by Rick Jones
Isaiah knew that Kimball wanted to be alone because people like Kimball Hayden never slept, because men of violence always thought about the coming day’s events and the carnage that would follow by his hand.
“It’ll be all right,” Isaiah told him. Then he stood to brush the sand off his pants and walked into the shadows.
Kimball, staring skyward, sighed through his nostrils and wondered if there was any semblance of truth behind what Isaiah told him about the Light, that it revealed Itself as a honor of his achievement, and that he had finally made the cut by earning an everlasting peace.
Hardly.
While others slept, Kimball Hayden saw violence play out in his mind’s eye. He pictured the Vatican Knights going up against Ahmadi’s cell of radicals. He saw everyone cutting and slashing with their double-edged weapons to open wounds wide enough to spill blood onto the sand. There was no praising of the Lord or the whispers of prayers, since Kimball Hayden was not wired to do anything outside of what he was meant to be: a killer. I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. And I work in the Dark to serve the Light. That’s who I am.
As he stood staring at the stars, God was not even a consideration or an afterthought. Instead, Kimball continued to watch violence play out in his mind’s eye.
. . . I work in the Dark to serve the Light . . .
. . . That’s who I am . . .
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jabal al-Lawz Mountain Range
Saudi Arabia
While the Vatican Knights came from the southwest, Ahmadi’s team came in from the southeast. Since the Jabal al-Lawz Mountain range was vast, they were still miles away from the Vatican Knights, who were not yet on their radar.
The Bangladeshi neither slowed down nor hastened his pace, the man always constant. During the night he carried on through the desert terrain avoiding the rocks and dips that would slow most men. Though Ahmadi was not too keen with Purakayastha, he did admire his feat of getting them to Jabal Maqla.
As the moon began to fade to the west and the sun began to rise on the east, Ahmadi’s team of radicals finally reached the Jabal al-Lawz Mountain range. In the distance, they could see the mesa-like cap of Jabal Maqla, which was still several hours away.
Amal Purakayastha held up the team and called Zahid Ahmadi to join his side. As the unit took to sitting on nearby boulders, Purakayastha pointed to a particular mountain west of their position.
“Do you see that peak?” he directed upon Ahmadi. “The one that stands between the two mountains whose summits are sharply triangular?”
Ahmadi nodded. “I do.”
“That is the mountain we seek.” Purakayastha held the face of his smartwatch to show Ahmadi a set of coordinates. After lowering his watch, he added, “That is our goal. Perhaps a journey of ten hours. Maybe less.”
Ahmadi looked over his team. They had walked far over the course of the past twelve hours, perhaps thirty-plus miles on little rest. Jabal Maqla was half that distance they just traversed. Even though Arabs were a patient people, Zahid Ahmadi was not one of them. He wanted results immediately, rather than the slow-burn it sometimes took to create the desired effect. His people had desire and passion that outweighed their fatigue. But he did not want to drive them into the dirt either, since the human body had its limits. These men, however, were regimentally trained. Thirty miles was nothing—fifteen more would not kill them. As soon as they reached the base of Jabal Maqla, then they could rest.
“We can be there by nightfall?” he asked the Bangladeshi.
“Even with rests in between? Yes. We’ll even have enough light to build camp for the evening.”
Ahmadi, gesticulating wildly with his hand to goad his team to their feet, informed them in Arabic that the mountain that housed the relic was within sight. Then he pointed to Jabal Maqla, the home of the golden calf. Not surprisingly, there was nothing spectacular about the mountain at all. There were no glowing rings of clouds around its cap or a crowned aura of golden light rising from its peak. It was just a mountain that was part of a chain of other mountains.
They would camp for the night, he told them, where they would rest and pray to Allah to guide them. And they would do so with the Qiyam, or the nightly prayer, so they could be heard and given their graces by Allah.
Spirits lifted knowing that their journey was nearing its end. And those within Ahmadi’s control did not question their exhaustion, since they believed that Allah would give them the power necessary to see them to Jabal Maqla.
Gathering their gear and assembling, Zahid Ahmadi invited the Bangladeshi to take lead. With the mountain now within sight as if it was the dangling carrot before the horse, Purakayastha took point and maintained his constant pace, which was neither too fast nor too slow.
The man was a machine.
* * *
Two hours before nightfall, as promised by Purakayastha, they made camp at the base of Jabal Maqla. The journey had been long and hard, the men tired. As they rested soon after they finished with their Qiyam, Ahmadi joined the Bangladeshi, who sat apart from the others.
“You’ve done well,” Ahmadi told him.
Purakayastha continued to look upward along the steep incline, the man in deep thought. Then he raised a hand and pointed to Jabal Maqla’s peak. “The relic is southwest of our position,” Bangladeshi stated simply. “The climb will be one of great difficulty to the top, but manageable. Then we must traverse the sawback ridges until we reach our desired location.”
“You know where the relic is?”
“The coordinates were computer generated and given to me by Faruk. They’re precise.”
Ahmadi looked along the slope as if he was following the trajectory of a rocket, his eyes finally settling on the mountain’s peak high above them. “You said that it lies to the southwest,” Ahmadi began. “How far?”
“Another eight to ten hours.”
This was something Ahmadi did not expect. “Eight to ten hours?”
“The terrain is incredibly hostile. No one said that this was going to be a simple journey. Once we have the idol, then the hard part is over. Is it not best to go downhill instead of uphill? Your men have bested the hardest part. Another ten hours won’t hurt them.” The Bangladeshi turned on the Arab until their eyes met. “Remember that it is Abesh Faruk who employs you and that I am the long reach of his arm. I will not become careless by feeding your eagerness which you apparently cannot control. So yes, eight to ten hours more and the relic becomes mine. Once I acknowledge its possession, then the weapons will be yours to take and to do with whatever you wish.”
“Eight to ten hours is unacceptable. You led me to believe that we were on the final leg of the journey.”
“I told you that we were on the final leg to Jabal Maqla. And that is true.” Purakayastha turned away and directed his attention back to the mountain. “Come morning,” he added, “have your men ready.”
Ahmadi clenched his teeth, which caused the muscles in the back of his jaw to work. He was not accustomed to taking orders from an infidel. The Bangladeshi, if not for Faruk, would have had his head separated from his shoulders by now, and mounted upon the point of a sharpened stick. The brash conversation from this man to an ISIS lieutenant was a violation that bordered on sacrilege. The only thing that kept Purakayastha alive was the fact that Ahmadi needed him.
Fighting for calm, which was a battle he was slowly losing as rage began to bubble and surface, Ahmadi regripped his AK-47 and walked away.
The Bangladeshi, who sat upon a stone like a shaman with his legs crossed in Native American fashion, continued to stare at the mountain.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Estate of Abesh Faruk
Zurich, Switzerland
Later that Evening
The chauffeured Rolls Royce Angelika Hartmann rode in crunched along the gravel driveway that led to the grand and towering doors of Faruk’s estate. Faruk was standing on the marble doorsill
with his hands grasped behind the small of his back as the Rolls pulled up. He was wearing his trademark smoking jacket and silk ascot, while wearing a pair of pants whose ironed-out pleats were ruler straight. Smiling as she waited to exit the vehicle as Rico, her chauffer, opened the door for her, Faruk continued to admire the way she exited the Rolls with the swagger, grace and elegance that was unpracticed. He also regarded her sequined dress that was silver and gold, which clung to her with a such tightness that it accentuated her desirable shape.
Extending his hand in gentlemanly fashion to accept hers, she dropped her hand into his, which allowed him to escort her inside the estate. After a pair of armed guards closed the massive doors behind them, he walked her to the dining area, which was as large as a ballroom.
“You look exquisite,” he told her. “I’m so glad that you accepted my offer.”
“How could I deny the invitation from such a lovely man,” she stated with high-brow boldness, the type of boldness one sees in a person who believes that they’re entirely above all others in the social food chain.
The dining area was large enough to hold ballroom dances, it was that magnificent. Floor-to-ceiling tapestries adorned the walls, the images mainly of Medieval horsemen sitting upon their steeds with swords in hand, whereas others were of armored-clad knights. The woodwork along the ceiling was ornate and painted with gold, while a several-tiered chandelier hung in the room’s center. Its casting light caused iridescent glimmers to sparkle from the crystal, which were the best money could buy. And in the center of the room was a long table that was surrounded by twenty-two chairs, all of which were fashioned from the finest red velour and teakwood.
“Please,” Faruk stated as he pulled her chair out in an act of chivalry for her to take. It was also to the left side of his much grander seat, which was seated at the head of the table.
After taking her seat, she said, “Thank you.”
“No problem, my dear.” Faruk then sat down, clasped his hands before him, and set the points of his elbows on the table. His eyes had the spark of admiration to them, something Angelika quickly picked up on and used to her advantage.
“Tell me,” she began with her German clip, “have you considered or thought about working with my principal on a barter system?”
“Now-now, my dear, let’s not talk business. Let’s talk about something that’s far more interesting, shall we?”
“Business is interesting.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“Business first. And then we’ll talk all night long, if you want.”
“All night long?”
She leaned into him seductively, enough to give him a good shot of her cleavage. “All . . . night . . . long,” she told him with a voice that was breathy.
Easing back slightly with a wide grin, he said, “Business it is, then.”
It was at this juncture that a waiter came by and placed a cognac on the table in front of Faruk, and a glass of red wine before Angelika.
Sipping from the glass, Angelika rolled her eyes and asked, “This is absolutely wonderful. May I ask about the brand?”
“It’s Screaming Eagle Cabernet,” he informed her.
Angelika raised an eye, as if impressed. Screaming Eagle Cabernet was the most expensive red wine in the world at $500,000 per bottle. “Really?” she said, amazed. “I don’t know whether to be afraid by it or drink it. I value its worth at approximately five thousand dollars a sip.”
“Ah. I see you know your wine.”
She held the glass to him. “Especially when it’s Screaming Eagle. I see that you’re pulling out all the stops to impress me tonight.”
“Would you consider that a sin?”
“Hardly,” she answered, then she took another sip. After setting the glass aside, she asked, “Now, about bartering for weapons instead of purchasing your stock with bit coins, my employer would like very much to use the same method, since it makes things more difficult for certain agencies to spy upon us and the way we do business.”
“Unfortunately, my dear, your employer does not operate in the mercenary trade. The people I have employed to seek the golden calf is a specialty force who has a single determination outside of profit. Theirs are more rooted with religious beliefs and ideologies.”
“Religious beliefs and ideologies? You’re talking about a terrorist order, aren’t you?”
“Their beliefs, my dear, mean nothing to me. This is strictly a business matter.”
“I’m not judging you, Abesh. I’m enamored with the idea of trading goods so that the transaction has no paper trails to follow or accounts to see where the money is going. This system would fly under the radar of Interpol and the CIA.”
“This agreement, my dear, is a unique transfer of goods with a unique client who can give me what no other client can. If your principal can employ a team to seek treasures that are one of a kind that are few and far between, then maybe. But this is the only treasure I seek. And this client can provide. The goods I offer they can’t get anywhere else, so their priority is to find the golden calf. Without the golden calf, there is no trade agreement.”
“Perhaps my principal can hire the same people, the same group, to seek treasures of unique value.”
“At the moment, my dear, I only seek the treasure of the golden calf.”
Angelika fell back into her seat and appeared to draw upon a petulant pout but didn’t. Instead, she asked, “And what is so unique in your arsenal that they’re willing to trade for, instead of accepting its valued worth in the tens of millions of dollars, which would no doubt supply this organization with an arsenal that would be greater than most Third-World nations?”
Faruk paused at this, making Angelika wonder if she had pushed him too far. But Faruk had obviously come to a trusting conclusion when he admitted, “Three low-grade nuclear weapons. All one-kiloton yields. They’re what we term in the business as suitcase nukes.”
Angelika knew exactly what he was talking about. These were old-time Russian weapons that were portable, Cold-War remnants that were manufactured during times when paranoia reigned in the halls of the White House and the Kremlin.
Dramatically, Angelika started to laugh at this, “I see,” she said. “You’re going to give them useless pieces of weaponry for the golden calf. Nothing for something.”
His smile was gone. “No. My reputation is everything to me. It’s what I live by.”
“They’re antiquated weapons with seventy-year-old parts. They’re useless.”
“On the contrary, my dear. I purchased these weapons from a Russian KGB when the wall was falling and the political climate changing. Yes, it’s true that the devices were antiquated, but they weren’t useless. Over the years I employed nuclear physicists to update the hardware, which was all they needed for an upgrade since the plutonium was uncompromised. I obtained Israeli products through covert channels to rebuild each weapon. And that’s what I barter for. The weapons for a one-of-a-kind treasure that your employer could never duplicate.”
“Israeli parts?”
“Israeli parts,” he confirmed.
Angelika brandished a sly grin. Now, it was becoming all too clear, the reason for Israeli components. “So, when the nukes go off and the incidents are investigated by leading members of the world center,” she began, “the prosecuting parties will confirm the Israeli parts and point the finger of blame at them as the culprits.”
“Not only are you beautiful, my dear, you’re also intuitive. Such a remarkable mind you have.”
“So, this group of employees—al-Qaeda? ISIS? The Taliban?”
“Does it matter? They’re nothing but clients to me. Like I said, their ideologies are meaningless to me. I am simply a businessman who conducts business without being prejudiced. It’s that simple.”
She grabbed her wine and brought it to her lips, though she did not drink from it until after she said, “I’m curious about thei
r presumed targets.” It was a lead statement that she hoped he would accept as question-like.
“Their targets are of no concern to me,” he said. “All I want, all I ask for, is to fill that empty case inside my Trophy Room.” Faruk leaned toward her with his characteristic smile, that type of smile that barely showed his teeth. “Now, my dear. Let’s change the topic, shall we? No more business.” He gave her a wink.
A series of waiters intervened by placing cooked vegetables and baked meats on the table, gourmet foods that was too much for two people to eat.
“And you expect me to eat all this?” she asked Faruk.
“The night is still young, my dear. And we have so much to talk about. Such as our shared interests, perhaps.”
Angelika gave him a haughty smile. She was repulsed by Faruk and looked at him from the inside as someone who was nothing less than a troll. Yet she stayed within character for the good of her principals.
After a waiter filled her plate with a number of delectable foods and placed it before her, she grabbed her highly polished utensils and began to eat.
The night could not have passed any slower for her as the conversation steered towards her, Faruk was curious about her likes and dislikes. And true to form she recited everything that had been listed in her artificially crafted history, things Faruk already knew about. Whether he was testing her regarding her background, she didn’t know. But she was spot-on and precise with her narration of how she enjoyed dancing and going to operas, two things she detested in real life. And as she spoke, Faruk nodded occasionally to inform her that he was listening attentively.
When the magnificently styled grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the room tolled the midnight hour, Angelika looked at her Rolex and feigned surprise.
“Well, look at that,” she said. “Where has the time gone? It’s already midnight.”
Standing and grabbing her purse, Faruk mirrored her action by standing himself.
Appearing surprised, he asked, “You’re not leaving, are you? The night is still young, and you said that as long as we talked business, you’d stay all night long.”
