by Rick Jones
“But not factual.”
“My belief is that it does exist, and it’s buried somewhere on Jabal Maqla.”
The woman continued to study Faruk to get a better read on him. Then: “Jabal Maqla. And should the golden calf be found, the price of payment must be unimaginable since items considered priceless always have some kind of cost attached to them, especially if they’re wanted badly enough.”
“The cost, my dear, is well within my means.”
“Perhaps your bank accounts will be a much dryer well to tap from, yes?”
“Hardly,” he answered. “My financial wells will be untapped. I trade for goods—a barter between the parties. I have in my arsenal something that’s as priceless to my client, as the golden calf is as priceless to me. So, an exchange of one priceless item for another.”
“I see,” she said. Then she started to walk around the glass encasement once again. “And your item, the one you will trade with, is it enough to sustain an army?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “But it will make a very strong statement.”
“And your system of bartering, is this client of yours exclusive to those terms, or can anyone barter?”
“It all depends, my dear. Do you have anything to barter with?”
“Nothing different than what Hans Wulfgar offered, which was cash.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” said Faruk. “I think you have, how shall we say, plenty of assets to work with.”
“Really.”
“We can start with wine and dinner as you had suggested. Perhaps over dinner we can talk about new terms, something that will benefit us both.”
She gave him a smile that would melt any man. “Perhaps, Abesh, we should.”
Faruk nodded. “Excellent. Perhaps tomorrow evening. Here. At my estate. Say seven o’clock?”
“That sounds fine. Seven it is.”
As the gala continued in another section of the estate, Faruk continued to showcase his wares such as the coat worn by Marco Polo and the jeweled staff that was once held by Charles I.
An hour later, while continuing to show his exhibits, his smartwatch chimed. It was an incoming text. Turning his back on Angelika and excusing himself for doing so, he hit the button and brought up the message on his watch’s face. It read: SHE’S CLEAR. NO RED FLAGS. Smiling, he deleted the message and confronted her with a smile.
“Is something wrong?” she asked him.
“Actually, my dear, everything is simply perfect.”
In time, the two returned to the function where they parted to meet with others, as well as bearing in mind the promise to meet again on the following night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saudi Arabia
Zahid Ahmadi’s group had prepped for the mission. They were fighters, warriors, the soldiers of a new crusade who would take new ground at the expense of others, while under the will and guidance of Allah.
Those who served under Ahmadi were not conscripts who needed time to learn the ropes on how to kill without remorse by blunting the points of their moral compasses. These were seasoned operatives who joined the organization from passion—who joined because their hearts were already blackened. Each man sustained kills that numbered close to a dozen, but certainly no less than seven.
As they waited for their transport to the Jabal al-Lawz Mountain range, they prayed when required, their Salat, then checked their weapons and gear. They spoke about the importance of a future that could only be romanticized inside the minds of those who had been tainted and warped. And as time pressed on, even after the Salat, they wished greatness upon Allah with every breath.
As the last few citrusy-colored streamers of light disappeared from the horizon, Ahmadi and his team banded inside of an uncanopied truck that would transport them to the mountain range. The ride was bumpy, the terrain rough, but the vehicle took the rises and falls because it was manufactured to do so.
As night descended to the point where the sky became filled with an infinite number of pinprick lights, Ahmadi wondered about Mount Sinai and the golden calf. The mission, should it fail, would not bear the fruits of his dream. Without tactical weapons, his plans would not be achieved, this he realized.
In silence, as the truck moved west, no one spoke. They were most likely dreaming of a world under one law and God, Ahmadi considered, with the exception of Amal Purakayastha, who didn’t appear to do anything outside of breathing, which was an involuntary reaction to begin with. The man was too quiet and unreadable, someone Ahmadi did not like because he could not get a read on him. The man was simply unpredictable. And unpredictability, Ahmadi knew, was always a threat.
Whereas others stared at the heavens and at the stars, Purakayastha stared straight ahead into darkness, and perhaps a place where he felt most comfortable.
Shaking his head inwardly at the Bangladeshi in repugnance, Zahid Ahmadi would allow the man to be Faruk’s eyes and ears as agreed upon, until the tit-for-tat exchange was completed. After that, he would never see the man again.
Crossing his arms and closing his eyes, Ahmadi leaned back and forced patience upon himself. The ride would be long and brutal, but it was something he and his team had to tolerate.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Under the cover of darkness and flying at less than thirty feet off the surface of the Red Sea to avoid radar, the Vatican Knights were inside a Chinook helicopter along with DeMarco Jackson, who was engaged in conversation with Kimball Hayden. Even though the rotors of the vehicle were muffled, it still wasn’t enough to keep the two from speaking over the noise to get their points across.
“The ship is masked as a fishing vessel,” Jackson stated loudly. “You and your team will rappel to the ship where you will be met by Dixon. He’s been working operations here for fifteen years. Knows his stuff.” Examining the Vatican Knight who was wearing the Robocop attire of shin, knee, forearm and elbow guards that were constructed from a special composite and a Kevlar helmet that held the boon of gadgetry that ran along the top of his head like a Mohawk, he also considered Kimball’s assault weapon to be a nice touch to his powerful image. The only strange measure to the commando’s uniform was his Roman Catholic collar, a pious symbol that was in contrast with his battle-accentuated apparel. His team of Vatican Knights was dressed in the same manner, in between violence and peace. After this moment of quiet, Jackson added: “As requested, your Ismarsat BGAN will be onboard the ship. You will have a direct feed to the Vatican. I’ve been informed that the geospatial satellites are moving into orbit to provide you with the proper linkage. You’re all set.”
Kimball nodded in appreciation before looking out the porthole window. The view under the gibbous moon showed a sea surface that was as smooth as glass with a few frothy caps. And it remained that way until they reached the fishing vessel which was thirty miles off the Saudi shore.
Jackson reached a hand to Kimball, who accepted it with a python grip. “Good luck, Mr. Hayden. If the golden calf does exist, make sure it never reaches the hands of Ahmadi and his team of terrorists. If it does—” The CIA operator cut himself off, but his point was made.
The Vatican Knights, after tossing down their duffel bags and attaching themselves to the rappelling lines, descended to the boat’s deck below. After Joshua—who was the last man to detach himself on deck—gave Jackson the signal that he was free from the line, the Chinook peeled back and banked heavily to the west for its return trip with Jackson watching down from the open bay door.
“Which one of you is Hayden?” This came from behind and from a man who appeared as a fisherman. His face had a hard look to it with a grizzled beard and deep lines. His eyes remained dark, even under the light of a kerosene lamp. And his clothes appeared soiled with patches of filth and blood, most likely from gutting fish.
Kimball stepped forward. “Right here. You Dixon?”
“The one and only.” After ordering his crew to manage the boat, the operative turned
and beckoned Kimball and his team of Vatican Knights to follow him below deck.
It was a small space, cramped, the boat a thirty-footer but large enough to accommodate the team. Removing his cellphone and striking a code into the keypad, a hidden panel received the phone’s frequency and pulled away from the wall. Inside was the Ismarsat BGAN system. “As requested,” he said. Grabbing the unit from the stall, he handed it to Kimball. “I believe you know the codes that will program the BGAN to the satellites to the Vatican?”
“I do.”
“It’ll be a two-hour run to the shore,” Dixon told the Vatican Knights. “From there I’ll Zodiac your team to meet Sherpa, who’ll be waiting.”
“Anything else?”
“Just sit back and relax,” Dixon told them. “Two hours can seem forever or go by quickly, the time between now and then is yours to use however you want.” And then: “I’ll call you when we’re ready to launch.” Moving through the team, Dixon made his way to the upper deck.
A moment later, the engines, which sounded rough, started and the boat began to move.
The Vatican Knights, who had taken seats along poorly padded benches, used the time for prayer and meditation except for Kimball, who used the moments to play out the mission in his mind’s eye down to every conceivable detail.
* * *
“Let’s go.” Dixon’s voice was commanding and authoritative, the man a staple of espionage in the Middle East who dictated such measures with a demanding tone.
As the Vatican Knights made their way topside, a Zodiac, which was a motorized and inflatable boat, was hitched along the stern. Dixon was the first to board and start the motor, with the Vatican Knights embarking thereafter. Disengaging the Zodiac from the fishing vessel and then drawing distance, Dixon twisted the handle to provide juice to the engine. The Zodiac then sped towards the coastline to a set of coordinates provided by the operative’s smartwatch. Once the raft was two-hundred yards from shore, they paddled in. They were absolutely quiet as the oars continued to break the surface of water to move them forward. When they reached the shoreline, the Vatican Knights disembarked. As soon as they hit the rocky beach, they lowered their NVG assemblage to see the landscape through a lime-green lens. The area was like a Martian landscape, nothing but dirt and rock.
Dixon, using his paddle, quietly swept his way in retreat as the Vatican Knights pressed forward.
After Kimball took to a knee and balled his fist, the Vatican Knights read the signal and mirrored his action. They all took to a bended knee and swept their weapons from left to right, then from right to left, the area clear.
At a predetermined time, there were three flashes of light, and then two, and then six. Sherpa was calling them from the shadows.
The Vatican Knights advanced quickly. When they reached a deep depression within a stone wall, Sherpa was waiting inside.
He looked and appeared as a native with a dark complexion and heavy beard, as well as wearing the residential garments such as the shemagh and dishdasha. In his grasp was an AK-47. “Which of you is the team leader?”
Kimball stepped forward.
The contact looked at the Roman Catholic collar but did not make any facial gestures to betray what he was thinking, or if he had made any judgments. The glance was quick and fleeting. Then he reached out to the Vatican Knight and a handshake was exchanged. “I’m Sherpa,” he told him. “I will be your guide to the Jabal al-Lawz Mountain range and to Jabal Maqla.” Releasing hands, Sherpa continued. “I have a truck two clicks from here,” he said. “The ride will be rough due to the terrain which, as you can see, is quite inhospitable. But she’s a good vehicle.” Then Sherpa, who carefully left the wall’s recess, waved for Kimball and company to follow him. “Stay close,” he told them. “I’m quick on my feet.”
Sherpa wasn’t kidding, either. He moved like the wind, quick and fast, the operative almost preternatural in his ability to miss the stones in the darkness. It was if he knew where every rock was situated upon the landscape, so as to avoid twisting or breaking an ankle. Fifteen minutes later, they reached a truck that was hidden beneath a canopy the color of desert sand.
“Your team rides in the back,” he said to Kimball. “You ride in the cab with me.”
After the Vatican Knights took to the rear of the truck while Kimball rode shotgun, Sherpa started the vehicle, ground the gears, then lurched the truck forward. At first the vehicle took the dips and the potholes for at least six kilometers before it began to level off with some form of reasonableness. As Sherpa continued to shift the lever, the gears always grinding, which made Kimball wonder if the truck was going to make it to their destination. But she held steady and true.
“I know little of the Vatican Knights outside of a few reported acts of engagement in the Middle East,” Sherpa stated, keeping his eyes forward. “But I’ve heard plenty about the one who’s called the Devil’s Magician from those within the ranks of the Islamic State, the Taliban, and al-Qaeda. It appears that you’ve been mythicized in the eyes of your enemies.”
“Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you hear,” Kimball told him.
“As for the Vatican Knights, I hear one thing: The moment you see them, then it’s too late. You’re dead.”
Kimball remained quiet. The Vatican Knights were an elite unit of military operators who trained diligently to rival, if not the best, the most elite forces in the world which included the SEALs; Delta Force; and Russia’s esteemed Alpha Group, which operates under the FSB. In some circles, depending on those who went up against the Vatican Knights, would claim that they had no equals.
“With that being said,” Sherpa stated, “perhaps you’re undermanned going up against the forces of Zahid Ahmadi. Numbers have his team almost double yours, which includes the Bangladeshi.”
“My unit will be able to handle Ahmadi’s team just fine,” the Vatican Knight returned.
“I hope so,” he answered. “Because Ahmadi’s group is not a novice to the game of combat. These men were handpicked. They’re the best the Islamic State has to offer since most were with special forces before the civil war erupted in Syria. Most kept their skills intact, always fighting, always practicing, always trying to better themselves on the battlefield. This will not be as easy as it may seem.”
“The Vatican Knights take nothing for granted. We see the situation as it plays out and we act accordingly to those situations as they grow and shape themselves.”
Sherpa nodded. Then he pointed to the glove compartment. “Inside you’ll find a small tablet. It will contain the biographical records of Ahmadi’s team and the Bangladeshi. You may find some of their histories quite interesting. It is also best to know your enemy better than your enemy knows you. Should they discover your interference in discovering the golden calf, which is most likely since your goals are the same, a clash is likely imminent. I understand you know the backgrounds of Ahmadi and the Bangladeshi, but there’s information on Ahmadi’s cell that has been provided by the Mossad, information that was previously restricted.”
Kimball opened the door to the glovebox and removed the tablet, booted it, then he started to pour over the intel. Ahmadi’s men were well versed in combat techniques as Sherpa had indicated, something Vatican Intelligence was unclear about since they only had vague intel. But the Mossad appeared to have complete details about every operative, something they neglected to share with the Vatican, the CIA or MI6, because such information was habitually held close to the vest because these people were often listed as targets of Israel’s Kidon. Missions of assassination were always of a TS nature, in order to avoid the backlash from Middle East countries that supported terrorists. They only divulged such information because it became necessary when Israel learned that they were within the crosshairs of a major-event strike.
As Kimball read the biographical records, he learned that ISIS was evolving after they had been pushed back into war-torn corners that were filled with rubble, and e
ventually their refuge. They were masking their identities by creating artificial backgrounds with new names, a page taken directly from the CIA handbook for undetected mobility. Their computer techs were becoming more astute, more creative, the terrorists thereby manufacturing false records as red herrings proffered through hackable channels for easy appropriation by investigating intel agencies. With such maneuverability due to false backgrounds, they’d be able to breach areas of targeted interests.
Kimball continued to read the actual records of Zahid Ahmadi’s team.
Most terrorists usually romance the idea of joining the ranks of a movement under the name of Allah, then falsely cloak themselves in righteousness and convince themselves they’re on the side of angels. But according to what Kimball was reading, Ahmadi’s people were military volunteers from Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Turkey and Pakistan. Two had come from Saudi’s Airborne Brigade as part of the country’s three Special Forces companies. Two had come from Jordan’s Special Forces. One from Turkey’s Special Forces Command. And three from Pakistan’s Special Services Group or the SSG Pak, who were perhaps the most dangerous because their initial training and field tactics were based on the methods of U.S. Special Forces.
These were men with a high degree of military sophistication and not the type of people who performed jumping jacks or ran the obstacles of an ISIS training camp. These were stone-cold operators who were trained to kill with pure efficiency.
After Kimball placed the tablet back inside the glove compartment, Sherpa said, “Now you know . . . This will not be an easy victory, should you cross swords with Ahmadi’s group. To the world they’re poorly trained radicals. To those who know the truth, however, they are the faction’s equal to Delta Force.”
