The Sinai Directive

by Rick Jones

  Going to the nightstand and retrieving her HDM pistol from the drawer, she held the weapon up for examination, then tucked it inside her purse. It would be another twenty minutes to dress and apply makeup. And another thirty for Rico to pick her up and drive her to Faruk’s estate.

  Within the hour she would be sitting next to Faruk with a window of opportunity to terminate him having been reduced to seventy minutes.

  Angelika hoped that she had the power and will to pull the trigger and rid the world of one its most despicable human cancers.

  * * *

  Abesh Faruk hung up the receiver to an antique French-style phone whose casing was made entirely of gold with the exception of the rotary dial, which was crafted with ivory. With a left eyebrow raised at the corner in suspicion, he looked at his bodyguard and said, “It appears that we’ll be having company,” he told him. “Ms. Hartmann.”

  The bodyguard was a bruiser of a man who wore a tight-fitting shirt that accentuated the heavy contours of his muscle mass. On his left side was a shoulder holster that visibly carried a chrome-plated Smith & Wesson. “I’ll prepare the venue,” he stated.

  But Faruk held him up by patting the air with a bird-thin hand. “Hold up,” he said. “It appears that Ms. Hartmann may be playing a game with me. Her overtures appear to have something of a design to them.” He stood up from his desk wearing his custom smoking jacket and silk ascot. “She speaks of business only to leave when that specific topic of discussion ceases. She seems to have no other interest. It makes me wonder, Johan, if her intent is only commercially based and is using me to promote her goals in the arms business.”

  Johan stood as still as a Roman statue, the man listening.

  “I think it’s time to change the game plan,” he told his bodyguard. “When Ms. Hartmann arrives, I want you and Petr to thoroughly inspect the woman. Her bag. Her person. I want her to know that I may suspect her inferences of passion being somewhat insincere instead of genuine.”

  “Of course, Abesh.”

  “Please alert Petr about what I just said.”

  Petr was the other bodyguard and a man who was just as huge.

  “I will, Abesh.”

  Dismissing Johan with a gentle wave, the arms dealer went to the ceiling-to-floor window that was bracketed by plush drapery whose scalloped edges were fringed with gold tassels. The sky was overcast, an ugly battleship gray. As he stood looking over the gardens of his estate with his hands clasped behind the small of his back, something he always did because it was a lifelong habit, his mind was elsewhere.

  Angelika had enchanted him from the moment he first saw her at the gala. She was strikingly beautiful. Now he had to wonder if she was a model in sheep’s clothing. Was she using him to promote her own agenda by stringing him along until he was no longer needed? If she was, then it was a bad move on her part, he considered. More so, he needed to work on his fault of fawning over every woman that came on to him because if he didn’t, one day it would surely spell his ruin. This he was sure of.

  As the clouds began to open and rain started to fall, Abesh Faruk watched the drops dapple against the panes to warp the background behind a veil of water. As these raindrops began to cascade slowly downward along the glass, his world suddenly appeared misshapen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Tunis, Tunisia

  Israel’s Sayeret Matkal unit landed in Tunisia less than four hours after receiving the intel in regard to the suitcase nukes. After they deployed to the location of Faruk’s armory that was beyond the outskirts of the capital city of Tunis, they advanced through patches of unused desert until they reached the grove of trees that surrounded the stronghold. It was a fortress made of castle rock, though the bricklaying was smooth and professionally done to give it more of an updated appearance, rather than the look of an underdeveloped Third-World citadel.

  Yosef Sneh, the Sayeret Matkal’s lieutenant colonel and team leader, congregated with his five-man team along the tree line. They were wearing desert camo and Kevlar helmets that were adorned with the most up-to-date gadgetry.

  Sneh had received the blueprinted details of the fortress which included its entry and exit ways, the guard posts, everything they would need to know in order to breach and exit the compound quickly, safely and efficiently. What they lacked, however, was information regarding the actual location of the nukes. And search missions within hot zones were the most difficult military exercise to achieve with high-end success, given the minimal time to operate.

  At the top of the stronghold were two turrets manned by Browning machine guns with one gun per turret and one man per weapon. Two additional sentries were stationed at the guardhouse at the front gate.

  Yosef Sneh had a sniper, Chayal Two, located within the tree line who had an unobstructed view of the guards at the gatehouse. He had another sniper, Chayal Three, positioned so that he had an unobstructed view of the two guards inside the battlements.

  Sneh lowered his lip mic. “Chayal One to Chayal Two.”

  “This is Two.”

  “Do you read your targets clearly?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “On my count.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Chayal One to Chayal Three, do you read your targets clearly?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “On my count.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Three . . . two . . . one.”

  * * *

  Chayal Two had a direct view of his targets from the tree line two hundred feet from the guardhouse. Both were outside the shack with neither man appearing too concerned of their surroundings. With marked complacency working to the benefit of the sniper, he bounced the crosshairs of his scope back and forth from one head to the other, lining them up.

  Then he received his first communication from Sneh over his earbud: “Chayal One to Chayal Two.”

  The sniper responded quietly into his lip mic. “This is Two.”

  “Do you read your targets clearly?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “On my count.”

  “Copy that.”

  In the same thread of conversation, the sniper listened on the shared frequency between Chayals One and Three through his earbud: “Chayal One to Chayal Three, do you read your targets clearly?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “On my count.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Three . . . two . . . one.”

  Chayal Two lined up his shot to the guard on the left and pulled the trigger, a perfect headshot as the bullet entered and exited the skull that exploded like a melon. The second guard, who appeared baffled when his associate immediately buckled to the stones, responded too slowly and took a shot to the forehead, a bloodless wound, and fell right next to his companion.

  Scanning the area with the scope of his weapon, Chayal Two said, “Chayal Two to Chayal One. Targets removed.”

  “Copy that.”

  * * *

  Chayal Three was in an elevated area behind a sandy berm with a clear view of the guards inside the turrets. Both appeared disinterested as they draped themselves over their weapons rather than manning them with vigilance. Instead of looking over the terrain with a keen eye, they were looking skyward with detached and dreamlike qualities.

  Over his earbud he heard: “Chayal One to Chayal Two.”

  “This is Two.”

  “Do you read your targets clearly?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “On my count.”

  “Copy that.”

  And then: “Chayal One to Chayal Three, do you read your targets clearly?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Chayal Three whispered as he drew a bead on his first target.

  “On my count.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Three . . . two . . . one.”

  Chayal Three set off his first shot whose aim was true.
The guard in the left turret took a gull facial blow from a high-caliber round, his face caving inward like the creased surrounding of the sphincter muscle, before falling out of view. Then he maneuvered to the second guard and set off a second muted shot. The bullet zipped through the air in a waspy hum and smashed the life of the sentinel upon the moment of impact. Like the first guard, he, too, disappeared behind the wall of the turret.

  After Chayal Two confirmed his targeted killings, Chayal Three stated into his lip mic, “Chayal Three to Chayal One. Targets removed.”

  “Copy that.”

  In unison—now that the forward guards had been removed—the Sayeret Matkal converged on the stronghold while scanning their weapons that were raised to eye level.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Jabal Maqla

  Jabal al-Lawz Mountain Range

  Although the Vatican Knights were able to move easily through the cavern with the use of their NVG hardware systems, it was unnecessary through most passages since there were large—and sometimes wide—gashes along the ceiling that allowed the filtering of natural light.

  As the Vatican Knights followed the undisturbed footsteps of Moses, they came upon a central chamber whose ceiling was a naturally formed dome like a cupola. It was about one hundred feet high with markings of mineral traces and deposits, with a skylight opening that allowed this Biblical beam to alight on an anemic looking shrub that was revived annually by the monsoon rains. It appeared to have been rooted to a large and rectangular stone inside the room’s center, something that was altar like. The bush was large and round like the head of a small elm or an oak, but without the trunk. And in this brilliant shaft of light that slanted downward to illumine this bush, certain elements that clung to the wire-thin boughs illumined like specks of gold. Over time as the desert winds blew the sands through the opening, mineral traces of mica had woven themselves into the branches to give off a golden aura when struck by the sun’s rays.

  Here was the Burning Bush.

  The stone altar for which the bush sat upon was covered by a system of roots—with some as thick as human fingers and others filament thin—that tracked all over this naturally formed altar of rock like a network of veins, whose points had disappeared into the sand.

  Along the sandy floor were chips of stone that appeared to be the remnants of sculptured pieces, perhaps the tablets themselves, along with a stone chisel and a rock for hammering. For the forty days Moses had resided in solitude before this bush, these were perhaps the residue pieces after he received the laws of God, the whittled off chips of stone. And it was these random bits of rock that became the essential and symbolic pieces that endorsed the cornerstones of the Vatican Knights’ faith.

  As this Biblical beam of light continued to cascade downward to ignite the mica flecks within the bush, Kimball, from the corner of his eye, caught the flash of a star-point glimmer of light deep within the shadows of the chamber.

  While the others stood by the altar of the Burning Bush, Kimball broke away and started for the darker veils.

  Another glimmer, that of a twisting spangle of light. And then it was gone.

  Kimball, with cautious steps, raised the point of his MP7.

  Another glimmer, a spark that glinted and disappeared.

  Powering up his monocular, Kimball discovered the source of the flash.

  It had come from the gleaming eye of a golden calf.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Zurich, Switzerland

  When Angelika reached the front doors of Abesh Faruk’s estate, she was not greeted by Faruk but by his bodyguards, Petr and Johan. They were wearing suits that offered nothing to the imagination when it came to their bulk and size. These were very large men whose bodies were painstakingly sculpted in the gym with the use of heavy weights.

  As she took the steps with her high-society swagger and tight-fitting dress, Johan extended his hand and asked for her bag. That was when her feigned smile eased into a grim line.

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “Please, Ms. Hartmann, I’m merely following orders from Master Faruk.” Petr immediately seized the bag that was under her winged arm.

  With a quizzical look, she said, “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s nothing to understand, Ms. Hartmann,” Johan stated evenly as he stood next to Petr with his hands folded before him. “Our orders are quite clear.”

  Stepping back and opening the oversized purse, Petr didn’t have to rummage through the contents. The HDM was sitting on top for quick removal.

  Closing the purse, Petr simply stated, “If you’ll follow me, Ms. Hartmann.”

  Giving a sidelong glance to Rico, who remained seated inside the Rolls but watched with a curious eye, she said to Petr, “Of course.”

  As Johan remained by the main doors to keep an eye on her chauffer, Petr escorted Angelika down the long hallway that was more like a gallery of art and paintings. Once they reached the twin doors layered in gold leaf that led to Faruk’s office, Petr knocked twice, opened the doors, and gestured to Angelika in gentlemanly fashion for her to go before him, then he closed the doors behind them. Once they reached the wingback-chair, Petr once again gestured for her to take the seat. “Please, Ms. Hartmann, if you will.”

  Angelika, however, remained standing. “What is this about, Abesh?”

  Faruk sat behind his ornately designed desk studying her with the corner of his eyebrow raised. “Please have a seat, Ms. Hartmann,” he told her.

  “I don’t under—”

  “Have . . . a seat,” Abesh demanded with authority.

  As she took the seat, Petr removed the handgun from her handbag and placed it on the desk before Abesh, who looked at it with a curious eye. Picking up the weapon whose integrated suppressor that was twice as long as the barrel and admiring it, he said, “Will you look at this. An HDM.” He turned it over in his hands in continuous fascination of the weapon. As if to provide Angelika with a lesson about its anatomy, he said, “The barrel has a total of forty-eight ports with twelve on each side, and is enclosed within the suppressor shroud that contains a fine brass mesh to decrease its report by more than 20 decibels. It also uses subsonic .22 LR ammo for the simple reason that the round has the power to enter the skull but not the power to exit.” He looked at Angelika. “The round simply bounces off the inner walls of the skull to mince the brain. It’s a perfect weapon for killing at close range.” He laid the weapon aside and added, “Only twenty-six hundred models were ever made with ten known to be registered in the United States, making it a very rare commodity. The number left in existence, however, remains a mystery.”

  She gave him a smile. “You know your weapons.”

  “I’m in the arms trade,” he told her. “It’s my duty to know.” He looked at Petr who had gone through her purse. The large man found nothing else worth noting and handed the bag to Faruk.

  “Thank you, Petr. You can go now. Thank you.”

  Once the two were left alone, she asked, “Abesh, what is this about? Why the sudden mistrust?”

  “You dare walk into my house carrying a suppressed weapon?”

  “As I have done in the past,” she lied. “Your men never checked . . . until today.” She looked at the gun that was at arm’s length of Faruk. “Why the change? Why the suspicion?”

  Faruk picked up the gun to examine it. “A very nice piece,” he said. “Probably worth a lot of money on the market, since something like this has high-end value.” He gave her a sideways glance. “It was also the preferred weapon of the CIA, at one time.”

  “Abesh, it is an old-time relic. You know that the business we operate in has its dangers. I keep the weapon for reasons of safety.”

  “I don’t carry any weapons.”

  “No. But you have two bodyguards that do.”

  “True.”

  Seeing that the HDM was loaded with a box magazine, he pointed the long barrel of the weapon to a pai
nting on the wall and pulled the trigger three times in succession.

  . . . Phffft . . .

  . . . Phffft . . .

  . . . Phffft . . .

  It was clear to Angelika that Abesh Faruk was an amazing marksman, on top of other things. He had taken out the eyes and nose of a Napoleonic horse soldier that was valued at more than a million dollars. As a ribbon of smoke rolled lazily from the point of the gun’s barrel, Abesh Faruk laid it gently on his desk. “Still in fine working order, I see.”

  “I don’t understand, Abesh. I thought we were to have a late breakfast.”

  “Perhaps we will,” he told her. “But first, tell me the truth, my dear. Did you come here to kill me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you don’t mind if I keep this weapon as a token of our friendship. As many items I have in my display, the HDM is not one of them.” Now it was his turn to pretend a smile. “What do you say, my dear? A trade? The HDM for a divine breakfast and my company?”

  She looked at the weapon, then at Faruk. “Of course,” she said.

  “Very good, my dear. I have so much to talk about during our breakfast engagement.” He grabbed the weapon, gingerly placed it inside his desk with homage tenderness, then locked the drawer with a key. Smiling dryly and pointing to the twin doors, he said, “Shall we?”

  Angelika, knowing that her window of opportunity was closing, also had to wonder if she had, in some way, been compromised. Were Johan and Petr waiting for her with their own silenced weapons?

  While maintaining her air of arrogance, she stood up and pointed to her bag on his desk. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  Grabbing her bag, she added, “I must say, Abesh, I feel rather annoyed by the way I’m being treated. I thought we had something special. A connection.”