The Light of Our Yesterdays

by Ken Hansen

  “Yes, but I fear this plot against him. I must find a way to stop this before it goes too far. I cannot bear to see the tragedy play out again.”

  The First Consul raised both eyebrows. “Again?”

  Tomadus rubbed his face, trying to cover up his gaffe. “I just mean, you know, what happened to Yohanan.”

  “Yes, I see. After a few inquiries, I have discovered what we have feared, Tomadus. A few of the Grand Imams and Jerusalem’s Abh Beyth Diyn have been mounting a secret attack against him with the Three Emperors. They argue he is just another religious hack who will make a mockery of their beliefs and eventually rile up the crowd for his own benefit. We must turn them to his side before this becomes serious.”

  Tomadus scratched his beard. “How about the visi-scan speech? When they and the Emperors hear him, they will see his sincerity come through.”

  “You think that is the answer? I don’t know. It is risky and could blow back on both of us.”

  “Risky? He will say nothing that he doesn’t already preach openly. Anyway, you have said his sincerity is the issue, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. We both know his message is one of peace. We can all get behind that if it is genuine. But if they think he is seeking something else…”

  “He is not. How better to prove that sincerity than by speaking sincerely in front of the Emperors and millions around the globe?”

  “I understand, Tomadus, but not everyone sees Isa like you do. Do not the very best swindlers often seem the most believable?”

  Tomadus remembered a few charlatans from his days running the streets of Roma. The First Consul was right. And it appeared Isa was copying this Jesus from the other world, wasn’t he? Tomadus believed Isa was sincere, but a broadcast might not be enough to convince others. “What else can we do?”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose we must somehow show that Isa would not alter his message even if he might personally gain by doing so.”

  “He would never do that,” Tomadus said. “He does not care about personal gain.”

  “You and I know that. How do we convince the religious leaders and the Emperors? If these men could be made to believe he is genuine, they might even choose to follow him rather than persecute him. It is a possibility, Tomadus. Have you thought of a way to make that happen?”

  Tomadus rubbed his forehead and said softly, “You could test him.”

  “Test him?”

  “Sure. They could try to force him to renounce his views under a little pressure. He will not succumb to the pressure and will thereby demonstrate his earnestness.”

  The First Consul put his palms together in front of his jaw, bouncing his forefingers against his lips. “How would we accomplish that?”

  “I don’t know,” Tomadus said. “We’ll have to figure it out. But he must not be harmed. I need your assurances of that. He just needs a chance to prove them wrong when put to the test.”

  The First Consul’s teeth glimmered back to Tomadus. “No, of course he should not be harmed. There must be a way we could accomplish this. If you think it would help, I shall consider it.”

  “Gratias. But we still need the broadcast first. Isa must lay out his ideas for the whole world. That by itself will help him.”

  The First Consul sat back and bounced his fingertips on his lips again for a few seconds. Then he leaned forward and smiled. “Yes, I see it now. It could help.”

  “I can make a sizeable payment. Can you convince the visi-scan broadcasters to cover the speech?”

  “Do you see this as just a simple speech?” the First Consul asked.

  Tomadus shook his head. “He excels in the give and take of a crowd. We will begin with a sermon followed by a question and answer session. That will show his best attributes.”

  “Of course—an excellent idea. It will demonstrate the passion of his beliefs. I can use that with our Emperors.”

  “Can we do it live? Isa is rightly concerned about potential editing. You know what they can do with pre-recorded programs.”

  The First Consul nodded. “I would not have it any other way. Where are you headed?”

  “Jerusalem.”

  “I could not imagine a better location.”

  Chapter 80

  “Damn it, you telling me you guys never checked the CIA’s dental and DNA records on Najwa?” Huxley asked.

  “Why would we?” Yadin said. “He was dead. We had his phone and identification card. We returned his body to the UAE authorities, but we never heard we had ID’d the wrong guy. Sure his face was disfigured, but why would it matter to the terrorists whether we knew who he was?”

  “I’m guessing Najwa was hoping to disappear. I have certain information suggesting Najwa may himself be Pardus.”

  “The Ghost Leopard? What is your source?” Yadin asked.

  Huxley looked up. “That’s, uh, something I’m not able to officially share with you at this point, but it is fairly reliable. Our source met him at Tel Megiddo.”

  “I understand,” Yadin said.

  “He may also be tied up in this plot. But our source is in custody, so we think part of this escapade may be over, or at least sidetracked, for now. We need to find Najwa and the goods, but first I’d like to confirm he’s not already dead. Tell me you guys took some blood samples so we can run a DNA match with our records from Gitmo.”

  “We are not incompetents, Huxley. We’ll forward a sample today. You think Najwa is in Israel?”

  “No, I think he’s in Italy. But please keep a special eye out for him. We just don’t know.”

  Huxley hit the red icon on his phone and looked up at the info board for Gate 45. Too damn much was happening too damn fast. Although he had delayed his trip to Afghanistan by a day, the interrogation of Fine had been well worth it. Had he finally discovered the identity of Pardus? It all seemed to make sense, and the cardinal sure seemed to believe his own story. Still, throughout the interrogation, Fine never appeared to appreciate the significance of identifying Najwa as Pardus. That apparent ignorance made his statement all the more believable. He probably overheard some other player at Tel Megiddo refer to the nickname but never knew it mattered. If Pardus realized that Fine had made the connection, Fine would have disappeared with Tocelli weeks ago.

  Unfortunately, Huxley and Patismio had not been able to coax any other really critical information out of the cardinal. He had tried to discover if the man knew of the nuclear warheads, but Fine’s blank look suggested he knew nothing. Was Fine just another Pardusian pawn in this grand plot? After spending the day with Huxley and Patismio, Fine still had not given up anything more about the package he handed Najwa, if there ever was one.

  Then there was Fine’s take on Sonatina. The more Huxley knew her, the less he understood. She had feigned only a passing knowledge of the snake, yet the cardinal recalled her with great kindness and a sparkling twinkle and wink in his eye. Why then had she lashed out about the man and denied knowing him well? After his fall from grace, had she become too practiced at such denials to save face, or was she hiding something else? If the two had some sort of relationship, then why would she have turned him in last night? That made no sense—even if she had faked a knock on her head to lend an aura of credibility to her story. Still, if that whole scene were a sham, then she also must either be connected closely to Pardus or strangely playing the part. The texts from her phone that night could mean nothing less. But maybe he was making too much of this. She could merely be an honest victim and sublime ad hoc analyst. That would be nice, but the little connections darting through his brain kept screaming their little warnings at him, overwhelming even the desire still coursing through his veins.

  Chapter 81

  Huxley watched the live video feed of the holding tank from the control center at Camp Chapman. Anwari was kneeling as he faced what he must have believed was the direction of Mecca. He lowered his face to the floor and remained there for some time. Huxley looked away from the screen and back at the special agen
t. “You hear from Mayer, yet? I need access yesterday.”

  “Sorry sir, but he is in a meeting in Washington and cannot be disturbed. We were told he would be out soon. I cannot give you access to the detainee without his approval.”

  Huxley turned around and began pacing. Meeting my ass. He’s delaying so he can pull his next move before I interrogate Anwari. At least Anwari will not suffer any mysterious “accidents” while I’m here. Contacting Mayer had probably put Anwari at further risk, but it was the only way Huxley could get through CIA security. He had been fortunate enough to talk his way into this facility with Kira clearing the interference. He needed to press Mayer to make this happen quickly. And I need to talk to Anwari alone.

  Huxley’s phone began singing “Highway to Hell,” a special tone reserved for Mayer. Huxley said, “Mayer, thanks for calling back. I need to see Anwari right away.”

  “So I have been told. What does he have to do with you?” Mayer asked.

  Huxley’s eyes narrowed. Was Mayer playing with him? “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Why would I? We grabbed him because some satellite footage caught him sneaking into Afghanistan from Pakistan through the mountains on one of the terrorist trails. We have been wondering what an Afghan hero is doing on that trail. I thought we might let him sit for a week or two and then see how he might explain that.”

  Huxley nodded. You need this. Take the chance. “I think he might be connected to the Pardus case. It is a long shot, but I’m here, so let me speak with him.”

  “Holy hell, Huxley, you know you could screw it up. You haven’t managed a deep terrorist interrogation with special tools in quite awhile.”

  “And I don’t plan to.”

  “What? You going to dance with him or something?” Mayer asked.

  “Something like that,” Huxley responded. “I might even need to release him. Look, you know what’s at stake. I’m not sure what he did in Pakistan, but if he was involved, then we have to use him. I’ve met him in some passing encounters, so I have an outside chance of turning him. But I have to play the game right.”

  The silence that followed gnawed at Huxley’s gut. Had he blown it?

  Mayer said, “Okay, I will cut the orders, but you’re responsible for him. Anything happens and it is your ass, not mine.”

  “I accept that. Thanks.” Huxley looked suspiciously at his phone after disconnecting. That had been just too easy. These CIA guys were assholes when you wanted to interrogate their detainees, and Mayer was the biggest asshole of all. Maybe he is finally seeing the big picture. Or maybe he is trying to scramble mine.

  Fifteen minutes later, he faced Anwari in the sparse cell. “I am sorry to see you under these circumstances, my friend. What is this all about?”

  “You tell me, Chris. They yanked me out of my home and stuck me here. They have not even had the decency to tell me what they think I have done wrong.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  Anwari looked around the cell as if trying to find something hidden, looked at Huxley and then shrugged.

  Huxley nodded slowly. Okay, I’ll take the hint. “Abdul, you look like you need to stretch your legs. Might that help to clear your mind? Let’s take a walk on the base.”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  A few minutes later, Huxley and a handcuffed Anwari walked outside the building but well within the perimeter of the base. “I have no wires on me, Abdul. Do you want to check?”

  “No. I trust you. You are not the Leopard.”

  Huxley stopped and faced Anwari. “The Leopard? Do you know him?”

  “Do you?”

  “Let’s say I know of him from the bodies of his former colleagues that we keep finding hanging in the trees he has visited. We think he killed a platoon of soldiers in Pakistan after they did his bidding. He will eventually do the same to you, Abdul, even if you remain loyal to him. He despises loose ends.”

  “When he finishes with me, I will die, unless you protect me—and I do not refer to hiding me in a jail cell.”

  “What you asking?” asked Huxley.

  “Asylum, pardon, protection in your country.”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “When I tell you, you will understand.”

  Huxley studied Anwari’s face. “If your information proves critical, that may be possible. Do you need something in writing?”

  Anwari shook his head slowly. “I trust you. You know, I was going to fly to Washington to warn you after you called me. Allah spoke to me through you on the phone that day. You are blessed, Christian. Allah shines his light on you though I fear you do not see it. I decided then to help you with Pardus, but the CIA arrested me a few hours later. The CIA has at least one mole loyal to Pardus, so when they arrested me, I figured it would not be long before Pardus found me. No, Chris, if I do not trust you, who can I trust?”

  “I see.” Anwari’s statement had sprayed the unavoidable mist of truth into Huxley’s face—yet another emphasis on trust. Just like Sonatina. He frowned. Luckily, Anwari had not been watching his face, or Huxley’s expression might have blown the growing connection between them. Get her out of your mind, Hux, or you will regret it. Focus. “Give me an idea of what you might have to exchange, and I’ll let you know what I think. But know I can’t make it happen myself. It will take time and a little arm twisting.”

  “I could wear a wire and call him—but not from here. He might have the technology to track the call’s origin, so I have to be in Kabul.”

  “If you can call Pardus, why don’t you just tell me his real identity?”

  “I do not know it. I do not know if anyone does. Maybe Dracoratio.”

  “Dracoratio? You know him?”

  Anwari nodded.

  “He the alias for Esnanimen Kharun Udani?”

  Anwari nodded again. “Anyone other than Udani finds out, they are dead. I am pretty certain Pardus is an Arab, though I have never met him face to face.”

  Huxley straightened quickly. “What? You must have met him when he recruited you.”

  “No. He sent only Dracoratio in person. We talk only on the phone—in English to reduce the surveillance tracking. He has an Arab accent.”

  Huxley nodded. Mayer could speak with a perfect Arab accent. “Does he call you from the States?”

  “I do not know.” Anwari raised his eyebrows. “Sometimes he uses American slang.”

  “You ever hear the name Baqir Najwa?” Huxley asked.

  “No, who is he?”

  “Just wondering. Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Pardus is a Muslim, or at least pretends to be. I used to believe that was his motive—to serve Allah. But he slipped during a tense moment with me, and now I know he is no different than most of the other terrorist leaders—selfish men consumed by power and willing to sacrifice even the words of Allah in the fires of their lust for glory and power.”

  Huxley nodded, but then his eyes narrowed. “Why did you decide to help him? You were an Afghan hero.”

  “Hero?” said Anwari. “I killed my brother.”

  “What?”

  “To you Americans, I was a hero. To my own family, I was a murderer. On my last raid with your army, I killed my brother and his family when I called for a thousand pound bomb to slam into a building in Jalalabad. My brother survived a few weeks, all along demanding revenge against the Americans. Then he died in my arms. I was bewildered and disillusioned and vulnerable to Pardus’s influence. His call for revenge kept speaking to me. We screwed up, but it was because we relied on a damn CIA spook for bad intel. The bastard didn’t care, and then when we reported him, a good man paid the price instead. The mass murderer went free.”

  Huxley frowned and shook his head.

  Anwari nodded. “Pardus convinced me that that the problem was the American incursion. He made me believe Allah wanted to rid my country, no this whole world, of the men who seemed bent on the destruction of His people. I am sure I was an
alluring target for Pardus just because everyone still thought I was a hero and friend to the Americans. I have tried to play the role Pardus set out for me, but in the end, I failed because Allah would not permit it. I have searched my soul. I have searched the Qur’an. I simply cannot reconcile Pardus’s plans with my devotion to Allah. So I have now decided to stop Pardus.”

  “I see.” Huxley closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. Could he believe Anwari? The man had apparently switched sides because Allah spoke to him through Huxley? Is it even possible to know what God wants? With enough certainty to sacrifice yourself to do his bidding? Eyebrows raised, he glanced over at Anwari. “You act as an instrument of your god?”

  “We are all instruments of God’s will. Sometimes we just cannot see it.”

  Huxley shook his head and grimaced.

  Anwari smiled. “Someday you too will see it, Chris. Look hard and open your heart.”

  Huxley shook his head again. “Instruments. You think we lack free will?”

  “No, we are not puppets. We serve Him by serving the truth.”

  Huxley grinned. “But what is truth?” He meant it as a subtle joke, but that thing in his abdomen pinched his muscle hard. He frowned and said again lowly, “What is truth?”

  Anwari nodded. “Ah, well, that is always the problem isn’t it? For the Deceiver hides the truth. But we must keep searching. The Qur’an says, ‘His signs are that He shows you the lightning that terrifies and inspires hope; that He sends water down from the sky to restore the earth to life after death. There truly are signs in this for those who use their reason.’ We search for the Light from the sky, for it is God’s Truth, and He sends His rain to assure us of everlasting life. You see we are not that different, I think.”

  Huxley sighed. “Perhaps. Tell me, had you been following me for Pardus?”

  “Will you satisfy my requirements?”

  “Do you have knowledge of his current mission?”

  Anwari chuckled. “You mean stealing the nuclear warheads?”