The Devil's Magician

by Rick Jones

  “A targeted abduction,” Kimball murmured to himself.

  Thereafter, Cardinal Alnasseri was forced to his knees and given some kind of anesthetic. Then he was carried away, the team just as quick with the withdrawal aspects of the mission as they were with the breach.

  Then Kimball went on to phase two of the examination. He brought up the Intel dossier regarding Hassan Maloof, the man identified in the video who promoted Ecclesiastes death as a crude example of a flexing muscle that belonged to the arm of the Islamic State.

  He read over the man’s biographical record and learned that he had served under the reigns of Mabus and Sayed, two kingpins Kimball had dispatched over the years by hanging one man’s head on a pike at the edge of a village; and collecting the last breath of the other in a bottle, a token he had sent to another kingpin as a warning.

  Kimball scrolled through the electronic pages and read Maloof’s history, the man who was caught up like so many revolutionaries in the Syrian conflict, and volunteered to fight because that’s all there was.

  More pages. More documents. More reading.

  Then Kimball read the intel reports from the contact, a man with no ties to any political, religious or fanatical regimes, but a simple man whose documented past that didn’t raise any red flags or issues. Even though the Intel provided by this man was correct, it was not precise. The disinformation provided lacked the confirmation of the amount of terrorists involved, the contact proffering an undervalued number closer to twelve members in the cell, when the actual total was four times that. Though the location was spot on, it was hard for Kimball to understand why the surveillance did not come up with a better value regarding the number of opponents. Furthermore, and according to the corroborating reports by Jeremiah and Roman, the cell was lying in wait. All indications pointed that those within the Islamic State were in full acknowledgement of the approach by the Vatican Knights.

  The question was: How?

  Then he reviewed Jeremiah’s and Roman’s reports again.

  They had set charges.

  Their teams were in place.

  As Kimball shook his head wondering, he asked himself once again: How could they possibly know?

  Then he continued to pore over additional documents. He studied faces in photos, the names and dates of the candidates involved, and then he committed them to memory.

  Finally, when he logged off and closed the lid to the laptop, he looked out the window. Damascus was coming into view, a city untouched by the ravages of war—beautiful, in fact—with a blend of new and old architecture that were in the direct line of a moving conflict that was heading its way.

  Then Kimball traced his fingertips over the surface of his laptop. It’s a big city, he thought. Lots of people. But he had to start somewhere. And that would be with the Vatican’s contact, he decided. Everything begins and ends with the contact—always did.

  Then he looked over the city of Damascus as the plane began its descent. With a population of 2.6 million people, finding one would be difficult but not impossible, he considered. But I will find you.

  The plane landed less than five minutes later.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ––––––––

  Damascus, Syria

  Getting off the plane with a beard that had been trimmed, and looking a little leaner having lost fifteen to twenty pounds, Kimball Hayden looked the part to fit his surroundings. With long dark hair and matching beard, and with sunglasses to hide his cerulean blue eyes, Kimball used a counterfeit passport to get by the prop- er authorities at Damascus International, having his visa stamped by a planted member of the Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, the MI6. After the obligatory question of ‘business’ or ‘pleasure’ by the agent, Kimball responded by saying: “Both, since this is such a beautiful country,” a prearranged phrase. The agent quickly waved him through and directed him toward the stanchions that would by- pass airport examiners from going through his bag.

  As soon as he left the terminal, he was greeted by a warm sun, though it was not overwhelmingly hot as a desert sun should be since it was getting close to win- ter. Once he got into a cab, he showed the man the address he needed to get to by displaying the address from the face of his iPhone. The driver, a Syrian with watery eyes and droopy flesh, waved in acknowledgement and set the car in the direction of the Syrian Catholic Church. Then Kimball looked at his iPhone, noted the ad- dress in Arabic script, and deleted it. Then he stared at the phone which was a much better version than the one he owned with the cracked face, this being a gift from Vatican Intelligence.

  As the car weaved in and out of traffic, Kimball was on the deciding edge of whether or not to make a particular call. But trying to assemble the courage to dial the number was what retarded his efforts to do so.

  Finally, he did dial the number, a long-distance call, and waited.

  After a few clicks the phone started to ring—once, twice, three times—before a voice finally answered. “Hello.”

  Kimball’s heart raced inside his chest at such a rapid pace he was sure it would misfire.

  “Hello.”

  Her voice was sweet, like flowing honey, he thought, such a melody to his ears. “Hello.”

  Kimball couldn’t find his voice or his courage, not even enough to say one simple word: hello.

  “Is somebody there?”

  Kimball closed his eyes to fight back the sting of tears.

  Then: “Last time or I hang up.”

  Say something, you idiot! But he couldn’t. No words would come to him. Not even ‘hello.’

  Click.

  The woman on the other end hung up. But Kimball heard her from half a world away, her sweet melodious sound. And then he placed the glass face of the phone against his forehead, damning himself for not having the courage to say ‘hello’ to the woman he loved, but had the daring to go into a battle with all the weapons he could carry.

  You idiot! He told himself. And then he tapped his iPhone against his forehead as if admonishing himself. Idiot! And then he considered calling her back. But his courage to do so quickly waned, Kimball not wanting to hear any measure of her rejection of him over the line.

  All I ever wanted was a family, he thought as if speaking to a higher being. Kids. A home, even one that was surrounded by a tacky white fence ...And a woman who would love me forever.

  A tear managed to escape from the corner of one eye.

  Shari Cohen, he thought. Shari Cohen.

  In Damascus, which was half a world away from the woman he loved, the cab continued on.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ––––––––

  When Kimball finally arrived at the Syriac Catholic Church in Damascus, he was greeted by two priests who escorted him to a chamber in the church’s sublevel. It was a small room with walls of gray brick reminiscent of castle stone, with the area itself having somewhat of a dungeon-like quality to it that was dark and grim. But Kimball felt at ease here, finding the room much to his liking as he placed his bag on a single-sized bed that appeared too small for his large frame. When he sat on the mattress and the bedsprings protested beneath his weight, it all reminded him of his cot at the Vatican.

  “This will do fine,” he told the priests.

  “If there’s anything we can do for you, Mr. Hayden, please don’t hesitate,” said the taller of the two priests. “We’re here to assist with your needs.”

  Kimball nodded. “I need a sky-view location for my BGAN system,” he said. “Somewhere safe and topside.”

  “There’s a platform next to the bell-tower,” said the smaller priest. “You can set up your command post there. It’s out of view from neighboring buildings, the walls high.”

  Kimball reached into his bag, tossed a few clothes onto the mattress, and re- moved his laptop and BGAN satellite terminal, which was a mobile workstation that as long as it had a line-of-sight to one of the three geostationary satellites to receive a feed from, then Kimball would ha
ve global coverage on a secured line.

  “Show me,” he said.

  After taking several flights of stairs to the rooftop, Kimball dismissed the priests and set up his communications station. In Damascus, where the sky was always blue with the exception of a few renegade clouds, the reception would be perfect. After connecting the BGAN satellite system to the laptop, Kimball booted up the system. Once the system was online, Kimball contacted Vatican Intelligence, the SIV.

  Father Auciello came up on Kimball’s screen, the image crystal clear. “It’s good to see you again, Kimball.”

  Kimball smiled. “You too, Father. How’ve you been?”

  “Could be better. Right now we’re working on the primary objective of getting the team back along with Cardinal Alnasseri.”

  “Any information at all? Something I can work with?”

  Father Auciello nodded. “Negative at this time. We believe they’re still in Damascus, however, since it’s a big city with lots of hiding places.”

  “I need to meet with the contact,” Kimball stated. “Set it up.”

  “Is there something we should know about?” asked Auciello.

  “Everything always begins and ends with the contact,” he answered. But it was more than that. Kimball wanted to interrogate the man up close and personal, wondering why the incorrectness of some his statements cost Kimball his ex-team.

  “I need to see him whenever you can set this up.”

  “We’ve been trying to get in touch with him for communicable updates.”

  “And?”

  “Disappeared.”

  Another red flag to Kimball. “Use VisageWare,” he told him. VisageWare was the department’s facial-recognition-software program that was capable of identifying certain landmarks on a person’s face to certainty, and then had the ability to hack and tap into security and CCTV cameras across the globe to scan current whereabouts of the target. “If you find him, send the GPS coordinates to my cell.

  I’ll follow them until I’m close enough to smell his breath.”

  “You’re onto something, aren’t you?”

  Kimball nodded. “Gut feeling, that’s all.”

  “That gut feeling of yours has saved a lot of lives, Kimball. I hope once this is over, you’ll reconsider your position and return to the Vatican where you belong.” “Fat chance of that,” he returned. “I’m done chasing fantasies. What you want, Father, isn’t me anymore.” Then Kimball reached for the ‘OFF’ button and tapped it. The image on the laptop quickly minimized to a mote of light at the screen’s center, then disappeared. Closing the lid to the laptop, Kimball returned to his chamber in the sublevel beneath the church. Though it was gloomy, cramped and spartan, Kimball never felt so at ease with his surroundings, the shadows that surrounded him becoming his aid and allies that sheltered him from the Light. I’m home, he considered, looking at the stone-cold walls.

  I’m home.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ––––––––

  Hassan Maloof swept the jars off the tabletop in anger after he was informed by Sargon of Firat Rashi’s counteroffer, which was no counteroffer at all, the glass shattering with shards skating across the restaurant’s patio floor. Twenty percent was the deal, and not a single percent less.

  “Does he understand who he’s dealing with?” Hassan stated in anger.

  “He knows exactly who you are,” stated Sargon. “I made sure of that.”

  “And still he refuses to bargain?”

  “Hassan, Firat Rashi is a man of great power in Damascus with ties to many powerful people. For twenty percent he’ll guarantee your safety from those who seek you the most. He said he’ll erase all trace evidence of the money trail and lose the CIA and Interpol from homing in on your position. You’ll be safe to command your forces without fear of consequence.”

  Hassan paced back and forth across the open patio kneading his hands, the man thinking as the glass crunched beneath his footfalls. Then he stopped and faced Sargon, his sharpened stare pinning the small Syrian. “Accepted,” he finally said. “But if the guarantee fails, then Rashi’s life will be over. He must understand this.”

  A number of things started to race through Sargon’s mind, such as Firat Rashi’s power, which exceeded that of Hassan Maloof’s cell, who were nothing more than a band of thugs who wielded little power, if any, in Damascus. Even if Maloof was able to recruit and develop a formidable legion, Rashi still had a contestable squad of his own. And if there was one thing that the Islamic State didn’t care for, it was to be contested by a challenging force.

  “I will advise him of this,” Sargon finally answered. “But if you’re in agreement, Maloof, then I see nothing but a win-win situation coming from this, yes? Not only does Firat Rashi guarantee safety, but time for you to develop your command unit as well.”

  Hassan Maloof nodded. “I still don’t like it. The commission he demands is too high.”

  Sargon knew better than to counter, and that the best action was taking no action at all by tying his tongue.

  Then Hassan said: “The time of the transaction is nearing. Days, in fact. Return to Rashi and inform him that his demand is agreed upon, with the conditions of guarantees set in place. And inform him of the consequences, should they not be met.”

  “I’m to meet with him tonight regarding your proposal, Hassan.”

  Hassan looked at Sargon with a measuring look, though Sargon didn’t know why. Perhaps mistrust on some level. Then Hassan reached into his garments and removed a cellphone known as a ‘burner,’ which is a prepaid phone that’s used for a small amount of time. It continues to be a common tool used by terrorists to communicate. Once intelligence agencies homed in on the device, by then the sim card would have been destroyed and replaced with a new sim card and number, making tracking impossible. “He can contact me with this,” he said, and placed the cellphone on the table before Sargon. “Since we’re in agreement of the terms, we can now communicate directly. There is one number on that unit. Mine. Now Firat Rashi will link with me regarding future transactions. So your job is done, Sargon. As soon as Firat gets that device, he is to call me. Do you understand?” Sargon nodded, picked up the phone, and tucked it away. “I understand.” Then Hassan exited the restaurant at a brisk pace with the patrons staring in awe behind him.

  Sargon, feeling like a weight had been lifted since he was unsure of Maloof’s willingness to accept the terms, left the premise with a marginal smile. Soon, he thought—within days, in fact—he was about to become an insanely wealthy man by Syrian standards.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ––––––––

  Office of the SIV (Vatican Intelligence)

  Vatican City

  Fathers Auciello and Essex were manning their posts inside the SIV communications lab watching the banks of monitors that lined the wall, all showcasing more than two dozen different hotspots all over the globe from the scouting lenses of geospatial satellites. To the right of those monitors sat a large screen that was divided into four sections, with an image in every corner. This screen and its four panels were committed to the streets of Damascus, the images hijacked from local CCTV and security cameras.

  “There’s a lot of people in Damascus,” Father Essex commented. “This won’t be an easy find.”

  But Father Auciello didn’t appear to hear Father Essex as he stood upon an elevated tier looking at the Damascus monitor, thinking. Then to the security agent manning the console, Auciello said, “Break the quarters down to thirty-two images.”

  The security agent started to tap the touch-screen keyboard with a pianist’s dexterity, his fingers hitting all the proper keys. A moment later the screen readjusted from four images to thirty-two, though the pictures appeared much smaller on the panel. Now they had thirty-two vantage points to work from, not four. Still a slight number, however.

  “Enable VisageWare,” said Auciello.

  The security agent began to tap in codes to activate the
facial-recognition software. After a final tap on the flat surface of the touch-screen keyboard, the agent said, “VisageWare enabled.”

  All thirty-two screens began to flip from image to image at blinding rates, the pictures of faces passing as blurs while the software measured certain landmarks to confirm certain names with certain identities. Right now they were looking for one man: Sargon Azerbaijani, a man who suddenly disappeared from the Vatican’s radar.

  Thirty-two images continued to scroll on the screen, all negative.

  And for hours the priests maintained their position upon the lab’s floor, waiting and searching, using whatever methods necessary to find Sargon, including the use of other contacts in Damascus, though they had come up empty as well.

  Into the sixth hour, however, the software had come up with a hit with a probability of 97%.

  “Lock on and zoom in,” said Father Essex.

  The controller did, the image now taking up the whole screen, which washed out the other thirty-one images. But this screen-capture was of two men sitting at an outside-patio table of an upscale eatery called the Elissar Restaurant.

  “Is there another angle to work with?” Father Auciello asked.

  A few taps later, a new angle from another security camera within the establishment was founded. This time the onscreen match read: 100%.

  “We got him,” said Father Essex. “The Elissar Restaurant in Damascus.”

  Father Auciello cocked his head like a baffled dog after seeing the second man, the one who was dressed entirely in black. “ID the man he’s with,” he said. After a quick tapping on the screen-touch keyboard and then maneuvering to capture the man’s face in its entirety, the agent enabled VisageWare which searched its data banks for less than three seconds before it came up with a name of Hassan Maloof, a 100% match.