by Rick Jones
Soldiers died. The parked vehicles of the convoy were lifted and tossed. The wartime goods were damaged and broken down to lumps of metal and burning rubber. And as the walls collapsed, as plumes of black smoke rose heavenward, nothing remained of Abesh Faruk’s storehouse facility with the exception of blackened rubble and charred debris.
* * *
As the chopper lifted and stayed under the radar as it headed for the Red Sea, Chayal One was looking down at the body of his fallen comrade. He heart was heavy. But he was able to control his emotions that wanted to bubble forth, so tears he did not shed.
At the warehouse and as the chopper drew distance, the facility went up in a fireball that rolled upward before turning to black smoke. The powerful blast caused the air to shudder and the chopper to rock. But as the pilot regained control, Chayal One closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bay’s wall.
The nukes were not there. They never were.
Abesh Faruk was one step ahead of them the entire way.
Now it was up to the Vatican Knights to see this mission through and to stop Ahmadi, since they were now the only line of defense.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Jabal al-Lawz Mountain Range
Jabal Maqla
It started as a wink of light from the shadows, a golden spark. It also had an uncontested pull to it like metal shavings being drawn to a magnet, as Kimball made his way to a pile of stones—a cairn, actually—that sheltered something underneath.
Another glimmer, a star-point flash of light coming from a small opening between the stacked rocks.
Kimball used the suppressed point of his MP7 to topple the top stone from the pile, and then another, and then another, until he exposed the forged head of an ancient relic. Even in the shadows it had a shine to it, this gold nimbus of light.
As Kimball slung his weapon behind him, he began to wade through the rocks with his hands working diligently to uncover the relic that lay beneath this cairn. As he tossed the stones aside, he began to reveal the bovine features of the artifact. And then Kimball’s actions became almost manic, the Vatican Knight rushing to remove the stones to uncover the mystery that lay beneath.
The other Vatican Knights joined in, as did Sherpa. And together they revealed the remains of the golden calf. But the relic had been broken down to fist-sized nuggets of gold, the piece dismantled with the exception of the head, which was fully intact.
Kimball picked up the head and examined it from all sides and points. It had heft to it, about twenty-five pounds. But its features had a novice appearance about it as well, rough and uneven, which was no doubt a product of poor forging techniques given that Aaron had inadequate equipment to work with.
Isaiah reached out to touch it as did Jeremiah, and then Joshua and Roman joined in, all sharing in the discovery. Sherpa also stroked the idol as if it was a cherished pet, his caresses light and tender.
“It’s true,” Isaiah whispered. “It exists.”
“At least part of it,” Kimball said, holding up the head of the golden calf. Then he looked at the hand-sized nuggets that lay scattered on the ground between the stones that once covered them. “The body was destroyed.”
“So, the Bible and the Chronicles were both correct in detail about the idol having been destroyed and buried,” said Jeremiah. “Just a few inaccuracies. During the absence of Moses, the people gathered all the gold amongst them and forged the golden calf. Moses returned the item to base of the Burning Bush and destroyed it before the eyes of God. All the riches were left behind, and the people were made to wander the land in humbled poverty until the generations died out as penance for their sins.”
Kimball, however, had another theory, one that was more rooted to rationality. True: Moses might have brought the relic before the Burning Bush as a measure of his spiritual faith. But the bush was just a bush, he considered, since shrubbery died off after ten years on average. The seed of this bush was most likely carried by the winds, which took root upon this sand-laden stone which had become its altar, only to be sustained by the monsoon rains that passed yearly. The dust-sized mica trapped within the branches that gave it its golden glow was simply a result of minerals reflecting the rays of the sun when struck. Unless this bush had a preternatural existence to it, it was only a few years old, not the thirty-five hundred years his team wanted to believe with blind faith. Kimball, however, had enough filters not to say anything that would try to undermine their spiritual faith. He just wasn’t on the same page as they were.
Looking over the rough structure of the head, Kimball said, “This is probably enough to see the barter go through.” Then he placed the relic inside Joshua’s backpack. Joshua, who was a very large man who was supposed to be their mule to carry the relic, was probably pleased at some level, though he did not express it.
Returning to the Burning Bush as a beam of light spilled through an opening in the ceiling to alight upon it, as the mica particles within glowed with miniscule pulsations, Kimball knew that moving along was paramount.
But it was too late. Something was coming their way, a predator in its own right.
Like an animal that sensed approaching danger, the Vatican Knights were ready to meet the challenge to remain the master of this battle-born food chain.
While standing in the shadows, they waited for the others who came to conquer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Zurich, Switzerland
Once the discussion was removed from Faruk’s study to the dining area, Angelika took her rightful chair next to Abesh, who sat at the head of the table. Silver platters filled with overly decorated foods that were too much to eat in one sitting were placed upon the table. The wafting smell was delectable, and something meant to motivate sudden appetites. Yet Angelika simply picked at her food by taking tiny bits.
“What’s the matter, my dear? Is the food not to your standards?” he asked her.
“It’s fine,” she answered.
“And yet you eat like a bird.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “A bird can actually eat up to half its weight daily. I like to keep my figure in shape.”
“Really?” If Faruk attempted to sound intrigued by this tidbit of trivia, he was clearly unconvincing. His tone was rather stale.
Setting her fork aside, she looked directly into Faruk’s eyes and said, “Come now, Abesh. Why the sudden mistrust? I thought we were electric together.”
Faruk chortled at this, a dry laughter. “Electric,” he said. “The only time the conversations between us became electric, my dear, was when you wanted to discuss business and only business. Anything beyond business always promoted a quick exit on your part. This was a pattern you clearly exhibited from the beginning. Which makes me wonder if you were baiting me all along in order to get me to be your mentor, while you developed your own commercial enterprise. You never had any intention to carry our relationship beyond that stage, did you?”
“That’s not true, Abesh.”
He leaned back into his seat and toyed with his chin, as if he was deliberating over something questionable. And then: “You’re a novice at the game, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been acting as a liaison for my handler for quite some time now,” she stated crisply. She also acted as if she had been taken aback by his insinuation with a perturbed look.
“Your displayed actions, my dear, as much as they’re a pleasure to watch, indicate otherwise. When discussions about business ended, you abruptly left as soon as you learned of certain aspects of my business. And then you bring a gun into my home.” He cocked his head in study of her. “So again, I have to ask: Did you come here to kill me?”
She shook her head at this. “I already told you. I carry a weapon as a measure of protection. Nothing more.” She tossed her napkin hard on the table and began to stand. “Perhaps, Abesh, I have been foolish to believe that there was something between us, perhaps a budding spark of admiration, only f
or that spark to be diminished by suspicion.”
“Sit down,” he told her firmly.
“I will not—”
He pointed to her seat and harshly ordered for her to sit down.
Begrudgingly, she complied.
“Not only do I realize my strengths,” he told her, “but I also realize my weaknesses. And one is that I often let my guard down when I believe that a beautiful woman shows me a certain air of admiration. You did grab me and reeled me in from the start, I must say. And I foolishly handed you information that I should have kept close to the vest. But who’s to say that the information I gave you was genuine.”
She gave him a baffled look. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, my dear. You pressed me about the nukes—just wouldn’t let up after I tossed hints that the subject was not a comfortable topic of discussion. But you relented. You kept pressing, digging, something that didn’t go without notice on my part.”
“Abesh, what are you trying to tell me?”
“You will not be the first woman to dupe me or the last. As I said, I have a weakness for beautiful women. But since I realized my Achilles' heel long ago, I also developed a failsafe method to protect myself. What I do, my dear, is to provide disinformation to those who I believe begin to dig too deep into private matters. You were mining me not to learn about that business. You were mining me because of your interest in the nukes. And the nukes had nothing to do with you developing your business interests, after I informed you that they were not for sale under any conditions. That was your mistake. My mistake was to inform you of the nukes. And to that I say touché on your part for extracting such information. Perhaps a mistake I will regret one day. Now, tell me, who do you work for? The Mossad? The CIA? Interpol? Who?”
“I do believe, my dear Abesh, that you’re allowing paranoia to get the best of you.”
“Sometimes, my dear, it’s my paranoia that keeps me one step ahead of others.”
Angelika appeared at a loss for words.
“Well?” he asked her. “I’m waiting. The Mossad, the CIA, Interpol, or perhaps MI6? Your German accent, I must say, is spot on.”
“My German accent, Abesh, is genuine. Perhaps in the future, Abesh, you should deal with another instead of me. I’ll inform my handler that there is distrust between us, which makes us unsuitable business associates.”
He continued to scrutinize her. And then: “Perhaps, Ms. Hartmann, you’re correct.”
Calling her ‘Ms. Hartmann’ compared to ‘my dear’ unnerved her a bit. “I’ll see that my handler employs another to take my place,” she said, standing. “Thank you for brunch.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he told her. “Sit.”
“I do not have to listen to your orders, threats or commands. I am not your toy to be played with.”
“No. But you are my prisoner.”
“Excuse me?”
Faruk depressed a button on the tabletop to open communication with his bodyguards. “Johan, Petr, please escort Ms. Hartmann from my estate and see her to a location of your choosing. And deal with her accordingly.” Lifting the point of his finger from the button, Faruk looked at her with smug arrogance.
“Abesh, what are you doing?” Angelika’s mind was beginning to spin with rising alarm. Her weapon was locked away in Faruk’s desk.
“Sometimes, Ms. Hartmann, I rely on my gut instincts, which rarely fails me. Right now, I believe you to be a liability. Therefore, in order to spare my sanity from constant worry, you’re simply going to be Johan’s object of addition by subtraction, I’m afraid. When my initial sense of trust of you becomes an overwhelming sense of mistrust, then I simply cut away the problem entirely from my life by the simplest means possible. And you, my dear, have reached that level.”
As he maintained his narcissistic smile, the twin doors opened.
Closing the door softly behind him with a click of the bolt locking, Rico entered the room wearing his chauffer’s uniform and directed his suppressed weapon on Faruk.
Faruk’s smile quickly vanished as his eyes detonated with genuine surprise. “Johan and Petr, where are they?”
Rico made a cutting motion across his throat, meaning that he had taken care of them. There was only the three of them now.
Inwardly, Angelika sighed with indescribable relief. And suddenly, and like magic, her German accent was gone. It had been replaced by unaccented English, that of an American. “You were right about one thing,” she told him, reaching up and removing a contact lens. “There was never a spark between us.” She then removed the second lens to reveal eyes that were orangey brown, the color of newly minted pennies. She then removed her blond wig and pitched it on the table as part of the food ensemble, then tossed her raven hair.
Abesh Faruk was no longer looking at the face of Angelika Hartmann, but at the face of Shari Cohen.
Shari leaned forward, placed her hands on the tabletop to support her, and said, “You were nothing but a job to me. You were paperwork.” With that, she leaned back and stood straight.
Beside Faruk, Rico held the point of his weapon to the arms dealer’s temple.
“You said you lied about the nukes,” she told him. “Where are they?”
“I wasn’t lying,” he told her. “They’re where I told you they were. I was testing you.”
But Shari believed him to be lying, though she wasn’t entirely sure.
Rico, however, placed a round through Abesh’s right hand, now a stigmata-like wound, to let Faruk know that games would not be tolerated. “Answer the woman,” he demanded flatly as he placed the weapon’s point against Faruk’s temple.
Shari did not flinch as Faruk waved his wounded hand as if to shake off the pain, before he finally pressed the wounded hand against his chest.
“I did,” he stated with alarm. “The nukes are in Tunisia.”
Still, Shari remained on the fence as to whether or not Faruk was telling the truth or proffering a lie. He knew that she would inform her principals immediately of his declarations, and that they would then have to juggle the claims to be viable or without merit. There were no more calls to make on her part since she was the messenger. The game had been played to its final scene on the part of Abesh Faruk and Shari Cohen, though a winner had yet to be determined. In the business of espionage, there were always red herrings to wade through before they were able to finally shine a light on the truth. Faruk, who had probably come to terms with his fate long ago, was not about to change his posture. He would go to his grave with stubborn resolve, this Shari knew without a doubt.
Looking at Rico, a silent message traveled between them through the umbilical. And it became clear to them that Abesh Faruk would have no future.
Then Rico, which was obviously not his true name, spoke to her in Hebrew and something to the nature that she was ‘to go with God.’ It was a swan-song goodbye telling Shari that their job had reached its end with only one possible outcome. It was also the moment that she realized that Rico, through spoken Hebrew, confirmed that he was from the Mossad, and perhaps even a member of the legendary Kidon group of assassins.
Nodding her appreciation, especially after interfering in a moment where Faruk appeared to have the powers of God over her, she thanked the assassin in Hebrew, which drew from him the only smile she had ever seen from him.
Focusing her attention on Faruk, she said, “Sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. That’s how we all come into this to play the game. I might have lost this time, Faruk. But not completely. The whereabouts of the nukes may be a mystery—maybe. But you didn’t deny their existence, either. And because of this and if they’re out there, we’ll find them. And that was your mistake, Faruk . . . Not denying their existence.” She turned and began to walk away. Without looking back, she added, “You deserve this, Faruk. You’re nothing but a miserable human being who profits by the death of others.”
Just before she exited the room,
she heard three muted shots of gunfire. And she realized that Rico had performed what was required of him as her backup, by placing one shot to Faruk’s head and two to center mass.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jabal al-Lawz Mountain Range
Jabal Maqla
Before the Vatican Knights eased their way into the shadows that were beyond the fringe of the Burning Bush’s light, their actions did not go unnoticed. From within the dark reaches of unmoving shadows, Zahid Ahmadi had witnessed the head of the golden calf being loaded into the backpack of a large man. The body of the calf had been broken down to hunks of gold that had weighted value, but not the priceless significance needed for the trade of three nuclear weapons. Ahmadi was wondering if Faruk would regard the head as payment in full.
The extremists were beginning to level their weapons and readying themselves to take command with bursts of gunfire, when this military group disappeared into the shadows—the targets before their eyes there one moment and gone the next. To blink would have been to miss them entirely, they were that quick. And Ahmadi had to wonder if this group had a mystical sense about them, since his team was absolutely soundless during their approach.
To the Bangladeshi, he whispered, “Did you recognize them?”
Purakayastha, however, though he had his thoughts, wasn’t completely sure. “Before they slid into the shadows,” he said, “I caught a glimpse of something.”
“What?”
“Around their necks—from what I saw—were the clerical bands often worn by a priest.” He turned to face Ahmadi who was concealed by the shadows and his shape nothing more than an outline, and said, “It now makes sense—the impressions in the sand and the markings of the papal cross . . . I believe them to be the Vatican Knights.”
