy room. That would not be the same as the bedroom, would it?”

  “I assure you, Angelika, my intentions are quite honorable.”

  The German beauty stood her ground a moment as if debating Faruk’s offer. And then: “Please lead the way, Mr. Faruk. I’m curious to see this trophy room of yours.”

  “Please, call me Abesh. All my friends do.”

  “All right, Abesh.”

  With a smile whose upturned corners were as thin as fishhooks, Abesh Faruk led the young woman by her hand and through the ballroom.

  * * *

  The French doors that led into the Trophy Room were gold leafed. And standing before these doors was a beef-neck guard with broad shoulders and thick muscles. As Faruk and Ms. Hartmann made their way down the corridor towards the room with Faruk trying his best to impress the woman with boastful conversation, the guard opened the doors to give them access.

  Gesturing for Ms. Hartmann to enter before him, she nodded both in acceptance and appreciation before entering the room. Angelika, who moved with womanly grace, appeared enamored with the cases and booths that contained unique and worldly treasures.

  Leaning into his guard, Faruk spoke to him in whispered tones. “She alleges her name to be Angelika Hartmann, which may be true or not. I need you to do a background check on her immediately. Age. History. Contacts. Look for potential red flags that would indicate her to be somebody other than who she claims to be. She asserts herself to be an associate of Hans Wulfgar and is now acting as his substitute for the people he once worked for. Let me know what you find.” Faruk tapped his watch, telling the guard to communicate his findings through text by sending the message to his smartwatch.

  The big man nodded and, after closing the door behind Faruk, left his post to do as Faruk had requested.

  With his hands clasped behind the small of his back and a smile on his face, the arms dealer sidled up to Angelika Hartmann, who was looking at the bow of Genghis Khan with genuine amazement.

  “Is this real?’ she asked him.

  “Everything in this room is real,” he answered. “Everything is genuine, believe me. My tastes are not in paintings or sculptures—too boring, I’m afraid. My palate for relics, however, lies mainly with historical artifacts that had purpose. Like the bow of Genghis Khan, for instance. He was an accomplished marksman.” Then after a pause, he added, “Who knows how many people he killed with that particular weapon.”

  He then walked to the adjacent booth that contained the skull of Vlad Dracula, or Vlad the Impaler, and said, “Perhaps this would also be of great interest for you,” he told her as he pointed to the skull within the case. “Though his bones have never been discovered, here lies the skull of one of history’s most heinous rulers, which was memorialized in a fictional account by Bram Stoker who based his story—and loosely, I might add—on a man who governed by atrocity and fear.”

  Angelika stood before the case to examine the relic that appeared like any number of human skulls, with orbital sockets and rows of teeth minus the fangs. It could have been anyone.

  “And you believe this to be the skull of Vlad the Impaler?”

  “Like I said, my dear, my room is filled with original items. There are no fabrications or duplicates here.”

  Angelika and Faruk continued to peruse the aisles, the cases, the booths. He was her guide, and she his student of all things unique. She spoke about the Civic Crown once worn by Caesar, and the gladius that had been used by Spartacus. This truly was a one-of-a-kind venue. The headscratcher to her, however, was the empty booth in the room’s center.

  “Does this contain the breath of someone special?” she jested.

  “Of course not, my dear. This container is waiting for the arrival of something quite special. Hopefully, within the week.”

  Angelika walked around the booth tracing her fingers seductively over the glass, with a soft and caressing touch. “And this is how you treat a woman?” she said. “By keeping her in suspense.”

  “Not my intention, my dear.” Faruk joined her side once again and leaned into her so that his lips were mere inches from her ear. “What price are you willing to pay to know what this encasement will soon hold?”

  She stepped away from him while maintaining her beautiful smile. “Perhaps, Abesh, your price is too steep.”

  “Perhaps it’s n
ot. Provide me with an offer.”

  Angelika started to walk around the case and away from Faruk with her fingertips running along the glass. “A drink, perhaps. Wine and dinner.”

  Faruk’s smile blossomed, as if he had just won a victory. “Accepted.”

  “Then tell me, Abesh. What treasure do you seek that will fill this space?”

  Faruk started after her by rounding the booth. “A Biblical relic that can only be matched by the Holy Grail and the Ark of the Covenant,” he said.

  “And still you tease.”

  “I’m building enthusiasm, my dear. That’s all.”

  “Consider my interest piqued.”

  Unable to catch up, he finally said, “The golden calf. A relic that had been forged by the very hands of Aaron, the brother of Moses.”

  But Angelika scoffed at this. “If my Bible studies continue to serve me well, Moses destroyed the statue.”

  “What if I was to say that there are documents that refute this?”

  The woman stopped and stared at Faruk with a questioning look.

  “That’s right,” he told her. “What if I told you that there are documents and texts that claim otherwise—with the word ‘otherwise’ meaning that the relic was hidden, not destroyed.”

  “And you have such documents?”

  “I have seen these documents, all written by Moses himself. The claim in the Bible was to protect the pagan item from treasure worshippers, and something to be buried and forgotten. When, in fact, it sits upon a mountain in Saudi Arabia. It is, after all, pure gold.” Then he offered his hypothesis, which were based solely on unfounded theory. “Perhaps it was to be melted down after the Promised Land was discovered in order to jumpstart trade within the region or to create a workable municipality,” he said. “That part is unclear since they wandered the desert for forty years. By then, as generations passed, the relic was forgotten. What has not been forgotten are the manuscripts and texts that were written in hieroglyphic Hebrew—by Moses—which provide marginal hints of its location.”