Chapter 1 - Smashwords

1
The Great
Deception
2
The Great
Deception
David Berko
Table of
Contents
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Prologue
Chapter 1: Flash Bang
Chapter 2: It’s a New World
Chapter 3: German Affairs
Chapter 4: Moldova
Chapter 5: Surprise
Chapter 6: It’s a Wrap
Chapter 7: Picked Up
Chapter 8: The Messenger
Chapter 9: Interrogation
Chapter 10: Road Trip
Chapter 11: Cerebrum Transfiguration
Surgery
Chapter 12: Getting Somewhere
Chapter 13: Winding Down
Epilogue
End
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Foreword
*You will be taken for a ride on several
layers of timelines. All at once.
Subplot 1: Operation
5
Switchblade/Scorpion War
Room/Ozarks
04/24/41
Scorpion leadership
•
Howard—director-general of Scorpion/antichrist
figure
•
Maxwell—the False Prophet, Howard’s right hand
man
World Leaders
•
Germany: President Lothar Kirsch
•
England: Prime Minister Jasper Turpin
•
Russia: President Igor Orloff
Free Republic of North America
•
President Alexander Toporvsky--leader of the FRN
(Free Republic of North America)
•
Edmond Drezzler—VP of the FRN
•
Donald Holiday—Director of CCC (Central Cyber
Corps)
•
Alfred Demsky--Director of Sentinel (FRN's
intelligence agency)
•
Ahmed Negler—National Security Advisor in the
Toporvsky administration
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•
Edith Wharton—Secretary of State
FRN Security Forces Chain of Command
•
Gene Barker—Minister of Defense
•
Base Commander Bill Rescheck over the Texas
militia
•
Base Commander Abraham Steffords over Eielson
Air Force Base
•
Brigadier-general Thomas Harding
•
Mike Dumphrey—Air Boss
Damion Westover--billionaire inventor Christophe
Gerard--chief scientist and jointchairman of
Westover Ventures Heather—former Scorpion
employee
Subplot 2: Barcelona, Spain/Jeddah,
Saudi Arabia/Moldova
4/20-4/24/41
Alfonso Marcello—Mossad agent
Sofia Keller—Interior Minister of Germany
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Amalia—Secretary of the Interior Ministry
Wendel—Commissioner of the Interior Ministry
Jabour—mysterious messenger
King Rehan Kahlil of the United Islamic Caliphate
Seth Markov—Mossad agent
Baruch—Mossad agent
Tyrone Banks—ex-Mossad
Subplot 3: Tel Aviv, Israel
2036
Azriel Markov
Esther
Stacy
Ephraim Markov (Malach Kemper)
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Prologue
"I have some visitors for you to see," the
rude awakening to pleasant dreams said.
What time was it? It didn't matter. Time was
irrelevant in the subterranean world of the
Ozarks.
Heather yawned and stretched. She had
only been in her cell for a mere forty-eight
hours, but to her it seemed like she had
already reached old age.
Heather squinted in the dim light to see who
was there to see her.
The guy on the left stood no more than five
foot eight she surmised. Something about
him registered as French, but she didn't know
why. Heather had actually been a foreign
exchange student to France as a
sixteenyear-old going through UK's Post
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Sixteen education, similar to high school in
America. Heather chose silence over a
warm reception of her visitors....Her mind,
actually quite distant from the four walls that
trapped her.
This prompted the guard to
get her attention. "Heather?"
She had learned so much about their
storied history. Not only that, but she also
spent a few years of ecstasy in the "City of
Lights"...Paris. While there Heather became
rather fond of crusty bread and café crème
(coffee served with hot cream) for breakfast.
She loved trundling along at a snail's pace
with the slow foot traffic along the narrow
sidewalks, hearing the angry honks of vespas
and vendors shouting out to pedestrians,
eager to make a sale. It all seemed like a
romantic reverie to her now.
"Heather?" the jailer's voice beckoned once
again, a little louder than the first time.
If only the black site had breakfast like that,
she fantasized. It must have been that time of
day, the AM. Unless her biological clock and
fantasies were so out of sync with each other,
Heather's stomach was convinced a meal of
some kind was in short order. Heck, anything
would do for the hungry woman in her hour of
desperation. Prison rations--a spoon-full of
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beans and rice-actually held some appeal to
the starving prisoner about now.
"I'm not gonna call you again," the angry
officer said reaching out with a night stick,
ready to punish her with it.
The snarky warden finally got through to
Heather.
Her head slowly swiveled to eye the other
stranger that stood at the entrance to her cell.
He was much more handsome than the
French fellow. And younger!
She suddenly found her voice...it came out
in the form of a question.
"What's your name?"
Damion stared at her a little longer than he
should have. When she spoke all he saw was
a pair of lips moving.
Christophe next to him had been less
distracted by Heather's attractiveness. "I
believe she just asked you what your name
is," he kindly prodded the billionaire for a
response.
"Huh, wha--?"
"What's your name?" Heather repeated the
question, this time staring full into Damion's
face, her brown eyes shining.
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Damion almost had forgotten about Kara,
the news reporter he would have gone out
with later in the week had it not been for his
current fate. Yet, for some reason she
seemed less and less enchanting in
comparison to the woman before him. Her
British accent was...refreshing. Something
about her made the self-made, rich genius
feel at peace. Kara only gave him an
overdose of nervous excitement he never
quite grew accustomed to much less
comfortable with.
"Damion, Damion Westover," he shyly
replied. His green eyes couldn't maintain
contact with Heather's when he spoke to her.
"What are they doing here?" Heather asked
the warden who still was there. He only
shrugged and turned to leave. "You have
thirty minutes," he said over his shoulder to
Damion and Christophe.
Heather watched him walk down the hall
and disappear around the corner. Her gaze
then returned to the pair of men. They just
stood there looking stupid and listless. Her
mind quickly thought up a good question to
break the ice. "What charges were you guys
brought here on?
--
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Mossad safe house: Barcelona, Spain
It is the second largest city in Spain, largest
commercial hub in Europe...with a population
of four million, not including the metro…
welcome to Barcelona.
Majestic Spanish cathedrals with their
towering minarets and buttresses sharply
contrasted against the modern glass and
steel skyscrapers that made up the
panorama of Barcelona's skyline along the
northeastern shore of the Iberian Peninsula
off the Mediterranean.
In the Fort Pienc neighborhood of the
Eixample district in the old part of the city, a
vagrant stumbled around, looking all pathetic.
He dressed better than he was able to afford
even though his standard of living was well
below the poverty line.
His shifty eyes hid behind a pair of
oversized sunglasses. He wore a kerchief to
cover his mess of hair. Large golden earrings
tugged at his earlobe's cartilage. Everything
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else about him was normal. Whatever that
was.
Alley cats hissed at him; stray dogs would
growl; and people either shunned him or
pretended like he didn't exist. For the latter,
the poor man didn't know which was better.
That little saying that went something like you
can't judge a book by its cover? This soul
was living proof of that. He existed to fly in
the face of man's empty appraisal of the outer
appearance when forming character
judgments.
During the day he assumed the lowly status
of down-and-outer, drifter. By night he was a
completely different person with a different
identity and everything. His daytime role as a
bum was the perfect cover for the clandestine
services that he performed. This was how he
lived for many years after he expatriated from
Israel back in late 2029. Dekel Hornik was his
real name, however his Spanish alias was
much cleverer than that. They called him
Alfonso Marcello.
...
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It was eleven o' clock in Barcelona on a
Wednesday morning. The sun smiled down
on the Mediterranean coastal city. The
temperature rose to a crisp sixty-five degrees
out, but with the sun it felt warmer than the
thermometer would lead one to believe.
Alfonso walked by a row of street vendors,
offending the customers with his body odor.
His last shower had been three days prior.
Deodorant was a negative.
His final destination was a little secluded
park. In his hand he held a copy of La
Vanguardia newspaper. The mystery vagrant
never actually read it, but looked the part,
posing in the park with his daily copy opened
up somewhere towards the business section.
Nothing too strange or out of the ordinary
with that.
Blending in was easy. Reading a
newspaper in a park or tooling around town
didn't require a degree in stealth from Israel's
intelligence agency, Mossad, whom he
worked for. However, staying off-grid when
he was on assignment proved most
challenging.
--
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Scorpion War Room:
Vandenberg AFB, California
Once the former home to the U.S. Air
Force's Space Command, Vandenberg Air
Force Base now serves Scorpion as its
strategic war room location. The base is
located near Lompoc, California--a town of
less than fifty thousand souls.
More importantly though is the Santa Ynez
Mountains that overshadow the base. They
form the perfect natural barrier to the east.
Due west of Vandenberg an underwater
gateway in the Pacific connects the great
blue ocean with Scorpion's war room that
exists deep below the nearby mountain
range.
Earlier that morning Scorpion's
directorgeneral, Howard (no one knew his last
name), sent out the invitation to the rest of the
world's supreme leaders to attend an event
they soon would never forget. Russia the
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Bear, Germany the Leopard, and Great Britain
the Lion all would send their supreme
diplomats to attend the symposium of a
lifetime. History's timeline was about to
experience a major jolt the seven continents
would all feel.
--
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Chapter 1
West LA, California
Mike Dumphree is the Airboss of the
AWACS plane that directs the traffic and
foresees threats before the rest of the force
can.
On that April the 24th of 2041, there was no
way he could have anticipated what was over
the skies of Los Angeles. His own two eyes
detected trouble before his advanced radar
ever did. Whatever was out there was unlike
anything ever encountered by man.
Mike broadcasted to all fighters this urgent
message: "Don't wait for them to open up
fire...pursue and destroy. Every last one of
'em. Hawk, over."
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Each one of the colonels over all the
groups in the three wings that made up the
coalition force checked in, one at a time,
acknowledging transmission received.
The luminous orb-shaped station that
floated within missile range of the coalition
force of Operation Switchblade came to a full
stop. It had many levels with orifices every
two decks or so. To the naked eye it looked
like a giant mothership with aircraft bays all
throughout the platform. This observation
wouldn't be too far off the mark either.
Suddenly little green balls of energy without
any apparent shape or form came shooting
out from the porous vessel from every
conceivable direction. The alien bogies cut
through the air no problem with a quickness
that went against the laws of physics.
If
that wasn't terrifying enough, what came next
would be. At the center of the mothership
was what appeared to be an energy core of
some kind. It turned red. Next, the top section
of the sphere began to part in corkscrew
fashion. A large canon emerged from the
beast and fired two missiles that went straight
up.
--
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Due to the clandestine objective of the war
council coming together at Vandenberg, the
base's underwater entrance in the Pacific
would receive the leaders of the world's
remaining empires instead of its space pad
on land. In such an event, the leaders were
flown to a secure location in Tokyo where
they boarded a flight that would take them
over the Pacific towards the west coast of S6.
However, it wasn't all that simple. The
Free Republic of North America flew
squadrons out of Hawaii looking for such
activity in the region. The FRN knew that
Scorpion was holding these summits, yet
they were unsuccessful thus far in
intercepting any of the foreign diplomats on
their trek to the war room at Vandenberg.
The flight manifest for the leaders of the
world's last great remaining empires was
quite different from any other. Departing from
Tokyo--nothing too out of the ordinary there.
Landing in the...Pacific Ocean? No typo, no
joke. The why has already been explained:
FRN's dragnet security could only be beat
one way--underwater, not over it.
Scorpion's hypersonic jet with its scramjet
engine would fly the diplomats out of Japan's
largest city at Mach 10: the closest thing to
mastering Einstein's famous relativity theory,
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e=mc2, while still flying through earth's
atmosphere. The brief joy ride would then
terminate with the jet slowing to subsonic
speeds and ejecting a capsule from its
underbelly, two hundred miles out from S6's
shoreline.
The escape pod is in fact specifically
designed to sink. As soon as the several ton
submersible hits the waves of the North
Pacific Ocean, its ballast tanks fill with the
salty water that drowns the vehicle to a depth
of a thousand meters, safely within its crush
depth limits. From there another submarine
that has quietly lurked around the outer edge
of the continental shelf off the coast of North
America for weeks, possibly even months,
links up with the vessel and begins the crew
transfer.
Scorpion's sub would stick to the
lesstraveled ocean trenches, away from all
the sonar traps the FRN had littered across
the ocean floor.
Its Harpoon-class nuclear submarine with a
super cavitation drive could plow through the
viscous waters at an astonishing rate of a
hundred knots.
That Wednesday morning it would need the
speed: the council at Vandenberg's War
Room would convene at 03:30 hours.
--
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Since the revolution of aviation in the
aerospace sector, anyone could book a flight
with the hypersonic-flight monopoly, Orbital
Flyer, for a quarterly stipend of four thousand
DigiCoin (equivalent to $1000 USD). For that
membership one could fly four times in the
three month pay period anywhere around the
globe. Once the four credits are used up,
before renewal comes calling, an agent
would automatically dial the paying customer
and make an offer for additional credits at a
discounted rate.
For everyone else looking to fly on the
cheap, there were plenty of names in the
industry that flew supersonic jumbo jets for
very low fares. And unlike Orbital Flyer, they
charged per flight. However you got what you
paid for: economy-class seating, lack of
infotainment options, and perhaps a bag of
peanuts if the flight attendant remembered.
Thus went the airline industry in the modern
times of this story.
--
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Tel Aviv, Israel
It is lunch hour in the central business
district of Israel's largest city. The glass
pocket door of La Shuk restaurant opened
and closed to the influx of a population
seeking a good bite to eat. Good eats La
Shuk had. The grill served up veal schnitzel
with the popular side of creamy mashed
potatoes all day. Fresh garden salads with
baskets full of pitas hot from the oven made it
around the floor to every table.
On the
second story in the non-smoking section,
Azriel Markov sat at a booth all by himself.
The neighborhood school in the Florentine
neighborhood on the south side of town was
where he should have been; Azriel in fact still
had three years left in his middle school
education as required in Israel's overarching
compulsory education system (k12).
Azriel was a man unto himself though. His
dad was away on business always and mom
died of pregnancy complications when Azriel
was very young. Or so that was the story they
fed him. The stillborn baby would have been
a girl--her name, Keila.
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The pain from these losses mixed in with
his iced tea like a bitter lemon peel. Azriel
slouched. This was one of many places he
went to for perspective. No other restaurant
in the area quite did it for him like La Shuk.
Fist-fulls of broken pita bread dipped in tasty
humus were of more comfort to him than a
cerebral walk through the vineyards he would
frequent southeast of Tel Aviv near Beit
Shemesh.
The young soul often thought about what
he'd do with his life. School didn't hold much
for him, the arts were out...Azriel wasn't a
handyman either, nor was he bent that way.
So what? There were a lot of tech companies
always hiring in the area, and he even
thought about stopping in one day at such a
place. Azriel lacked ambition though. Life
didn't seem fair to him, so why try? Instead of
rising from the ashes, the thirteen-year-old
boy chose to sit in them and marinade.
From his table the boy had a view of
anyone who ascended the stairs. Besides a
few attractive girls he had guessed to be a
few years too old for him, there hadn't been
any persons of interest that had made the
walk up to the second floor. Right as the
breaded piece of meat got in between his
teeth, touched his tongue...that's when he
was forced to break from the flavor works
going on his mouth to the current problem at
hand. And it was walking towards his table.
Uncle Markov was in the building, and he
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was on a mission. Ephraim took it upon
himself to be his nephew's surrogate father
whether the boy desired it or not. Ephraim
knew Azriel was floundering in life and that
he needed an elderly, sage voice of wisdom
to show him the path.
Azriel slouched so low in his booth that his
spine protested against him. The Jewish
boy's persistent uncle now loomed large at
his side. He was talking in Hebrew; most of
the whole contained scathing reproofs.
At thirteen years of age the young man
thought he knew it all. Not only was he
officially an upstanding man in Jewish
society, he was now an active participant in
the daily prayer services at the synagogue.
Good ol' Uncle Markov though...he was at it
again. When is he gonna leave me be, Azriel
thought.
"Are you even listening to me?" his uncle
sharply demanded while seating himself
across from his nephew. "What have you
been into boy?"
Azriel understood the last question to mean
what kind of trouble are you into this time?
He slowly chewed in order to make his uncle
wait even longer for an answer.
Ephraim's scowl grew larger. "How's your
dad been?"
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Azriel spoke for the first time. "Fine."
"Oh really? What kind of business has he
been away on, do you even know?"
This
wasn't a question the boy could answer,
actually. His father's line of work hadn't ever
been communicated very clearly to him. Ever.
All he knew was his dad had frequent flier
miles up the ying-yang. When he had asked
his father point blank on one of the rare
occasions he had opportunity to, all he got
was a vague "it's for the country, son. I help
save lives." That was usually code for it's
confidential, I'm sworn to secrecy. But Azriel
wasn't one to assume.
"I don't know,"
Azriel admitted. He immediately wished he
had lied instead of opting for honesty for he
knew his transparency only invited more
questions from his nosy uncle.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" It was a good
question. Not too provoking either.
The
boy's expression softened. He actually wasn't
gonna fight it. Maybe a conversation with
Ephraim wasn't so bad after all.
"I really
wish I could see more of him...know that he
cares. He never says 'I love you son,'
nothing."
Ephraim's eyes grew sad. His larger hands
enveloped his nephew's in a clasp of
affection.
Azriel looked into his uncle's dark eyes,
noticing love there instead of hatred-kindness
instead of disapproval. "Can you tell
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me something?"
"Anything."
"Why do you care so much?"
Uncle Ephraim straightened up a bit at the
directness of the inquiry. "Why, it's because
you're family Azriel. I never had any of my
own, so I see you as the son I never got to
have."
The profundity that left the whiskered lips of
the middle-aged man left the young person
speechless for a spell. A sip from the
halfempty glass of iced tea restored his
desire to pursue more conversation though.
"I..." he looked away out of shame, shame for
how he had treated the man before him. At
long last he came to the bottom of Ephraim's
heart only to be overwhelmed by his uncle's
true intentions for him.
"I went to morning prayers today, uncle."
Ephraim poked a finger into the diminishing
mound of mashed potatoes with the
enddestination being his open mouth, ready
to receive the delectable starchy goodness.
He smacked his lips and nodded at the lad
before him.
"First time?"
"Yeah. It was..."
His uncle had raised eyebrows. "What?" He
had been expecting a simple yup, but the boy
had more to say.
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"Rabbi said some," Azriel paused and
blinked, "interesting things concerning
Messiah."
"Oh?" Now it was his turn to be concerned
again. Ephraim was very traditional in his
Jewish beliefs. According to them, the
Messiah was not the person Jesus Christ--he
had not yet come.
"Jesus is returning a second time," the
young man said out of the side of his mouth,
as if he didn't like the message's contents
any more than the listener did.
"Bah!"
Uncle Markov very indignantly knocked the
salt and pepper shakers over.
"Blasphemy!"
Azriel looked confused. "But uncle, I didn't
say who Jesus was. I didn't refer to Him as
the Son of..."
"Don't speak that rubbish boy! I will not
have it!" Ephraim cursed. Azriel regretted
he ever brought it up. "You know I don't
believe in it," he lied.
"Good boy," Ephraim
said in a more collected, controlled manner.
"Now, I will take you to your new school."
"Say what?"
"You heard me. Get up. We don't have
much time. The bell rings soon for fourth
period. Up, up!"
--
28
West LA, California
Two blue trails streaked upwards for a mile
before detonation. Then there was a boom,
an intense flash of light, and a shock wave
that had an incomprehensibly large radius
that continued to grow with the passing
seconds.
"EMP!" Mike Dumphree screamed over the
radio from his command and control chair in
the AWACS plane. Suddenly his faith in the
air armada's electromagnetic shielding
sharply diminished as the shock wave
continued to ripple, threatening to envelop
FRN's security forces in the sky.
…
A little bit earlier
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Meanwhile in the Basement, FRN's secure
presidential bunker deep beneath Honolulu,
President Alexander Toporvsky and his
National Security Council were anxiously
watching the events unfold in Operation
Switchblade. Base Commanders Bill
Rescheck, Abraham Steffords and brigadier
general Thomas Harding all added their
collective input on tactical air tasking orders
from their command and control centers
located throughout the Free Republic of
North America...and Texas.
It was like a three ring circus...
Five minutes prior to the imminent
engagement with the enemy Commander
Steffords was in direct communication with
the Air Boss giving the order to put down the
heavy-lift craft in the LZ at 2404 E El
Segundo Blvd.
"Do it now or else there may never be
another chance," he said in context of the
mission and setting up a secure perimeter
on-site.
30
Air Boss Mike Dumphree worriedly looked
at his screens fill up with enemy aircraft.
Even though he had given the directive to
open fire on all bogies, they were absorbing
the damage. The enemy had superior shields
that could take a missile or two and laser
cannon fire. This couldn't have been
happening. But it was.
Mike said into his headset, "Mustafa
bubbas (fellow squadron members), what's
the skinny on your ISR (intelligence,
surveillance, and reconnaissance), over."
"Nothing moving on the ground within five
clicks of the LZ. No heat signatures. Over,"
the Mustafa group commander radioed in.
Mike celebrated his good luck by taking off
his headphones for a minute to wipe his
forehead. God this couldn't be anymore....
Before he could even finish internalizing what
he was experiencing Scorpion's mothership
launched her missiles. She hadn't targeted
any of FRN's planes though. Instead, their
sights were set on detonating them a mile
above the action with the intent of creating a
massive electromagnetic pulse that would
wipe out FRN's shielding.
...
As soon as President Alexander saw the
enemies first move (EMP attack) that's when
instinct told him they needed to jink and not
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stick around with these guys. He knew they
were outgunned and outmatched; therefore
Operation Switchblade would take its
chances on the ground instead. The leader of
the free world was about to make a
gamechanger decision. Not before there
were more casualties however.
"Punch out, punch out!" one copilot
frantically communicated to the other pilot in
a two-seater seventh generation jet that had
just bought the farm. The man he spoke to
was unresponsive however; he had in fact
been killed in action by the tango's laser fire
that managed to slice through his cockpit
section and incinerate his vital organs in the
process.
The situation couldn’t have been any worse
for the good guys--even before the EMP
shock wave hit. Then the losses would really
start to tally up.
Alexander couldn't take it anymore.
"Have we had enough downed planes?!" he
cried. His eyes narrowed in anger. "Ground
the armada. Get 'em down before this gets
any messier," he growled to the Air Boss.
"Roger that Eagle Command," Mike
Dumphree acknowledged with due deference
to chain of command.
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Then Mike proactively said to the air
armada, "All groups tasked with escort of
heavy-lift aircraft, break off and get your
fangs out. We're gonna light 'em up."
Thomas Harding who was in charge of the
ground forces now joined the chatter, giving
coordinates to the flying fortresses (heavy-lift
aircraft) on where to land.
"You're gonna push the envelope and come
in hard. There is no time for a soft landing
gentleman," he stressed.
Meanwhile more FRN jets fell prey in the
fur ball of chaotic high-speed combat
maneuvers with the enemy. Many burned out
of control, losing flight control…ultimately
slamming into skyscrapers below. Those that
missed became large impact craters in the
highways.
Smoke belched from the
wreckage all across the city's west side. The
loss of life, both pilots and collateral damage
of citizens on the ground continued to
escalate.
A tremendous groan suddenly filled the
skies as Scorpion's electromagnetic pulse
defeated the thick alloy shielding FRN used
against such attacks. In a fleeting moment it
looked like all hope was lost.
--
33
Somewhere over the North Pacific--03:00
hours, April 24th, 2041
The three leaders from Britain, Russia, and
Germany were assisted into the airlock inside
the Scorpion AirCorvette. From there they
would be helped into the submersible that
would drop through the bomb-bay doors in
the rear section of the craft when it was time.
There wasn't a whole lot of chit-chat between
the cast of characters. If communication was
desired, they all had their translucent
Universal Articulators which were worn like
retainers in their mouths. These handy little
devices replaced artificial voice synthesizers
as the new standard for
universal translation by utilizing the speaker's
own vocal tract.
The Russian leader conversed with one of
his own aides in a low voice near the aft of
the plane by the cargo ramp in a little
alcove under a side bulkhead. Two
alcoves up from the one the
aforementioned characters occupied, the
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German and British heads of state began to
dialogue.
"Have you ever been to the war room
before?" the chancellor of Germany spoke
in the British prime minister's own native
tongue.
"Yes Lothar, on one other occasion." The
British PM appeared a little tired, but that
didn't seem to affect his cordial disposition.
Lothar Kirsch made a guttural noise in the
back of his throat.
"What was the nature of your first visit?"
The German head of state tried to hide his
lack of trust for the other man behind an
innocent little smile.
"That's none of your business,
chancellor," Jasper Turpin deflected. "I've
come to see the dawning of a new age
today. I know the Lord of the Ages won't
disappoint."
Lothar clutched the
harness's buckle that went over his lap. He
was secretly angry at Jasper for denying
him the information he had requested. But
this didn't come as a surprise. It only served
to add more brush strokes to further color
his view on Jasper in a negative light. What
he sought to grapple with was the idea of
working together, in unity, as a one-world
government when there clearly were seeds
of distrust sewn into the fabric of such a
weave-- because of rulers like Jasper
Turpin.
35
"I hear S3 is going to be the new seat of
government for the established order...."
Lothar changed subjects. "Any thoughts?"
Jasper mentally steeled himself to conceal
the true identity of his affections. Almost
certainly he wished the capital of the new
world order would be along the Thames in
the UK instead of Sector Three in North
America.
"I've always thought highly of the District of
Columbia. It was born for greatness," Jasper
Turpin lied.
The German chancellor compressed his
lips together. "Yes, indeed. My impression,
also."
"Then today should go well," Jasper was
quick to say.
"I hope so. I'd sure like to hear what Igor
has to say though."
...
Igor Orloff, president of Russia, wasn't a
man to trifle with. The fifty-six-year-old
dominated talks at roundtables and summits
the world over. He had perfected the power
grab when he shook hands with his gripper
always overlapping the other ruler's. His body
language communicated great pride and
confidence. What really tops the list of quality
leadership attributes for this man, though,
36
would be his perceptive mind that could see
through any smokescreen, red herring,
diversion...anything.
Russia's Chairman of the Government, or
the land's number two, went with Igor to
Scorpion's war room that morning.
President Orloff was hardly ever seen without
his right hand man. The two men now
discussed domestic concerns under the
sepia-red glow of the aircraft's interior
lighting. They sat side by side on a low bench
situated in a little recess tucked into the
plane's side. Both were buckled in until told
otherwise.
Grigory stretched his legs. "So nice of them
to transport us in the cargo hold of a military
jet."
Igor smiled at his aide's quip. "What? I
thought you missed travelling like this. The
KGB flew much worse planes than this."
Grigory Sliva folded his arms at the mention
of his history. He'd like to forget the missions
he flew all over Eastern Europe with Russia's
syndicate intelligence agency. There was one
memory however that strangely surfaced in
Sliva's head in the moment. It was an
assignment he had done more than fifteen
years ago in Kosovo.
The thin man winced.
His hands would be forever stained red
from a life of past sins: the countless victims
that fell to the skillful dagger or quick trigger
37
continued to haunt the Russian leader.
Nothing he did to medicate would erase the
undying stigma that went with him as he
climbed the rungs of Russia's ladder to
power.
"Aren't we near our lay-over?" the aide
humorously referred to the drop into the
ocean as such.
The Russian president followed Grigory's
gaze to the capsule that sat no more than ten
feet away. It looked like a space vehicle
ready to escape earth's orbit and head to
mars.
"Let's get on with it," Igor said, his
impatience growing. "I want to meet this great
man I've heard about in whispers."
"Some
say he's not even a man," Grigory said with a
wink.
Igor laughed and paused. "No, he's a man
alright, but he's also something else. I
believe," the leader began to say as he
traced his red beard with his fingers from the
lip to below his jutting chin, "that this man is
the one long foretold about. He has a unique
mark."
The president's aide then held up his
fingers, forming the symbol that has been
commonly known to mean A-Okay, however,
in other circles it represented something of an
entirely different realm. Three little numbers.
--
38
39
Chapter 2
The Middle East in 2041 looked something
like this: a dominate United Islamic Caliphate
surrounding little, but not defenseless Israel.
And as history dictated, the bitter struggle
between the devout jihadists and Jews
continued on into the late first half of the
twenty-first century.
Many attempts to wipe the Zionists off the
face of the earth had failed up to this point.
Nuclear holocausts never
occurred...biological warfare fizzled. Israel
had mastered the art of preemptive military
strike to erase any possibility of a mass
genocide of their own people. At the center of
their survival was the famed Mossad agency.
It was second to none. With sleeper cells on
every corner of the globe, satellites over
every strategic hot spot, and a very capable
40
defense force, Israel wasn't going
anywhere...yet.
--
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Out of the tribe of Quraysh rose a great
leader to rule the millions of Muslims spread
far and wide across the Arabian Peninsula,
the Mediterranean, and Horn of Africa (which
included northeastern African nations also).
In the second decade of the twenty-first
century the call went out from the militant
groups of Islam (aka Mujahideens) and
political parties of Islamic states for the
Muslim world to unite under one caliphate, or
Second Ottoman Empire.
41
…
In 2035 under the inspiration he was the
chosen one to represent Allah's authority on
earth, Rehan Khalil rode into the capital of
the new kingdom on a donkey. Millions had
gathered to witness this historic
moment...security was high. Miles of the
highway 271 had been shut down to secure a
safe parade route for the king and his
entourage.
All the highways and byways looping their
way through downtown were under the
jurisdiction of the United Islamic Caliphate's
(UIC) Supreme Guard units. It was these
troopers that cordoned off all the city's major
arteries: they controlled the flow. Anybody
who wanted to punch their way through
security would need to do it with the
assistance of a small army.
Jeddah rose to prominence in the Arab
world through oil dollars. Not only that, but
because of her central location in the Middle
East she became the largest commercial
center, eventually surpassing even Dubai in
the late 2020s. Strategically positioned in
close proximity to the Red Sea, this port city
served the global economy in a big way.
Much of the freight on big tankers passed
through her waters headed for Africa, the
Middle East, or Europe.
42
The crown jewel of the newly-formed
Islamic caliphate even began to build an
elevator to space where orbital platforms had
large space shuttles docked at them, ready to
transport freight and paying customers in
unprecedented efficiency.
That day the Muslim world showed up big
to witness their human representation of
Allah's authority on earth. Waving green
banners and flags with a white star and
crescent symbol emblazoned on it signaled to
the watching world a United Islamic Caliphate
was rising out of the desert...and
Jeddah was at the center of it all.
--
43
Where there is no guidance, a people falls, but in an
abundance of counselors there is safety.
--Proverbs 11:14
April 20th, 2041
The Mossad stamped that Proverb as their
motto. They sought to give Israel's leaders
guidance through good counsel in order to
arrive at informed decisions.
…
Five stealth helicopters' blades thwacked
against the night air around them. These
birds of war were headed to the former
Republic of Moldova which had been grafted
back into the Russian empire after World War
III (circa 2018).
External fuel tanks hung from the pylons
under the wings of the Block XX Blackhawk
stealth choppers; though the extra load it
44
carried may have increased its overall radar
cross-section, the ancient but heavily
modified helicopters would need it to make
the hop over the Black Sea.
The most dangerous part of the flight would
be the brief exposure to Odesa's launchers
that lie in wait for aircraft daring enough to
enter its domain. The good news: Ukraine
wasn't their end destination...only a very
skinny sliver of it stood in the way of
Moldova's southeastern section which they
were headed to. However, the flip side of that
coin being the Blackhawk's weak
countermeasures to anti-aircraft missile
launchers. If the stealth didn't have its desired
effect on enemy radar, it would be lights out
for the Israelis.
...
Four agents bundled together in the back of
one of the choppers. The airframe shuddered
a little at an altitude of five thousand feet
going two hundred and thirty knots. The pilots
were really pushing the envelope. Meanwhile
the rest of the crew were engaged in a
rousing game of blackjack-except for Seth
Markov.
Seth held an enviable background. Some
said he was over-qualified to be a
45
Mossad operative. He studied chemistry and
physics at Israel's oldest college:
TechnionIsrael Institute of Technology. Next
up, he did his graduate studies at none other
than MIT: graduating with a Masters of
Science in Mechanical Engineering.
For his physical regimen he dead-lifted five
hundred pounds (eight reps in six sets),
swam a quarter mile, ran a 5k in 16
minutes....Now you get the idea. Later in
the day he'd spar with Israeli Commandos
(think Navy Seals) until he bruised all his ribs
and/or partially blacked out.
What made
Seth the ultimate fighting machine though
were his skills in the deadly martial art called
Kraw Maga. One simply didn't outlast his
moves. Death would be the only conclusion
to a match. Seth's record was perfect, too:
many had perished from his lethal blows.
He had no equal, except the fictional
character Jason Bourne perhaps. Seth
Markov was so rounded in every area there
was literally no situation he wasn't prepared
for. Because of his educational background,
he was mentally equipped to think his way
out of any dilemma like a living-breathing
MacGyver.
The six-foot-one, two hundred and ten
pound jack-of-all-trades fighting machine sat
undisturbed in peaceful reflection. He was so
still, to anybody watching, Seth looked like an
inanimate GI Joe doll. It was nearing 23:00
46
hours and the helicopters were still a good
journey away from Moldova.
The trivial occupation of playing cards didn't
hold anything for the rough character.
Everyone he worked with knew better just to
let the warrior brood. That's what he did. His
social skills weren't too good anyway; his
attitude often was as snappy as a black bear
smarting from a shoulder wound. Seth wore a
snarly twisted scowl with battle scars marking
his chiseled cheek bones. During exfils,
Seth suited up for maximum readiness. Even
though it was just a transfer from one safe
house on to the next, the hardened Mossad
agent treated it like it was his most
dangerous mission. In an emergency he
came ready with liquid body armor and a
hang-glider system on his back in the
extreme case the helicopter was
compromised.
All of the seemingly unnecessary
precautions he took came from losing
colleagues in the field due to a lack of
preparedness. Never would that happen to
him if he could help it, he determined.
Ultimately, what Seth wanted most was to
destroy the enemies of the state until there
were no more. And then maybe, just maybe
he could tell his son Azriel one day who is
daddy really was. Seth knew he'd be old and
gray and his son, married with kids before
Azriel would ever know the real story about
his father. Then again, there was a very real
47
possibility he might never get that
opportunity: coming back home, wherever
that was, couldn't be guaranteed.
--
The Ozarks
Damion's heart palpitated more than he
was accustomed to. The situation was such:
in a jail cell belonging to a female inmate who
was a little more than mildly attractive to him.
However, Christophe his loyal friend and
chief scientist shared the same view.
Heather's question of why they had been
brought to the Ozarks facility still rolled
around in his brain, having not yet found the
answer he thought she would want to hear.
He lowered his chin and looked up at the
48
ceiling. "We, um--we're POW's. Scorpion had
it in for us so they ordered the hit. Bada bing,
bada boom, we're here, like magic."
Heather analyzed the billionaire. It didn't
take long for the follow-up question to the
first: "What makes you so valuable to the
agency that they'd wanna take you in alive?"
Christophe stepped forward and appeared
ready to talk. His first words came out more
French than American.
Anglais s'il vous plaît. “English, please,”
Heather said cracking a smile. "Yes, of
course," Christophe apologized, turning red in
the process. "We work for the FRN. We hold
lots of major military contracts with their
security forces that Scorpion is very
interested in."
"Yeah, wouldn't they love to know what
we're capable of," Damion bitterly quipped.
Heather held up a hand and squinted. "Wait a
minute, do I--know you?" she was addressing
Damion.
"I don't know, do you?"
The proverbial light bulb lit up in Heather’s
mind. "You're that guy who started the
nuclear fusion revolution in the transportation
sector. Right?" Damion was flattered.
"Yup, I did that," he replied modestly.
"You’re so kind to take all the credit kid," his
partner in innovation needled him in the side.
"Sorry," Damion mumbled back.
49
"Look, fellas, I'm not really in a talking
mood, but a lot has happened to me in the
past twenty-four hours and I've been dying to
share it with someone."
Both men's ears burned with curiosity now.
"Make yourselves comfortable?" Heather
was trying to play the part of hospitable host.
Damion plopped his weight down on the
concrete floor rather hastily. He was eager for
a story. As Heather continued to talk, the
fonder he became of her.
Kara was now a distant country from his
vantage point on an island surrounded by a
sea of question marks. He had no clue if
being held in isolation would be his new
permanent residence.
So much for those dang Viper agents
coming to our rescue, the thought slipped into
the billionaire's head as he listened to the
British woman's strange accounting of her
last day before waking up to her present
reality.
Christophe asked questions, but Damion
remained silent, transfixed. Every now and
then he would remember he had been
staring; his eyes would then dart to some
random object in the room. So
inconspicuous.
Heather noticed the extra attention the
good-looking stranger with the green eyes
and perfect tan gave her....She reached out
and took it, folded it up, and put it in her back
pocket. Distractions would be distractions.
50
She had actually hoped to turn down the
charm just enough to hold a meaningful
conversation with both the faces that watched
her every move.
...
"....And that's when I woke up. I presently
realized I was not dead, yet regrettably very
much alive and staring straight into the gaze
of the very cheeky warden of this prison."
Christophe chuckled. A devious little grin
played across his face. "Them bobbies are
cheeky fellows, eh?"
Heather laughed. Christophe's attempted
use of British parlance with its accompanying
accent was most humorous to her.
Damion ignored his friend completely. That
laugh. If only she knew what it did to him.
This was getting ridiculous. He had to get out
of there before he did something really
stupid.
"Er, Heather. It was really nice to meet
you," he stepped forward to force the
awkward handshake, "but I'm afraid my friend
and I must be going." He cocked his head in
the direction of the adjacent cell while he said
this.
She nodded with understanding. "See you
again?"
51
"Yes!" Christophe uttered without a pause
in his voice.
The blonde gave him a big smile and said,
"Good."
--
Tel Aviv, Israel: circa 2036
There was no big yellow bus that waited
curbside in front of the restaurant La Shuk for
a boy that needed to be in school. His uncle's
Mercedes ended up being the shuttle instead.
The uninviting nippy spring breeze hit Azriel
with full force as he walked out the front
entrance of La Shuk with uncle Ephraim
52
nudging him as they went along at a fast
walk. It was only a cool sixty degrees--the
sun hid behind cloud formations to boot.
Not a word was spoken between the two of
them. As they neared the parallel parking
spot the vehicle revved up and its gull-wing
doors let the passengers mount up. The
white interior was cast in a blue glow with
silver accents all over.
"Nice ride," Azriel murmured after he had
climbed into the front passenger seat. "Does
it fly?"
Ephraim balked. "Only the top one percent
of society have those, kid. Uncle
Ephraim didn't get so lucky."
The Jewish boy understood.
The engine made a whooshing sound as its
electric motor sent power to the wheels. It
was a smooth acceleration--sporty, but not
jerky. Azriel took in the blur of colorful
pedestrians strolling along the sidewalks of
Israel's biggest hub. The old architecture
mixed in with the new in the city. Art Deco
buildings abounded; ubiquitous single-story
European homes topped by a red tiled roof
crawled all over the landscape; and two to
three story sandstone residences also
proliferated.
53
Ephraim did a hundred and fifty
kilometers per hour on the Ayalon Highway
which fringed the eastern section of
downtown. There was no posted speed. In
the age of fully autonomous vehicles, car
accidents were simply unheard of. Cars had
really gotten that smart.
Uncle Ephraim still drove manually though,
no matter how capable his vehicle may have
been. He refused to let his skills go to waste
in exchange for convenience. That was an
extremely bad trade-off in his mind. Every
once in a while if there had been something
on his mind that would require him to take his
hands off the wheel, eyes off the road, and
give his full attention to the person he wanted
to deliver a message to he would make an
exception and push the button for the vehicle
to take over.
Today was a day for expediency, however.
Azriel would go to school and make fourth
period...on time.
"But I don't have any books, uncle," the boy
said out of the blue, breaking down the wall
of silence.
The driver went ahead and adopted a
mischievous look in his expression.
"Ah, so you think. I actually spoke with the
school superintendent recently. It has been
arranged for. Books, school supplies,
transportation every day....Done."
54
Tall skyscrapers, apartment buildings, and
offices loomed large on the left. Ephraim's
tunnel vision wandered to observe the central
business district. "I never get used to that
sight," he commented on Tel Aviv's modern
architecture.
"It's all I've ever known," Azriel
responded, his voice muffled. The
Mercedes weaved through traffic very
aggressively with the goal in mind of being
on time.
"We're nearly there."
Azriel looked confused. "But, the school I
went to wasn't on the northeast side of Tel
Aviv...."
"This is your school," his uncle cut him off,
not giving his nephew a chance to question.
"The teachers here are excellent. You will get
an education, I assure you."
Well, it was of
no assurance to the boy fresh off his bar
mitzvah. To him, an education wasn't a part
of the rite of passage
to adulthood. It didn't interest him. Azriel
would much rather have been a wanderer, a
passerby in the game of life. He wasn't willing
to put in the hard work to get anywhere. But
his wellmeaning uncle was hoping to change
all of that.
The stylish black Mercedes slowed down to
a stop behind a school bus that had its amber
lights flashing. A ringtone suddenly filled up
the cabin of the SUV. It played over the car's
55
speakers, but Ephraim took the call on his
inear headset.
"Yeah..." he answered a question. His eyes
shifted sideways to the boy. His mind was
quickly made up as the call continued. Before
long he was making shooing motions for
Azriel to get out and walk the rest of the way
to class.
"But I don't even know where to go!" The
boy protested.
"Just go! I'll be there shortly, "Ephraim
whispered, his eyes rising over the top of his
glasses which perched at the end of his nose.
The boy shrugged.
Azriel gingerly got out in his own time,
casting one long last look over his shoulder at
his uncle who was still on a phone call.
His sneakered feet took him towards the
rotunda entrance of the grand school
building. Security cameras, always on the
swivel, perked up at his arrival. Azriel didn't
like the feeling of being watched. But he
needed help, direction on where to go.
As
he got up to the door he sensed his body
undergoing a scan. To the right of the door
frame at waist level was a digital display. It
pulled up Azriel's national ID card on the
screen.
An artificial voice sounded and said,
"Welcome, Azriel Markov. Please walk to the
front desk to report for further instructions.
Thank you."
56
Thank you, the thirteen-year-old parroted
back.
After the shutter-style doors parted the next
thing he noticed was a big area rug carpeting
the floor of the turnstile: Welcome to Thelma
Yellin High School was stitched into it in blue
letters.
There was momentary confusion. "But I'm
still in Middle school," escaped his lips. A
motion detector sensed the human
approaching and correspondingly opened the
next set of doors.
Way up above about forty feet or so the
ventilation system noisily purged the system
and circulated the air per its pre-programmed
cycles. A very prominent desk, more like a
slab of rock from the local quarry, made it
hard to get past without being noticed and
stopped for questioning. Seeing as how
Azriel was the only soul in the near vicinity
walking the halls, all eyes were on him as he
approached the front desk.
--
57
Two hundred miles off the coast of S6...
A crew-wide announcement on Scorpion's
AirCorvette let everybody know that the craft
started approaching the targeted drop zone
for the underwater submersible which was
destined to dock with a Harpoon class
submarine that waited for it below the depths.
Members of the Elite Guard for Scorpion
were on standby to assist the VIP guests into
the capsule. They wore exoskeletons that
had transformer-like wings that popped out of
their back when they needed them. Their
face masks were multi-faceted, very much
resembling a fruit fly's eye. Overall these men
looked more like bipedal insectoids than
humans. To further round out their sinister
presence a vocoder in the mandible
disguised the men's real voices.
One of the six Elite Guards approached the
German chancellor and British prime
minister. Two more of them rounded up the
Russian leaders. The remaining three stood
sentry at the exterior hatch to the capsule.
"Good heavens!" Prime Minister Jasper
58
Turpin cried in alarm. He was riveted by the
dress of the guard that waltzed up to where
he and the German leader sat. He thought
the Scorpion soldier looked more like a grim
reaper than someone who was there for his
personal protection and service. "This is
just a dress rehearsal for the really weird
things you'll see at the war room, prime
minister," Lothar whispered into the startled
man's ear. "I thought you would've grown
accustomed to this by now though. You said
you've visited Vandenberg several times."
"Indeed I have," the British PM retorted,
feeling a little indignant.
"What are our instructions soldier?" Lothar
Kirsch demanded, his jaw set. "I must
escort you two into there," he pointed a
mechanical ligament in the direction of the
vehicle that sat atop the bomb bay doors.
"We only have five minutes to get you
harnessed up."
Both men immediately lifted themselves
from the bench they had occupied for the
majority of the flight from Tokyo. Lothar was
especially eager to enter into the
compartment destined for the deep blue. Out
of the corner of his vision he observed the
Russian President Igor Orloff and Grigory
Sliva walking in a four man formationScorpion Elite Guards flanking them. Lothar's
thin lips formed a tight smile.
"Are you looking forward to this as much as
I am?" he asked President Igor as soon as he
was within earshot.
59
The Russian president anticipated such a
question. "They had better make it worth my
time."
Jasper Turpin vigorously nodded his head
at the Russian's words. He too kept a busy
schedule; there had better be a darn good
reason for a summit at
Scorpion's war room at such an early hour in
the morning.
…
Five minutes later, down to the second, the
submersible hit the waves and promptly sunk
to a depth of a thousand meters. The much
larger Scorpion submarine swam over like a
shark eager to discover the source that
disturbed the water with its upward trail of
bubbles it created as it descended.
The Harpoon class sub that would take the
foreign leaders the rest of the way to the War
Room weighed in at a whopping seven
thousand tons. Its length: five hundred and
seventy feet...clearly the top of the food chain
in the Pacific Ocean.
It moved quickly through the water in its
gas bubble that the super-cavitation drive
created. This allowed the large behemoth to
move at speeds in excess of a hundred
60
knots. As it approached the capsule, its
intense flood lights turned on and illuminated
the vessel in the murky depths of the ocean.
--
Israel's syndicate intelligence agency had
its tentacles wrapped up in the affairs of
governments the world over. After World War
III the world looked very different. No longer
led by a superpower (i.e. the United States),
several very divided people groups were
controlled by Germany, Britain, China,
Russia, the United Islamic Caliphate...and in
the West there were the six sectors in North
America.
At the crux of it all were Scorpion's Skynet
surveillance systems. An army of drones,
cameras, and computer chips...a whole
arsenal of technology which harvested data
on the world's population. The makings of this
world-wide police state had its test-bed in
America. After the world's only superpower
fell, the Big Brother surveillance proliferated.
All major cities had little white boxes in them.
Inside these little harmless looking boxes
were quantum computers. Their capabilities,
what they could do...unknown. Anybody
curious enough to come by and see what
was under the box wouldn't live to tell. An
invisible dome of lethal energy protected the
61
quantum computers that ultimately were left
alone to do Lord knows what.
It may be buzzing by you. Maybe on your
window...splattered on a fly swatter even.
Insects--natural ones, too came under the
dominion of Scorpion. They were more
watchful in the urban environment than a
man with the big game on. Birds and foul
punched the clock for many hours of service
to the agency, also.
Privacy? It didn't exist. The whole world
was being watched. Forget governments
spying on each other, which, consequently
still happened rather frequently.
The
watchful eye of Scorpion noticed everything
though. She took the ambition of the NSA
and pushed it to another dimension. What's
more, Howard and his underworld
organization controlled the world's markets:
anything could be achieved.
--
62
Barcelona, Spain
The glaring sun on the Iberian Peninsula
filtered through the polarized lenses of Agent
Marcello's shades. He was engaged in the
typical observe and report duty assignment
for the agency, Mossad.
A random business person walked by his
bench in the park. The stranger dressed in an
expensive suit complete with the manly
jewelry: a Rolex.
Alfonso wondered what
time it was. He had a smartphone, but he had
to assume he was being watched by several
governments...and Scorpion. Instead of
pulling the device out of his pocket, the street
bum scooted off his seat and grabbed the
man's wrist--the one with the shiny time piece
on it.
The guy protested.
Alfonso ignored him. He got what he had
wanted. It was eleven fifty-five.
Time to book it.
His muscular legs took him on a slant that
led to a bike rack with scooters chained to it.
None of them were his. No matter though.
63
Alfonso looked around and was satisfied he
had a green light to choose the red one and
go to work on it.
First, a pair of powerful wire cutters snipped
through the chain that had once tethered the
moped to the bike rack. In less than thirty
seconds he had the two wires from the
ignition reversed, and the loose end where it
needed to go. There was a spark and Alfonso
throttled it. He quickly returned his tactical
knife to its sheath near his right armpit: he
was left handed.
And off he went into the hustle and bustle
of Barcelona traffic.
Alfonso had to be at a drop-off. These
occurred so often that it was like second
nature to him. An agent would hand off an
envelope to him--never the same person.
As he drove along at a conservative speed of
seventy kilometers per hour Marcello acted
out his paranoid nature with constant glances
over the shoulder. If anybody was tailing him,
they did a very good job of it. Nothing made
him want to drive any faster or in a zig-zag
pattern to lose a shadow. One could never
be too cautious in his line of work. In ten
years with the agency, he only had two
chance run-ins. Both times it didn't fare so
well for the aggressor.
64
Ten blocks later, two rights and a left,
Alfonso pulled over to the curb and put the
kickstand down. He knew he had time to
spare before the drop-off. Until then he had to
suffer with intense hunger pains at the
mouthwatering smells coming from a
steakhouse in the area.
Blending in was the name of the game. He
did not want to make it any easier for his
enemies to spot him. What better way than to
get lost in a crowd? In Barcelona one didn't
need to be in a mall for there to be crowds.
Every street and thoroughfare in the city
simply teamed with people.
Satisfied his cover was sufficient and that
no cameras could get a good angle on what
he was up to, that's when the phone came
out. There was a new text. It read: "Come in
after dark. We have a lot to go over." There
was a picture message too.
Alfonso looked hard at the screen. What he
was looking at appeared to be a fortysevenyear-old woman, a German highranking official...and she was in town on a
diplomatic trip to German-controlled Spain.
Sofia Keller held the title Minister of the
Interior. She didn't wind up on Chancellor
Lothar's cabinet for nothing. Her trim
appearance, shoulder-length blonde bobbed
hair, upturned nose, and dimpled cheeks
weren't menacing by any means, yet from the
reports he had heard about the woman, she
65
knew how to pull rank. Sofia Keller, aka "the
enforcer" wouldn't be leaving her post in the
Interior Ministry anytime soon.
Today she
was in town to carry out an inspection of the
local government and to meet with leaders on
her findings.
Alfonso's phone vibrated. That was his
signal. The agent quickly made haste to get
to a bus stop and wait there. He wasn't
looking for somebody that didn't belong,
that's not how Mossad operated.
Women
dressed in high fashion strutted by, men in
business suits talked on their phones,
families walked together to get lunch.
Where are you?
Just then a woman nearly tripped over
Alfonso and that's when he felt something
that wasn't there before. It was wedged under
his right arm. Agent
Marcello casually slipped it under his floral
shirt and tucked it into his pants.
Next up, find out the best way to stalk Sofia
Keller and her cohorts. He would need to
take inventory on all the places of interest
they might be at. Entry and exit points. And
ways he could make himself scarce in case
any of the Germans became wise onto his
spy game.
66
--
67
Chapter 3
Westover Ventures, Lost Angeles
Nine out of ten heavy-lift cargo aircraft were
able to land. The tenth had two engine fires
that brought the beast down in an ugly wreck,
its cargo undoubtedly damaged and the crew
more than likely dead.
Nine of the planes landed though, one after
another, down the boulevard from the
gigantic factory and office complex of
Westover Ventures. Each of them measured
longer than a football field, a hundred feet
wide and six stories tall. The cargo ramps of
the planes lowered like drawbridges.
Loadmasters unloaded twenty tanks, ten
personnel carriers, and UGVs (unmanned
ground vehicles).
68
All of these deadly machines of war
trundled out of their cargo planes and onto
the battlefield, ready to set up a perimeter.
Along with the heavy-duty camouflaged
military vehicles, nine platoons with forty
soldiers each marched to the directives their
assigned lieutenants gave them. Medevac
personnel didn't need to be told to conduct
search and rescue on the downed craft: they
were already on it.
The sergeant NCOs (non-commissioned
officers) coordinated logistics with the
members from their platoons that made up
the three companies that ultimately were
responsible for insuring the success of the
team of Viper agents that would go inside to
retrieve the priceless equipment and
blueprints on future weapons.
...
It was hard not to think about what was
going on in the skies above. The enemy
mercilessly pounded the FRN. Undoubtedly
the twenty brave men going into Westover
Complex to extract the assets felt the burden
to see the mission through.
Who needs security clearance creds?
69
They didn't even ring the doorbell. Planted
explosive charges blasted the men's way into
the cavernous interior of the gigantic building.
Ding-dong. All the Viper units were equipped
with thermal imager cameras in their helmets,
along with night vision, and an entire
integrated network suite for staying
connected with the rest of the team.
Two
of the Viper agents were positioned near the
entrance of the five story office building the
team had just entered into. They would stay
in contact with the outside world and interface
with even the president himself if need be.
Meanwhile, the rest of the detail would
separate into smaller forces: one to the west
wing or weapons division while the other
headed to the energy nexus located in the
east wing.
The building appeared hollowed out and
lifeless. The two guards standing sentry in
the lobby gripped their rifles tensely. Through
the huge triangular glass curtains that made
up the building's walls they could see giant
eightwheeled military vehicles speeding by.
Soldiers scurried along at a frantic pace to
set up check points with machine gun nests.
…
"Do you really believe we're alone in this
structure?" one of the guards asked his
buddy.
70
The other dude grabbed a protein bar from
a pouch on his chest and nibbled off the front
end of the bar. In between bites he
answered, "Scorpion would be stupid not to
come here. Either they already have...or
we've got company, we just don't know it yet."
"But that's not possible! We've done a full
sweep of this place. No life signs." Only
halfway through his snack, the other man
didn't want to be bothered for an immediate
answer. He held up a finger in the darkness.
"Coated sapphire cloaks work beautifully
against our sophisticated cameras, rendering
enemy operatives invisible. Just like that," he
snapped his fingers.
The figure who wasn't munching was freed
up to swear at the revelation. "Why do I get
the feeling this is a trap? The alien ships or
whatever the heck they are in the skies...it's
like they were expecting us. Now the
potential our team is walking into an
ambush...."
"I know," his partner agreed. "Stand alert,
ready for anything. We are Viper agents, just
remember that."
"Hooah!"
--
71
Scorpion War Room: Vandenberg, CA
The underwater entrance to the agency's
strategic war room wasn't like Atlantis...no to
the dazzling, mythical buried city. Instead it
took the approach of concealment, blending
in.
According to the harpoon class submarine's
advanced sensors, the foreign leaders were
nearing the front door to the base. Unless
something happened quick though, a six
hundred foot long missile would slam into
pilings along the shore.
The captain of the sub ordered a full stop.
Bubbles churned as if water jets had been
turned on in a whirlpool tub. The heavy
mechanical doors to a tunnel entrance
groaned but eventually complied. Sediment
kicked up from the ocean floor.
It was an
amazing thing. A submarine over ten
thousand tons, five hundred and seventy
feet long literally drifted into the tunnel with
the ocean currents.
The captain guiding the large vessel likened
this little exercise to a trip to the car wash:
you just had to get the wheels on the track
and put 'er in neutral. In a way, that's what
the Scorpion sub did.
72
A full detachment of ten Scorpion Elite
Guards stood on the wharf next to the
looming cylindrical metal whale that decided
to port there. The forerunner for the Lord of
the Ages traveled with them. Maxwell was
Maxwell. A cloaked, hooded, mysterious
stranger.
The hatch popped open on top of the
submarine's deck like a bottle cap under
tremendous pressure: its contents dying to
escape. Russian President
Igor Orloff was first to disembark, followed by
the German leader, and finally Jasper Turpin
of England.
Igor's aide, Grigory Sliva who brought up
the rear paused on the bridge between the
vessel and solid ground. He noticed strange
lights off in the distance closer to the mouth
of the tunnel where they had just come in.
Something else swam among the waves
which looked like shark fins to the Russian.
Grigory dismissed it with a head shake. He
continued his advance more cautiously than
ever into the world of the unknown. A stray
glance of his to the left gave way to curiosity
about the length of the sea tunnel. It seemed
to go on forever. But perhaps that was the
darkness’s hidden talent in the strange worldmaking things seem different than what they
really were.
73
"Step right this way," Maxwell instructed.
He took the lead with his guards and the
foreign leaders following not too far behind.
"I like what you've done with the place," the
German chancellor joked. Jasper Turpin
looked horrified at Lothar’s lack of
discernment. Just to be on the safe side the
British PM stood at a distance from the
German (he didn't want to be part of the
splash damage when Maxwell had enough of
Lothar’s cockamamie talk).
Igor and Grigory on the other hand
exchanged looks of amusement. Who
needed a court jester when Lothar Kirsch
was in the building?
The German chancellor walked at a snail's
pace, his neck snapped back in a fixed
position with eyes staring straight up at the
ceiling and his mouth gaping. "When was this
place built?"
No one in the group expected an
answer to the question...this was not a
tour. But to everyone's shock, the False
Prophet provided one. "The war room
was built in the sixties. This area that we
walk through presently actually predates
the war room."
"A natural formation? A sea cave?"
Lothar said incredulously. "Yes, that is
correct." Maxwell hid his dislike for Lothar
Kirsch under the cover of darkness. "Now,
if there be no further questions, shall we
board the train?" All aboard.
74
--
Odesa, Ukraine: April 20th, 2041--23:00
The slow-moving swarm of Mossad
helicopters were now in missile range of the
enemy. Under normal circumstances, the
toothless defenses of Odessa wouldn't be too
worrisome for the Israeli agents passing
through. The Cold War era surface-to-air
missile batteries with their even more
antiquated radar arrays didn't stand a
snowball's chance in heck against stealth
choppers. That is, unless they had a little
help.
Seth Markov regulated his own breathing.
Call it a premonition of sorts; the man had the
worst of feelings in his gut. A sinking
feeling...which apparently wasn't shared by
75
the rest of the team in the back of the helo.
They still played blackjack like there was no
tomorrow.
The grizzled veteran wouldn't rest easy until
they were safe and sound, out of harm's way.
His muscular lower half tightened, his center
of weight balanced on the balls of his feet. If
anything were to happen, he'd be ready to
jump into action.
The full range of anxiety attacks kicked in
right then. Seth shook his head and winced in
pain. It didn't happen often, but when it did it
was like film would roll of all the traumatic life
and death experiences he had been through.
...
The wind breaking against his face made
him feel like he had face-planted into a snow
drift and stayed there. At freefall speeds his
body hurtled to the ground at a hundred and
twenty miles an hour. Djibouti's lights down
below shone like galaxy clusters from Seth's
point of view. Three other Mossad agents
willingly followed Seth Markov out of the
plane on the HALO jump. While they were
still riding their parachutes to a rough and
tumble landing all four of the killing machines
racked their submachine guns: locked and
loaded ready to strike. Green lasers danced
on top of a rooftop. By the time the guards of
76
the president elect of the Islamic republic
knew what was happening, it was too late for
them. Silent bullets defeated the perimeter
defenses of the high-rise compound the
target occupied that night.
That was one mission.
Bombs going off, guns thundering, the
sound bites of death...all were on continuous
playback with no stop in the program. Seth's
head began to ache.
The water would have given anyone
hypothermia. The delivery vehicle that
launched from the Israeli sub stealthily
moved into the frigid littoral waters of the
Barents Sea off the coast of Russia. Seth's
rebreather recycled his carbon dioxide from
respiration and returned it to him as usable
oxygen. To keep him warm a thermal
insulated dry suit protected him from the
dangerous potential of a deep freeze from
ever occurring.
Seth and his men slowly raised their heads
above the crashing waves and lowered them
after deciding the coast was clear. Five frog
men as they were known to be called rose
from the sea and took to the shore. The force
skillfully traversed the terrain. Soon they were
77
packing through the frozen tundra en route to
another target.
Before he knew what was going on his
world went sideways. A ringing noise burst
his ear drums: they were in the middle of a
firefight with Russian KGB agents sent to
intercept the Israelis. A grenade had just
exploded. How did they know with pinpoint
accuracy Seth and his men would be there
that day? None of that mattered though.
Bullets pinged off the dirt and heather around
him.
Judging by weapons fire, Seth reasoned
him and his team were equally matched in
number, but not in strength. The enemy didn't
know who they were dealing with. They had
critically underestimated the superiority in
training the Mossad agents possessed.
Seth lay on his stomach in the snow and
mud. He appeared to be all alone: separated
from the friendlies in all the chaos. Losing
situational awareness in these situations
could have been fatal, but Seth had just the
thing for that. Even though the Israelis liked
to travel light, clutter-free, they never went on
a mission without their ruggedized PDAs.
The little handhelds could do everything from
maps with their current location on it to a text
messaging service.
Seth took out his gizmo and powered it on.
In under ten seconds he had his maps
application open. That gave him just enough
time before the next wave of attacks started
up again. This time he knew where the
78
bullets were coming from. A plan, he needed
a plan.
His thumbs pecked out a message to the
other agents. "On my mark I will begin the
countdown. After which, I'll return fire...a
diversion. I want you to jump from cover and
mow them down. Questions?"
"10 4, " Seth read. He exhaled. Inserting
the high capacity mag with caseless ammo
took two seconds: counting down took three.
His last text to everyone simply said "mark."
One, one thousand. Two, one thousand.
Three, one thousand.
With a decisive
squeeze of the trigger, Seth sent twenty
rounds over the ridge he hid behind and in
the general direction of the bad guys. The
retaliatory response was instantaneous.
Bullets bit the dust all around him. All of a
sudden he felt a flesh pain, but that was
overshadowed by another sound. His team
did what they had to do and after it was all
over the body count stood at five. All theirs.
"Well this op was over before it ever began,"
one of the agents lamented.
Into the wormhole again...Seth's brain
was like a kaleidoscope of swirling colors.
From it emerged this picture:
An ejected clip hit the floor. He must've
called for another mag because one traveled
79
on a trajectory straight for his outstretched
gloved hand. Clink, clink, clink went the
brass casings as they hit the floor. Bursts of
automatic gun fire from muzzles illuminated
the space like torches.
The dark and dank trappings of the building
reminded him of a medieval castle. But with a
Middle Eastern flair to it.
They appeared to have the upper hand.
The men on Seth's right looked him in the
eyes and motioned onward before they
advanced, he did the same for the men to his
left.
They scrambled to leave the scene with the
men they dropped dead in cold blood.
Straight ahead a tunnel connected them
closer to their objective. Seth backed up the
procession of Mossad agents running
through the dark passageway. He kept his
gun pointing in the opposite direction which
they headed in. The man ahead of him
looked up at the ceiling with his iron sight.
The two in the front poked a little fiber optic
snake camera around the corner.
"Clear."
Four black commandos spilled out from the
hallway into an open gallery. Obviously it was
a place where speeches were made. Islamic
flags sat on a stage with a podium taking
front and center. If there was one thing the
rectangular room lacked, that would be
people. Where was everybody?
80
It began to fade. No longer did he see
men with faces painted black, wearing
communications gear, and wielding powerful
rifles. He heard familiar noises. Men's
voices rose in an excited cadence.
"That's twenty-one again!"
Seth groaned. He had been daydreaming.
Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing though
because the pilots came on the radio to
announce they were close to the safe house.
--
Tel Aviv, Israel
"You must be Azriel Markov," a lady with
short hair and beak-like nose chirped.
The boy nodded.
"Here's your syllabus and a map of the
building," she handed him some papers.
He readily took them. Under closer
81
examination, the classes his uncle had
enrolled him in were really advanced. Azriel
swallowed. "I don't think I can..." he started
to say while pointing at his schedule.
"Nonsense," she cut him off, "your uncle said
you were ready. You're on trial right now, so
let's see what you can do. We'll go from
there."
Looks like he didn't have much of a choice.
Thanks uncle. Azriel sighed, turned away
from the front desk and dragged his feet
down the hall.
There had been another person closely
watching the Jewish boy. But he made no
attempt at an introduction. His forgettable
plain features and limited, background
involvement in the enrollment process would
go unnoticed by Azriel.
And that was
precisely the point.
When the boy was out of sight the
stranger pulled a phone out of his pocket
and speeddialed a number. "We have the
boy." "So he found his way all right?"
"I assume so."
"You'll have to do better than that. Report to
me often on what you observe.
You got that?"
82
"Of course." With that, he clicked off. A
desk awaited him in some obscure corner of
the building where he would monitor
everything Azriel did, just as directed.
Bird woman had a look of curiosity wash
over. "Rafael? What was that all about?"
"Hm? Oh, just a concerned mother calling in
to make sure her son wasn't tardy again. His
attendance hasn't been good." Likely
story. She knew what she heard. But it did
no good to question the assistant principal of
the school.
Rafael noticed the grunt's reservations over
his cover-up. "Is there something else on
your mind Miriam?"
She gave a little head shake.
"Good. I'll be in my office if you need
anything." He grabbed a mint from the dish
by her monitor before he left.
--
83
Barcelona, Spain
The Federal Office for the Protection of the
Constitution, or BfV for short, is Germany's
internal security department. Its people report
directly to the Ministry of the Interior. Which,
in this case is Sofia Keller. In years past BfV
strictly gathered intelligence and let the police
actually go in and round up the suspects.
There's a new sheriff in town
Not anymore. After World War III the
Federal Office for the Protection of the
Constitution became the new Gestapo over
the states Germany assimilated into her
control.
Visits to the satellite states occurred with
greater regularity. Sofia Keller accompanied
by her henchmen made darn good and sure
Spain and others remained loyal to the
Fourth Reich. She knew resentment and
workarounds faced her wherever her
inspection might be on any given day. There
were always dissidents. Always. That's why
84
Chancellor Lothar Kirsch had tapped her to
join his team. She was the enforcer.
Enforcers needed to eat though. Officials
from the Berlin-elected provisional
government of Spain had agreed to talk
politics over lunch with Keller. A German
restaurant in downtown Barcelona was the
chosen site for the proceedings.
A
pleasant several course meal greased the
skids for good talks ahead. Platters of
bratwurst, sauerkraut, schnitzel...pitchers of
beer, and black forest cake with apple strudel
as dessert satisfied even the strongest of
appetites.
…
Carlos Castell ate his meal undisturbed.
He enjoyed eating in the state dining room of
the five star Hotel Omm. However the great
food and luxurious atmosphere weren't
enough to put his mind at ease. Whenever
Sofia Keller came calling he always felt guilty
as sin. Even if he didn't do anything. She
had that effect on the governors.
Even though Berlin had thoroughly vetted
the governors (satraps) that ruled her satellite
states, there were still those with divergent
allegiances...some that had dealings with
85
anti-government groups. Through chicanery
and guile these traitors waited for the right
time to give the Judas kiss and betray the
Fourth Reich.
Before today's meeting Carlos practiced
with his advisors. Their agenda: think up
ways to continue the lie. What Keller didn't
need to know, wouldn't hurt her.
Sofia put her fork down on her chilled plate
adorned with chocolate shavings and drizzle.
She looked up at Governor Castell with a
half-smile. "What did you think of the cake?"
"What's not to like," he replied. "I'm a sucker
for German desserts."
Keller nodded. Her eyes danced around the
room, absorbing every detail. "This hotel has
always been a favorite of mine. I wouldn't
stay anywhere else
in the city...."
"There's a new chain investing in
downtown. Hotel Omm's management is a
little worried I hear," Carlos almost whispered
while wiping his mouth with his napkin.
"Carlos," Keller looked ready to change
topics to something more in line with the real
reason for the visit, "I wanted to personally
thank you for the work you and your people
have done to go after groups and militias that
are enemies of the state."
The governor did his best to look placid.
Keller was playing games. So he would play
along. "We recently conducted a sting
86
operation on some radicals. Our intelligence
indicated they were conspiring to take over
some weapon depots."
She didn't give anything away. "You don't
say...."
"Yeah. Frankly, I'm a little concerned about
the number of hostiles out there that would
like nothing more than chaos and tyranny."
Keller agreed. "That's why we must work
together as a team. And that's partly why I'm
here."
"I'm afraid I don't follow."
"It goes something like this--" her hands
hovered over her dinner plate like it was an
open playbook. "--we need to share
information. I'd like to see more
transparency from your intelligence officials
with the BfV. Do you think you can do that?"
"I thought we were doing that," Carlos
complained.
"Not according to these documents."
She held them up for everyone to see in a
very confrontational manner.
"What's
that?"
"Phone records from people in your own
counter-terrorism agency, the
Bureau of Internal Affairs, is it?"
"Yes, that's us. But what's that got to do
with lack of transparency?" "We traced the
calls. Several businesses that were on the
87
list have affiliations with known
antigovernment parties."
Carlos blanched. How could this be
happening? "Why would my people be
contacting those types?"
"I was hoping you could tell me," her eyes
narrowed.
"Are you saying I'm in cahoots with agents
from the BIA against my own government?"
"We're checking into it," Keller said very
firmly. "In the meantime, I've assigned a team
to work closely with your people over the next
month or so. Consider that your parole, if you
will."
The governor protested. Carlos shot
glances at his point man who looked equally
shaken by the news. Keller was good, too
good. "This isn't over," Carlos
threatened her.
"No, I'm afraid it isn't. We'll be in touch."
She got up from the table and excused
herself. The rest of her security detail went
before her.
Well that couldn't have gone any worse,
Carlos thought to himself.
--
88
Westover Ventures, LA
"Don't you think it would be wise to call
ahead to the forward deployed teams?"
"Warn them, you mean?"
"You would want them to do the same for
you if that was your ass on the line."
"You have a point."
"I know I do! Now get on it!"
"I hope you're right on this," he muttered as
he prepared to ask his commander what to
do.
The other security guard said nothing.
Instead, he walked a greater distance away
from the guy who noisily chattered with his
superiors. If it were his call, he'd release a
swarm of drones to do reconnaissance since
the scans of the building didn't yield anything.
He was almost certain they weren't alone. But
he needed something more concrete than a
feeling. The intelligence would have to come
quick, too, before Scorpion got the drop on
unsuspecting Viper agents sent to do a job.
"Yes sir, roger that."
89
Those were the key words. He returned
to his partner, took off his helmet and
straight up asked what the news was.
"They have agreed to send in our Wasp
aerial drones."
"Those are the little insect ones, right?"
"Yup."
"Nice work man."
"Just doing my job," guard number two
said. He looked at his vulnerable sidekick
who still had his helmet off. "Better get that
back on. You're a soft target without it."
"The life support systems have been acting a
little haywire," guard number one explained.
"Is the temperature in your suit climbing?"
Number one laughed. "Yeah, you could say
that."
"Do I need to get a replacement, or do you
think you'll be okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Suit yourself."
The other guy didn't laugh at the
unintentional pun. "Are they gonna send the
drones in through the front door? What's the
plan...?"
90
"The HVAC system, actually."
"Ah. Makes sense."
Number one sensed his questions were
beginning to burden number two so he
decided silence to be the antidote for that.
...
Nine agents got lost in the weapons
division of Westover Ventures. Well, not
really. They meticulously turned every rock
over, looking for anything valuable to grab
underneath. Mostly what they came for were
the encrypted schematics buried deep on a
hard drive somewhere for an important
weapon the FRN desperately needed.
The weapons division was a rather large
building. Over a hundred thousand square
feet of dedicated space to testing,
prototyping, and offices. Several members of
the team were responsible for hacking into
the computers and data mining its contents.
That would be a long and arduous process
when time was of the essence.
"I think I have something!" one man cried
out after ten minutes of searching.
Another searcher nearby stopped what he
was working on to take a look.
91
Looking at diagrams didn't help matters. If
anything, they further confused both men's
efforts. Either they were looking at a radical
new weapon or a kitchen appliance for the
twenty-first century.
The agent who claimed he had struck a
vein of gold scrolled to the bottom of the
document. He double clicked on the small
print to zoom in.
"The Oaster Toaster 3000?" he read aloud
in disbelief.
"Some weapon you got there, Miller," Tony
snorted.
Miller had the good sense to look
embarrassed. "There's gotta be some
mistake."
"The only mistake here would be yours,"
Tony was quick to point out. "Just wait till the
boys hear this!"
"Hear what?" another guy joined the two.
Miller rolled his eyes.
Tony began to laugh. "Tell him!"
"We all have more important things to be
doing than making a mockery out of one
man's honest mistake."
The lead agent who observed his team's
movements from a second floor lookout grew
restless as the minutes ticked by. We
92
shoulda been done by now, he thought.
Apparently the outside world thought so too.
His earpiece began to go crazy: an
incoming transmission.
"Agent Jennings, this is the president here
with my chief of staff. What's the status of
your mission?"
"My men are working very hard to recover
anything useful, Mr. President."
"So you don't have what you came for yet,
is that what I'm hearing?"
"Unfortunately, that's what we're looking at
sir."
A moment of silence. "Let me know when
you have anything."
"Of course Mr. President."
Their window was closing and Jennings
knew it. Pretty soon he'd be given the order
to pack it up and report back to the planes.
The longer they stayed the more dangerous it
became.
--
93
Barcelona, Spain
By now Alfonso Marcello knew Sofia
Keller's meeting had ended. A parabolic
microphone he had set up behind some
topiary in the dining room let him know that.
The only way this all worked? Keller's staffers
overlooked the listening device planted there
to eavesdrop on a very important meeting.
Why? In short, money talks. They were paid
off handsomely to keep quiet. What's
more, he overheard a state secretary of the
Interior Ministry along with a commissioner
making plans to discuss a possible security
breach over coffee later that day. Pay dirt.
Alfonso's previously open afternoon now
had plans. No, he didn't plan on ending
anybody's life today--not unless it was
required. However, an additional little
intelligence payoff would go nicely with what
he already had from the meeting.
Suddenly his own nutritional needs needed
to be met. But he didn't have time for a sit-in
restaurant or take-out. The agency had
instant meals for a time such as this. It would
suffice.
He had a little bit of homework to do though
before he could follow up on the lead. For
one, he didn't know which cafe the politicians
94
would go to. Only a minor detail. More
importantly though, he didn't know which
state secretary and commissioner he would
tail: the German Interior Ministry had several
commissioners and state secretaries. Lucky
for him he heard the names Wendel and
Amalia come up in conversation...enough to
go off of to do a search on the government
website for their full names. Agent Marcello
didn't have a computer at his static post
where he listened to the event at Hotel
Omm. However, his cell phone was as good
as a computer if not better. He put
"German Interior Ministry" into the search
field and pressed enter for results. The
search engine returned the query with a dot
gov website he'd be visiting. A few screen
taps later and Alfonso was rewarded for his
efforts. Now he had their names, but still
lacked the knowledge of where they were
meeting. No problem. There were websites
for that.
Alfonso knew the SIM card in his cell phone
gave away his position by sharing his
location. Whenever he wanted to go dark, out
came the card and off went his phone. But
these were government officials. Their
phones were always on: that's what he was
counting on anyway.
Sometimes his job was just too easy. Agent
Marcello turned to the old cell again, logged
on to a social networking website called
FindME, and voila...he had two red pins on a
95
map showing both of his targets' real time
locations.
The pins weren't together either. No matter
though. All he had to do was follow one
straight to the meet-up and he was golden.
At that moment hunger messaged him again:
"Feed me."
Alfonso had with him a brown fabric
messenger bag. His snacks were inside.
What he had packed was nothing to get
excited over. Instant pizza with almost an
indefinite shelf life would be the highlight of
the meal. Chemicals loaded with
cheese...mmm. A loaded chocolate chip
cookie sounded especially good--he would
eat it first.
He sat on the cracked pavement in an
alleyway behind a dumpster. The cookie
crumbled and chocolate chips bounced off
his lap as he bit in. Just then a door opened
up somewhere behind him. An employee
from a local eatery tossed the trash out with a
clink. Alfonso resumed eating desert. Shortly
after he had the phone on again to see the
status of where his subjects were. They
hadn't moved yet. The good news? The
targets weren't too far from him.
His eyes stayed glued to the screen.
Meanwhile one of his hands groped in the
bag for something that felt like pizza. One
thing the agency got right were the chemicals
they included with the instant meal. When the
meal pouch opened up, exposed to the air,
the oxygen reacted with the catalysts to start
96
a thermal reaction which heated the pizza up
instantly.
The melted plastic with red paste and
seasoning, topped with pepperoni, agreed
with the hungry agent more today than it
normally did. A motion on his screen made
his muscles tense. Someone was on the
move. It happened to be the one closest to
him too. What luck.
The wiry man got to his feet quickly and
looked every which way. He looked like
Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the
Caribbean that day with braided dark hair,
faded red kerchief, patched rag clothing.
What he needed more than a new change of
clothes though was a hot shower and some
potent soap to cut through the grease and the
grime that coated him.
The undercover street bum emerged from
the alleyway and onto a major street that
snaked through the bustling city. It had been
a while before he last checked in with the
agency to give them a report. He didn't need
to though. His last instructions were to come
in after dark that day. That's what he would
do. A shower awaited him then...and a
change of clean clothes.
Since Alfonso
had ditched his transportation that he had
stolen earlier, he would have to walk it. That
didn't present a problem however. Unless
the people he tailed decided to go mobile
and take a cab to their destination. Then
he'd be screwed. His chances of hailing a
taxi much less getting them to escort him
97
places were slim to none. Being a street
bum had its advantages and disadvantages.
He picked up the pace and moved faster
than the flow of human traffic around him.
Every once in a while Alfonso looked over his
shoulder. His cover was good, no one
suspected a homeless man of being a secret
agent. There were enemies though that
wanted him dead. He had to watch his back.
If he didn't maintain an alertness, pay
attention to details, read people...Alfonso
would expire early.
--
98
99
Chapter 4
Mossad safe house, Moldova
Only one of the five helicopters landed in
Moldova. The remainder had orders to
disperse their crews at various locations in
Europe.
It looked more like a farm than a safe
house. All by design. Thirty miles south of the
Ukrainian border, there was nothing but
farmland and a river which happened to
irrigate the fields. Trees were few and far in
between. Consequently, so were people.
At almost two in the morning the men from
the chopper had an appetite something
100
fierce. Seth didn't want anything. The rest
had to fend for themselves. There would be
no cooking around a fire. No need. The
building had running water, a stove--anything
a man would ever need to fix supper.
"You sure you wouldn't want any of this
stew?" one man offered to Seth who sat on a
rocking chair.
Judging by the grin on the guy's face, the
one holding the pot with an offensive odor
emitting from it, the contents most likely were
spoiled.
Seth shook his head stubbornly. "Nah, you
eat it. You'll need the energy."
The
practical jokester with his smoking pot of
stew sauntered away disappointed without a
word. It was probably better for him that
Seth didn't eat it, then he'd have more
problems to deal with than an overcooked
meal.
With no one to confide in, Seth confided in
himself. The rocker creaked under the
rhythmic back and forth sway of the Mossad
man. He didn't smoke, nor was he one to
wander the grounds aimlessly deep in
thought. For the most part, he lived a life with
no regrets. Seth learned to deal with death as
it happened all around him. It struck his own
wife thirteen years ago shortly after the birth
of his only child, Azriel.
Whenever he dreamed, a pretty American
woman would pop up at some point randomly
101
and disappear inconveniently when his eyes
opened and it was back to reality. Her name:
Jessica, his deceased wife. She didn't die
from pregnancy complications. Though he
would tell people that, that wasn't the real
reason. A terrorist who believed himself to be
doing Allah's will took her life. It devastated
him. But it also gave him a new calling in life.
Before Mossad, Seth worked a desk job as
an analyst at an investment firm. He did well
for himself, made his employers wealthy, but
that didn't do it for him.
Making money would have been a wasted
life for him.
Like one reads in books, Seth's story fared
no different. A spy gig literally fell into his lap.
He didn't go bouncing from his plush job as
an analyst. Nor would he have had it not
been for a coincidental run-in with an agency
man, Tyrone.
Ten years ago...
"Bartender, another scotch."
The keeper of the bar observed the
impassable expression on Seth
Markov's haggard looking face. There
were bags under the eyes.
right up."
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"Coming
Billiard balls cracked in the background
after someone broke the once tightly compact
triangle of numbers one through fifteen. A
couple waitresses in their late twenties
hoisted trays with beers and greasy burgers
to deliver them to the boisterous crowd. The
air smelled of cigarette smoke. Neon signs in
the shape of martini glasses and olives cast a
glow on the patrons seated at the counter. A
basketball game played for anyone that
cared.
Seth sat sideways on his stool--divided. At
twenty-eight years of age he didn't have a
whole lot to be optimistic about. Jessica, the
mother of his three-year-old son, would never
be there to see him grow up and become a
proud, respectable Markov man. Even worse,
little Azriel grew and matured to an age
where he understood something was missing
from the home. And night after night Seth
couldn't keep coming home to his son, look
him in the face, and tell him everything was
hunky-dory...nothing out of place. Before
long the little boy would ask where momma
was. Soon he would start school and observe
mommies dropping their little kids off. Then it
would sink in--he would get it.
Seth had to do the hard thing. Tell the boy.
Watch him tear up, look crushed and all
pathetic. This far exceeded the level of
difficulty in delivering the bad news on a bear
market via a public conference call to
company investors who eagerly waited to
103
hear his fundamental analysis on whether to
buy, sell, or hold their securities on the Tel
Aviv Stock Exchange.
Yet a few drinks that night to dull the pain
seemed the right play to make. He would
procrastinate and put off telling the truth until
Monday.
It was still Friday.
When he got his glass back, stingily filled
only a fifth of the way he estimated, Seth
undertook the effort to analyze the newcomer
to his side of the counter. A man no greater
no less than four times ten seated himself
next to Seth. The stranger made no eye
contact, didn't want anything to do with talk.
Apparently Seth wasn't the only one there for
the alcohol.
This guy didn't go for the hard stuff though.
Leave it to the financial analyst to claim that.
Instead he sipped on mixed drinks. Some gin.
Seth lost interest and vacated his stool.
Three empty glasses littered the counter
where he formerly sat. He got up to stretch
the legs a bit. Maybe walk over to the billiards
table and join a game.
Two mahogany wood tablets, their baskets
laden with balls and green carpet seeing
some action, took up the back room of the
place. Most of the group playing pool
appeared to be affluent with jobs in the
technology or banking sector, just like Seth.
104
This wasn't one of those bars that a biker
gang plagued from time to time.
Seth walked up looking like he belonged.
"Next game?" one of the four asked the
approaching Seth.
"Me? I don't really play, maybe I'll just
watch."
This made the man with an athletic build
and wide shoulders smile broadly. "I don't
think you came over here to watch four men
play pool after work."
"You're right," Markov conceded the point.
"I'll take winner." He looked over his shoulder
and caught the man he previously sat next to
a moment ago staring at him.
Five minutes later the same guy from
before held out the triangle towards Seth and
said, "Would you do me the courtesy of
breaking?"
He had zoned out there for a minute.
"You're done already? Sure, I'll break."
The men watching Seth leaned on their
sticks. What they witnessed was a man who
had done this one too many times. The cue
ball raced for the colorful formation with full
intent of scattering them in order to set up for
an easy next shot. Balls started sinking into
the corner and side pockets at random.
105
Seth had his pick since the break put away
two stripes and solids. "Solids it is," he said
under his breath as one foot left the floor
while he postured for his next move.
He
systematically, one stroke of skill after
another, cleared the table. His opponent
watched in disgust as perfectly placed shots
kissed the painted targets at precisely the
right angles to send them to their final
resting place.
Only one ball stood in the way of a victory.
Seth pointed with the stick and called it:
"Corner pocket."
Could he do it? Make a clean sweep? The
other man actually hoped the first game to be
over with. He would take his chances into the
next one because obviously the first had
been a fluke. Luck.
The forecasted loser of the first match didn't
even bother to watch the miss or make. But
he heard the ball roll the full length of the
table, the clink, and the climactic jiggle of the
eight ball joining its cousins in the right hand
corner pocket.
Seth felt a nice release after destroying the
competition.
"Two out of three?"
It couldn't hurt. He had missed this. "You
wanna break?" he kindly extended the offer.
"I had better say yes, otherwise I might not
ever get a turn!" the man in the blue shirt said
with a chuckle. "My name is Hector by the
106
way."
"Not from around here?"
"Born in the U.S.A.," he proudly answered.
"Ah, good for you. I've visited a number of
times. The Big Apple is quite something."
Seth continued the small talk while he
watched Hector set up.
Twenty
minutes later after a more contested battle,
Seth walked away the champ.
Unfortunately for him the alcohol began to
have its way. His steps to the door zigzagged a little.
"You look a little sloshed there partner," a
patron quipped, blocking Seth's path from
exiting.
"Yeah? Why don't you get outta my way so
I can pass."
The man with a boxer face and substantial
midsection didn't budge.
"I'm sorry, did you want something, pal?"
"Maybe I do."
A brawl seemed likely as the two faced off,
each man waiting for the other to make the
first move.
Seth simply tried to walk around him, but it
wouldn't be that easy. In an attempt to
escape he got knocked off balance by a
powerful shove.
107
The owner of the bar cried, "Gentlemen!" as
he stepped out from behind the swinging
doors of the backroom. "Take it outside."
"No, we'll finish this here and now." Seth
glared at the aggressor.
The big guy moved in and threw a big
hooker that missed everything.
Seth ducked and nailed him in the solar
plexus.
The assailant grunted and doubled over.
Not expecting such a well-placed blow.
Nevertheless, he charged at Seth's
midsection like a bull.
Seeing someone run at you could have
been a very paralyzing thing, but Seth came
prepared for anything. At the last possible
second he jumped out of the oncoming path
of the snarling bellicose fighter and grabbed
him by the waist and the shirt collar. Seth
flung the man like a heavy log into a table. It
collapsed into a pile of splinters.
When the
big guy attempted to rise from the debris Seth
was already there, whaling on his head left
and right. The fight had ended.
Afterwards Seth Markov fled the premises.
He didn't know how, but the mysterious
stranger who had not said a word before now
108
seemed ready to talk, standing under the
wash of a nearby light pole. "You certainly
know how to handle yourself."
"What is it you want?"
"We need to meet. I don't have time tonight,
nor is this a good place for me."
Seth blinked.
"Here's my business card," he said casually
flipping it to Seth.
It read Tyrone Banks, Legacy Imports Co.
"What kind of business are you in, Mr.
Banks?"
"I'll tell you only if we meet."
"Fine." He had so many questions that
would have to be answered later. He watched
Tyrone disappear into the darkness. He had
thought about following him but that would be
unwise. That could lead straight into a trap.
...
Somehow Moldova seemed like a trail that
led to nowhere. Why was he in Russia's
backyard when the real targets, the mullahs
109
and princes, slept in the safety of their
palaces? Jessica wouldn't die in vain. Her
death would be avenged in blood.
Seth rocked his chair one last time before
he got up to find Baruch, the man he’d stay
up with for the first watch.
--
Scorpion War Room: Vandenberg, CA
Into the steel tube the group went as
directed. A short trip later the subway pulled
up to a station, presumably its only stop--to
the War Room.
A gas hissing noise filled the chamber
when the train applied the air brakes. The
shutter doors on the lead car opened up.
A short while later everyone stood in the
presence of the Lord of the Ages. He didn't
demand his subjects take this moment to pay
homage to him. Far from it. That would come
later after the revelation. Then one by one
110
each foreign leader would want a turn with
the great mind so capable of such a
terrifyingly brilliant plan.
The room mimicked the bridge on the
island of an aircraft carrier in function, but not
in aesthetic. Eight walls in an octagonal
shape enclosed the area. There were no
windows in the room, yet plenty of screens.
The doorway held much significance to the
Masons. The three-in-one, triptych entrance
(as seen on the famous Rockefeller Center in
New York or on many cathedrals all over
Europe) stood erect, guarding the secrets
inside.
As the leaders of Germany, Russia, and
Britain passed under the rounded arches and
support pillars to gain entrance to the
strategic space they were treated to this view:
old mixing in with the new. Stone columns
buttressed an impressive ceiling. In the
center of the room a control center anchored
everything else. Consoles or work stations
circled a pentagram which projected an
image of the earth with the seven continents
and all the seas. The earth slowly rotated for
the guests, enabling them to see the cities,
nations--the pride of man on full display.
"Look at it," Howard's voice echoed
throughout the chamber.
No one could see him, but they certainly
heard his message.
111
"I could give you all you see if you do this
one thing."
And then poof, like a smoke and mirrors
trick, Howard appeared at the far end of the
room.
"Is there a trap door in the stage that I'm
missing sir?" Grigory whispered to the
Russian president. "Because what he just did
is impossible."
The Russian leader shook his head in
amazement. "I told you this man isn't all he
appears to be," he shot back.
No one had taken a stab at the stipulations
to the agreement just yet. The mere mortals
in the room still shook in their boots, like they
had seen a ghost. And perhaps that was true
in more ways than one.
Howard knew they were afraid of him. Only
a natural human reaction under the
circumstances his mind reckoned.
"Gentlemen, this hour I will show you some
earth-shattering plans that have already been
set into motion."
The men remained close-mouthed.
The Old Man took that as a sign of silent
assent to move forward. And he did. Howard
cloaked himself in an unflappable demeanor.
Whether or not its effect on the others proved
unnerving remained to be seen. Regardless,
112
he would continue and show mankind his
aims for world reunification.
--
The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii
President Toporvsky's forehead whicked
sweat which wound up on his hands. Then
his pants would be the final recipient of the
perspiration whenever the Ukrainian man
anxiously rubbed his clammy palms against
the already damp fabric. This cycle only
increased when he asked for the initial
estimates on the losses.
The casualties buckled towards the point of
no return. Forty percent of the force had been
crippled in the dogfight.
With some luck though the Central Cyber
Corps came through with the shield
frequency on the enemy combatants' planes:
the weak link. With that key information the
fighters in the coalition force were able to
113
retune their own lasers to expose the
loophole. Once the momentum had shifted
the other way Operation Switchblade could
then hold a chance at succeeding.
"There's very small margin for error," Vice
President Edmond Drezzler stated the
obvious to the president.
Alexander absorbed all the images on his
screen of the FRN planes turning grey, which
meant they had been annihilated by the
enemy.
There had still been no word from the agent
on site, Jennings.
If he doesn't come forth with what we
wanna hear in the next few minutes, the
president thought, I'm gonna have to scrub
the op.
Sentinel Director Alfred Demsky read the
president's mind. "I don't like this, Mr.
President. We need our men outta there. The
longer we stay, the greater the risk
becomes."
Alexander took a long drag on his red mug.
"We're not leaving without what we came for."
"But based on our landsat images," Alfred
quickly rebuttled, "unless we expunge the
enemy in the sky, there will be no retreat. Our
exit...cut off."
The chief of staff now eagerly gave his input
on the matter. "Director Demsky is right. We
114
have to cut our losses and get outta there
before it's too late."
"Thanks Leonard, I'll take that into
consideration." Alexander looked to his right
where the VP sat. "Edmond?"
"The window is closing, quickly. I concur
with everything that's been said up until this
point."
The president's lean face hardened.
"Alright, what's the suggested course of
action?"
All eyes returned to the battle management
system for answers.
Meanwhile Minister of Defense Gene
Barker waited for an order.
Ahmed Negler who had silently analyzed
the odds calculated there would be a need for
an escort of at least thirty fighters. The Viper
teams that had been sent in to retrieve data
and hardware would have to take with them
all they could carry and high-tail-it out of
there. The president's national security
advisor calmly shared his thoughts.
Alexander responded to Negler’s opinion.
"You mean we should take what we can get
and ditch?"
"Yes." "Alright."
115
After the discussion had conclusively gone
around the table the president punched the
button on the teleconference system to
connect with Agent Jennings.
--
Tel Aviv, Israel
A hundred students packed into a room
designed to meet a capacity of seventy-five.
In some cases, peers had to share a desk.
The economics class made do with what they
had. And therein lied a built-in lesson for
students on frugality.
"Based on last night's reading," the less
than enthusiastic teacher droned on in a
monotone, "who can tell me what hedge
funds are?"
116
No eager hands shot up to answer him.
"Bonus points to anyone who knows why
our economy really tanked when the U.S.
market became unstable."
Why am I here? I could care less about
economics.
"Markov?" The screechy voice could have
broken glass.
On the bright side the girls aren't half bad
here.
The bespectacled little man with a head too
big for the rest of his body raised his voice
again. "Markov!"
The girl with the pigtails can't stop looking
at me.
Azriel told the truth, more or less. The girl
he fancied along with the rest of the class all
stared at Mr. Clueless.
It wasn't too out of the ordinary for the
teacher to pick on transfer students.
Everyone watched the economics teacher
hustle over to Azriel's desk with a quickness
and deliberateness they were unaccustomed
to. It produced an awe in the captive
audience that unhinged jaws and made eyes
pop.
The boy still paid no attention to his
surroundings. His dull number two drew
117
figures and shapes on a sheet of college
ruled notebook paper. It was his first day in
class for crying out loud. No way would the
teacher expect him to know anything, much
less expect an answer to a subject like hedge
funds. But that's exactly what was transpiring.
"When I call your name young man, I
expect you to acknowledge me. You didn't
even give me the courtesy of raising that
lovely head of yours from your work of art."
Azriel realized a little too late just how tuned
out he had been. Yikes. This could be bad.
"Would you care to share with the class what
you've been working on this whole time, da
Vinci?"
Azriel's seat mate slipped him a piece of
paper that read, "Tell him what hedge funds
are."
Amazingly enough this little
correspondence went unnoticed by the
teacher: an uncharacteristic oversight.
"A hedge fund is a collective investment
scheme of pooled assets from several
investors in the interest of benefiting from
asset diversification and economics of scale,"
Azriel said with authority. He sounded more
like a walking-talking encyclopedia than the
kid who appeared like he didn't belong in the
class a moment before.
The contrast stunned everybody.
118
The teacher backed away from the boy's
desk in alarm. "Good God! Where could you
have learned that!"
Azriel could actually look down on the man
who stood only five feet four inches. But he
sensed that sort of intimidation didn't work on
a guy like this.
He had already stepped on toes, no way
did he want to be added to the list.
"Is it a sin to know a thing or two?" Azriel
contended.
By now the teacher had already returned to
the front of the class. He had had enough
humiliation to last him for the rest of the class
period. "Tell me Mr. Markov, would you like to
enlighten your classmates then and tell them
why the bubble burst on the economy in the
mid-20s?"
"The 2020s, sir?"
"Yes, yes, yes," the teacher impatiently
confirmed with a frown.
"Due to the fact that our economy became
too dependent on hedge funds which so
happened to be with the financial institutions
of Wall Street...when the U.S. markets
entered a permanent freefall, it was too late.
We were already sunk."
"I should take a day off and let you
substitute."
119
Azriel blushed. Using his cell phone's
screen as a mirror, he had it pointed to his
right, hoping to catch the girl who stared at
him. On occasion her head would begin to
turn around, but then abruptly stop.
She's on to me.
Ten minutes later a shrill bell brought the
period to a close. The class emptied out into
the hall in a confusingly loud jangle. Azriel got
bumped around a few times. This would take
some getting used to. School life, that is. He
had been out of the schools for so long that
the quick immersion threw him off kilter.
...
"He's smart."
"What did I tell you? Eh?"
"He's headed to pre-cal next. Let's see how
he does."
"You don't understand. He's the son of Seth
Markov. The man who graduated summa
cum laude from MIT--who's now running
Mossad operations in the field."
Assistant
principle Rafael's eyebrows hiked. "I had no
idea sir."
"By the end of the day I think you'll get the
picture. This kid is the stuff."
120
"The prospect is exciting."
Rafael ended the call feeling good about
the situation. He kept his expectations low on
the new student though despite the reports
he had read about him.
A single bulb hanging from a thread threw
its glow down to a simple desk the
eavesdropper sat at. Every minute or so he
checked the monitors like he was a night
watch protecting a vault loaded with stacks of
bills.
A paperback opened up towards the middle
laid on the surface waiting for him to resume
his adventures in the action-packed tale of a
double agent trapped in the Amazon.
Azriel had found his locker and fumbled
around with the combination lock for longer
than was necessary. He had no books in the
narrow storage unit yet. No four by six of a
sweetheart taped to the mirror. No bag of
contraband to munch on.
Nothing to see here, Rafael decided. His
hand swooped up the fiction novel rather
eagerly. And to think he would get paid for
this. It was a good life.
--
121
122
Chapter 5
The Ozarks
Heather stretched her cramped muscles.
Although no one came into her cell to bring
the pain, neither did they come to bring the
food either. Malnutrition became a dangerous
new reality.
Her dry cracking skin, mangy hair, and dirty
jumpsuit plagued her night and day. Sleep
didn't come easy. She exhaled heavily and
sat, reflecting on that morning's visit.
Christophe and Damion.
Heather smiled thinking about the French
scientist. He had made a good impression on
her. Damion she was more uncertain of. His
resume and long list of achievements were
impressive. And so was his appearance.
123
Probably a charmer no doubt. Good with the
ladies....
She looked forward to another meeting with
the inmates from the adjoining cell. She had
a lot she wanted to tell them. Suddenly the
thought hit her. They were in far more danger
than she was. She didn't hold any secrets
that needed to come out, but they did.
Scorpion would pump them for facts.
Anything that would make their abduction
especially worth it.
Heather never laid a hand on anyone or
assisted in any way in an interrogation before
but she knew some of the tactics. Most likely
they would send a guy in first thing in the
morning when the prisoners were most
vulnerable...and pliable. With him he'd carry a
little leather satchel. He'd spread it on a
nearby table and reveal the tools of the trade.
Even before they were literally ripping and
tearing into flesh, just the mere presence of
the kit would jolt anybody and bring on the
fear.
Heather shuddered and replaced the
thought with a happier one. Dinner. Little
cutlets of meat, watery instant potatoes and
green beans most likely were on their way.
Her diet may not have been succulent, but
she was grateful.
Her first couple of days in the cage were a
wash.
124
So this is what it's like to be out of touch
with civilization.
She wasn't a pop culture junkie, but she
had her shows and books and websites she
frequented. The creature comforts of a
modern world. But they would do her no good
in her new residence.
Heather sat cross-legged on the dirty
mattress and contemplated about Howard.
He had been so nice to her, but she couldn't
shake the feeling that she had been a means
to an end. A set up. She had no evidence
against him however. What could she do? He
was untouchable...and extremely dangerous.
Others had to be warned.
Hours passed. Her surroundings looked no
different. Same silence,
dinginess...loneliness.
A tray clattered on top of the pass-through
section of the grate. That meal she had
salivated about for the better part of the
afternoon.
"Thanks officer," she thanked her waiter
dressed in uniform with a gun.
"So suddenly I'm your favorite person
around here?" he joked.
"Something like that," she returned the
humor.
While he pulled away from the cell to
drop off chow at the next one, Heather
called out to him with a favor to ask.
"Officer?"
125
"What is it?"
"When can I have visitors again?"
He looked thoughtful, looping his thumbs
beneath his gun belt. "I suppose it could be
arranged. Don't count on too many favors
though missy. I like you, but there's only so
much I can do without looking suspicious."
A frozen grin remained on his face.
Heather walked over to the bars to get
closer in order to use her powers to get her
way: they only worked near the objective.
Manipulation had a range on it.
"How
about tonight? Do you think I could talk to the
two guys from this morning again?"
Her
sweet syrupy voice worked wonders on the
captivated man's mind. He looked ready to
say yes but suddenly something grabbed his
attention. There one moment, the next-gone.
What bad luck. Heather held on to the hope
that he was at least thinking about it.
--
Westover Ventures Complex, LA
126
The impending news on departure orders
from the president loomed large over Agent
Jennings. He was prepared to give the order
to the men below to pack it up and head out.
They would get what they came for, most
likely. Even if that meant grabbing the hard
drives and other hardware that contained a
treasure trove of precious schematics.
His
headset chirped. On the second ring he
answered, "This is Jennings."
"This is the
president. I want you and your men to get
what you need and get out. The situation
outside is getting messy and can't be
contained for much longer. Do you
understand?"
"Yes sir," he resigned himself to the notsogood news. "We're moving out."
"Good."
Jennings appeared at his post presently.
"Alright, I have orders from the president to
get outta here," he bellowed down below.
His men moved lickety-split, moving crates,
throwing things into bags.
"I don't like this," Miller grumbled. He had to
give up the task of parsing through data and
just turn the computer off. His gloved hands
grabbed the computer tower he worked on to
open it up and reach in for what he assumed
to be the hard drive. He disconnected its
127
cable running to the system-on-a-chip.
"Take this," he handed it off to Tony.
"Any luck before Jennings said he wants to
call it quits?"
Miller's granite face said it all.
Just when it looked like the operation had
wrapped up and the Viper agents were
ready to make a beeline for the exits, the
grills to the ventilator ducts popped off,
clattering to the tiled floor. Ropes descended
from the ceiling at multiple locations.
Scorpion Elite Guards rode them upside
down like Spiderman. Only instead of
shooting web, they blasted the enemy with
plasma.
One agent flew backwards,
caught in the concussive shockwave. His
body flattened against several racks that
went down in sparks with follow up
explosions.
Several men were already on one knee
with their battle rifles out, desperately trying
to return fire. In the midst of the mayhem the
good guys had to defend an untenable
position. Their surprised forces who were
previously scurrying to gather data and
equipment weren't prepared for the withering
barrage of plasma discharges.
128
Agent Jennings sprinted with his artificial
limbs for the door. He would never make it.
Fire and heat breathed up his back: an
explosive force finally hurled him off the
ground and knocked him sideways into the
wall. He crumpled to the ground in a lifeless
heap.
The only guy in the room who didn't imitate
the others and shoot at something instead
attempted to communicate to the guards in
the lobby of the structure.
"Contact! We have contact! Inform the
president. Shots fired...." his voice cut off as
the enemy had gotten to him. But his dying
plea unmistakably got through.
...
The sentry from the lobby who'd received
the distress call didn't appreciate being
vindicated for being right about his hunch. In
this instance he'd gladly trade a "I told you
so" for the safety of his team.
Right now it was his duty to let the
commander and chief know the bad news.
After a few rings chief of staff Leonard
Palmer picked up.
"I'll get the president," he informed the
breathless caller.
129
Precious few seconds ticked away.
"Who is this?"
"Mr. President, I have bad news sir."
Alexander's wiry hair stood on end. This
couldn't be good. "What is it?" Everyone
else in the Basement with a view of the
president's face couldn't have missed the
unmistakable worry in his features.
"We have a..."
But right as he was about to give specifics
the bad guys burst into the room, firing. The
lethal salvo silenced the messenger.
"You have a what?" the president asked.
After moments of static he knew he wouldn't
ever get his answer.
The president looked at his national
security advisor and shook his head.
Ahmed Negler read the expression instantly.
"We must send in the security forces from
outside to clean up. Otherwise all is lost."
"Did you get that Barker?" the president
addressed the minister of defense.
"I'll inform the commanders," he grimly
replied to Alexander.
130
The president cursed up a storm before his
cabinet. "How could this be happening?!" he
half-yelled.
"Mr. President," a grave Edmund Drezzler
leaned in, "we must stay calm."
Alexander glowered. "Don't tell me what to
do or not do."
The vice president backed off. "All I'm
saying is have a little more faith in our men to
handle it."
"You'll forgive me for my skepticism
Edmund when everything so far has not gone
according to plan."
…
Inside Westover Complex in between the
wings a seating area became the scene of an
intense firefight. The Viper agents originating
from the Energy Division were headed back
to the planes right when they stumbled upon
the enemy lying in wait for them.
A
welcome grenade bounced towards the good
guys and detonated with three victims
trapped inside the kill zone. That evened the
odds now with both sides numbering at six a
piece.
131
Good versus bad exchanged fire back and
forth like two ships facing off with all their
broadsides discharging. The Viper agents
utilized the marble columns for cover, but
unfortunately Scorpion scum had the same
idea.
Something had to give.
Outside Westover Ventures word on the
street drew in a full platoon of reinforcements
to put out the incendiary situation. Going in
through the front door would not even be
considered. Teams circled the building
instead and prepared to blast their way into
the action.
Two soldiers had with them explosive tape
that they intended to make a giant square
with on the rear facade of the structure. A
minute later the controlled explosion created
a spacious entryway for the troops to rush in.
The bad guys took out the first wave of
fresh bodies to join the fray...but it wouldn't
be enough. The FRN had finally retaken the
building and planted their flag of victory.
The lieutenant in charge of the rescue
operation stood over the carnage while
appearing to assess the situation with hands
on hips--his men roamed around.
After receiving the official count on the
number dead he immediately got on the horn
132
to deliver the terrible outcome to the
president.
Once he had finished speaking to
Alexander he directed the security forces
under his command to complete the task the
fallen Viper agents weren't able to do.
--
The War Room
Men with high IQ's wearing suits and solid
ties waited on Howard to blow them away
with his diabolical scheme.
He asked them a direct question. "Which
of you have ever seen a movie on aliens?"
No one had an immediate response to the
bizarre inquiry.
"Come on, somebody here had to have...."
Howard snapped.
133
"We don't go to the movies in Mother
Russia," Igor said with an air of disgust.
Jasper Turpin volunteered an answer, albeit
reluctantly at best. He contemplated his naval
and said, "I saw one long ago as a kid."
Howard broke into a grin. "What struck you
about the movie?"
The British prime minister shuffled a
bit. An exaggerated morose visage
communicated to his peers he felt shame
over his past life choices.
"Quite frankly it scared the heck outta me."
"What did?"
"The ineptitude of our weapons against
ET's."
Howard expected an answer like this. It set
him into action. An assistant that stood at his
elbow appeared ready to carry out what
came next. Howard imperceptibly nodded to
the man. He disappeared.
"Gentleman, I have a motion picture I think
you'll like to see. And for those of you who
haven't been to the movies," he had the
Russian leader in mind as he spoke, "this is
your golden ticket!"
German chancellor Lothar Kirsch who had
come to hear Howard speak appeared a little
ruffled at the news. "A...movie?"
A light clicked on and revealed a hidden
section to the war room. The movie theater.
134
"Everyone, if you'll follow me, we have a
show to catch," Howard beckoned.
He left them, not leaving any time to loiter
around. There would be no previews, no
messages to turn your cell phones off. The
feature presentation began to start.
Igor Orloff ironically enough led the
politicians to the sunken seating area. The
Russian found a staircase and took it down to
the already waiting Howard and Maxwell. His
right hand man, Grigory Sliva, chased his
boss down and found a seat next to him in
the second row.
The acoustics of the room were impressive.
The screen went black. Opening music
boomed through the speakers and rattled
everybody's nerves. This wouldn't be a sit
back and enjoy the show kind of flick.
...
For years planes have left a chem trail
footprint in the sky. Officials have argued (in
vain) against conspiracy theorists that these
trails are actually normal contrails and not the
other thing.
Even though the governments may deny
their existence, no one understands why.
What could the agenda be? Why leave
chemicals in the atmosphere when it's not
135
necessary to. But it was necessary for
those with a great scheme plan.
These
crisscrossing sky paths made excellent
jerry-rigged screens on which the mass
deception planned for the human race
would play.
Motherships from galaxies far, far away
would cruise towards the seat of power of
every major nation on earth. There they
would hover, uncontested, in the no-fly zones
over earth's governments. The alien ships
would delay long enough to sow the seeds of
fear in man's heart over his uncertain fate.
While mankind decided how to handle the
artificial crisis, those actually behind the
holographic images in the night sky
positioned themselves for a global takeover.
It was their hope that an alien invasion would
unite the militaries of the world to overcome
it. The natural conclusion of such an action
would be the birth of a one world government
with a strong leader behind it. Howard.
--
Moldova
136
Never trust the official story. Seth certainly
learned not to. He believed the whole reason
they were being moved from turbulent Turkey
to Moldova had something to do with a
coverup.
Turkey's controversial president waxed
eloquently through state channels on the eve
of an assassination attempt on members
from his own party that Mossad had showed
her hand once again. Supposedly the police
held in their custody a captured agent who
spilled the beans on everything.
Lesson
number one: Israelis will gladly take torture
over helping their enemies. The fact that this
"agent" so willingly came forth with such a
fantastical story made him not credible in the
least.
Another thing Seth Markov didn't like about
everything that had transpired? The distance
that grew between him and his son.
Previously Seth had a little contact with Azriel
through a surrogate mother he paid off to
take care of the boy. However this little
experiment ran amuck with the youngster
rejecting the care of the undercover agency
woman.
And then there was Uncle Ephraim. The
man really worried Seth. For years there had
been bad blood between the two brothers.
Actions done in secret, only to be uncovered
years later gave Seth more reason not to
trust his brother.
137
If only he knew of Ephraim's involvement
with his son...there'd be hell to pay. Seth
didn't want him or his family to have anything
to do with his brother. But now that his job
took him so far away from Israel, while he
was busy protecting the homeland it left the
homestead extremely vulnerable.
He had long suspected his brother of
comingling with terrorist groups because of
the unexplained gaps in Ephraim's timeline
that weren't accounted for. Whenever Seth
would see him he'd ask the man what he did
for a living. The answer never satisfied him.
Ephraim had his rear-end covered pretty
good. Just in case people came snooping
around the personal details of his life, he had
plenty of alibis who swore up and down the
veracity of the false records. According to the
white papers Ephraim Markov worked in the
energy business as a low-tier manager at a
solar power company.
Seth called the company one time, eager to
expose the lie, only to be further irritated
when a man claiming to be his brother's
supervisor came on the line. This served to
further enforce the level of treachery which
must have been deep, hence the need for a
convincing cover. Did he serve the United
Islamic Caliphate? A European power?
Heaven forbid, Scorpion.
138
…
In the intelligence business being on a
need-to-know basis was quite common.
Especially when you were the one doing the
killing. Seth resented this system though
because to him, unlike the other operatives in
the agency, the targets weren't faceless
cardboard cutouts. They were real people
with real lives. And he didn't always trust
Mossad to be making the best decisions on
who doesn't deserve to live anymore.
Most killers were so dehumanized, so
divorced from feeling that the only reason
they needed to kill stemmed from an order to
just do it. Act, then react. They didn't want to
know what their victim did to deserve this...it
was just another trigger pull.
Mossad got
lucky with Seth Markov. No matter how much
training and brainwashing they gave him, he
still couldn't turn it off when someone else's
life rested in his hands. There had to be a
reason to sanction this murder. And he
wanted to be in the know.
If it hadn't been
for his uncanny ability to stay on top of any
situation, be a master of
his own fate, Mossad would've moved on to
the next guy and not waste their time with a
stubborn agent.
He became the closest thing to
indispensable in his field of work.
139
…
From where he rocked he heard the
soundtrack of the night air: the deep ribbit of
frogs and the music of the crickets. A few
hours of sleep would be a luxury. That night
Seth and Baruch would be briefed on their
next mission.
Perhaps their most important
mission...ever.
--
Barcelona, Spain
The confusing jog took him down streets he
had never heard of before. Along the way he
140
passed by old widows spinning strange yarns
to their granddaughters. Salesmen enticed
the young people to spend their small
allowances on the latest and greatest cell
phone at pop-up kiosks that populated the
center boulevard in a busy shopping district.
The police seemed to be everywhere. A
couple officers dressed in blue pants with red
stripes down the side, checkered conductor
hats, and light blue short sleeved shirts
questioned a few locals at the corner of an
intersection by the crosswalk. The
pedestrians looked pressed for time judging
by the way they twirled around, longingly
gazing at the opposite side of the road.
Alfonso could read lips. "Just a few more
questions," he saw the officer beg. The
couple complied. A little while later it startled
him to see the woman saying something to
the cop while pointing at the street Alfonso
had just been on.
If I weren't so paranoid, I'd swear they're
talking about me.
Alfonso made a sharp turn that led him
through an alley. He pushed trash cans over
that impeded his progress.
Now would be a good time to check my
phone for an update.
The person he trailed appeared to close in
on his position from a perpendicular artery
that intersected the back alley he would exit
from. He would wait for them to pass and pick
up the trail again. An idea struck him and
141
before long he pulled up a list of coffee shops
within one square mile of his current location.
There were a few.
Once the blip on the screen passed by and
he decided it was safe to peek and try to
acquire visual confirmation of the target,
Agent Marcello slowly peered around the
protruding stone cornice.
Several people with their backs turned to
him followed the sloped road down to their
destinations. Only one of them had a fair
complexion untouched by the sun. Alfonso
smiled to himself.
Amalia plodded along. She didn't appear to
be lost either. The woman with auburn
colored curls and an hourglass figure allowed
the bottom of the hill to draw her in: as if
gravity did all the work.
Alfonso let her make enough progress
before he took up pursuit. He didn't worry
about losing her.
That'd be hard to do with how quickly she
moves, the sarcasm registered.
The German woman's vector changed as
she headed for a little cafe situated at the
corner at the bottom of the descent.
Confident he hadn't been made, Alfonso
followed her in five minutes later. He had to
count on a disruptor which the Germans
would use to defeat listening devices. The
142
Mossad agent grabbed a table within earshot
of Amalia.
While he waited for the other person to
show he sipped a warm latte with cream and
mocha at the top. Five DigiCoin for an
overpriced coffee drink was a small price to
pay considering the potential Intel he would
glean from the careless Germans.
The door to the shop jingled. It could have
been just another customer. The place had
good business. Or with any luck, Wendel
made good on his appointment with Amalia.
Alfonso detected a man walking up the
aisle near where he sat. The shuffling feet
stopped short and a distinct German greeting
reached his ears. Then the official excused
himself for a moment to order his drink.
"Can I get you anything?" he kindly asked
before leaving.
A Dutch Low Sax dialect. Interesting,
Alfonso mused.
Alfonso spoke many languages.
German being one of his strong suites.
Most other agents in the field had to wear
a special universal translator earpiece.
Amalia politely declined the offer but
thanked him anyhow.
143
Her date returned momentarily wearing a
big smile and carrying a scone and chi tea in
both hands.
She barely waited for him to sit before
launching in. "Are you as concerned as I am
over..."
"Hang on one sec," Wendel interrupted her.
Alfonso keyed in on the sound of a plastic
device clunking against the wooden surface:
the device he had counted on them using.
This made him feel all the more smug. Their
scant precautions against eavesdroppers left
something to be desired. Their mistake.
"Like I was saying," she picked it right up
once again, "with us being so close to, you
know," she let him fill in the blanks, "we can't
afford to take the chance of allowing the
Israelis or anyone else to learn of our plans."
No, I don't know, Alfonso thought,
disappointed in the woman's cryptic
language. Whatever she didn't say he figured
it had to be big.
Wendel gave his nonverbal agreement
with a low tone in his throat. "I concur.
We're still not out in the clear on this one
though. Still plenty of time for the infidels to
screw everything up."
"We can't pussyfoot around with that shifty
character in Barcelona." She was referring to
the governor, Carlos Castell.
Again, her partner followed her perfectly.
144
"He knows too much."
"I've got Sofia's ear on the matter."
"Oh really?" Wendel sounded surprised. He
made a slurping noise with the steaming little
china cup held close to his lips.
Amalia
hadn't even touched her coffee the whole
time. "I've convinced her to cut to the chase
and just expedite the process with Spain. But
I'm afraid there are other Spains out there.
We just don't know it yet."
"The sooner we
know the better."
For a moment neither
one spoke.
"How do you feel about a new world
order?" the low, formal female voice inquired.
"I think it certainly can be for the greater
good. Think of what could have been
accomplished at Babel....When we're (the
human race) united, there's nothing too far
above us."
So that's what this is about. Nothing to do
with nationalism...the other -ism.
Globalism.
As interesting as the conversation was,
Alfonso still waited for any actionable Intel
that could be useful to the agency. If Mossad
and the rest of the good guys were dealing
with a ticking time bomb, they needed to get
at the bomb makers, make them talk. There
were several issues though. Right off the
145
bat, Agent Marcello had no idea what the
conspirators' plans were, but he was pretty
sure Wendel and Amalia were players. Just
how much they knew and how deep their
involvement? Only one way to know.
He
could bring them in for interrogation. No
doubt the option crossed his mind. However,
being the smart agent he is, he decided to
wait on any hasty plans and just hear if the
two had anything more to say.
Then the tone of the talk took a sudden
excursion. A rather intimate one at that.
"With all the work lately, you ever get out
much?" Wendel wasn't shy about making a
move.
Amalia's previously taught face smoothed
out, brightening. "I catch a few winks of sleep
here and there, maybe a girl's night out, a few
cocktails and a terrace view of Berlin."
Although Alfonso didn't know their ages, he
would put the German male at five years
Amalia's senior. His guess: forty-five.
"Sounds like you beat me in that
department. Some would consider my life to
be rather dull."
She chuckled. "Dull can be good
sometimes."
"I don't see how," he admitted. He secretly
wondered if his drag of a lifestyle made him
ineligible.
146
"What's say we change that."
"Change what?" his voice rose with
expectation building. Just a moment ago he
was having a professional conversation with
a state secretary of the Interior Ministry.
How quickly things could flip-flop.
A
mischievous look played across the
secretary's face. "You know...." Her foot
traveled underneath the table into his
territory. It hit the mark.
Wendel's lips turned into a squiggly line. He
involuntarily shuddered.
Alfonso rolled his eyes. Cut the crap and
get back to business, he thought.
"You wanna grab a drink tonight?" the
commissioner sounded surprised those were
even his own words. He didn't ask women out
on dates very often, much less agency power
women. There was always a first for
everything though.
"I'd like that," she confirmed, trying not
to sound overly excited at the prospect.
The German really quick went to work to
pen his number on stationary.
"Here's how to contact me," he awkwardly
handed her the note.
"Great! We'll get in touch before then," she
said rising from the table.
Well this conversation is over.
147
He reached across to gently shake her
hand and for a moment the two locked eyes.
"See you tonight," he told her while holding
the coffee shop door open like a gentleman.
Amalia left first, with lover boy Wendel in
close pursuit.
Alfonso sat at his table for a little longer
than necessary to nurse his latte. To him, the
glass was half full on his prospects. He'd get
in touch with the agency, then order a team
to pick the love birds up on their date and
take them in for interrogation.
It will be a night to remember for you two.
The wicked thought pleased him very much.
--
148
Chapter 6
Tel Aviv, Israel
The next class didn't rock his boat. Pre-cal. He
didn't have a phobia to the subject unlike many of
his fellow classmates. It bored him, more
precisely. Not much of a challenge.
The teacher took attendance at the beginning of
the hour. Not to his surprise four kids were
absent. Three knocks on three separate
occasions interrupted the lesson
flow...tardies.
"Get out your textbooks," he said with his back
turned to the students while he wrote something
up on the board.
Azriel didn't turn anywhere. Instead he watched
the man's loopy cursive spell out the words, Pop
149
Quiz. Ordinarily it might have given him the jitters
to read that.
Certainly he'd be exempt from today's quiz
though--no need to worry.
A few more heads in the room also noticed the
message on the board. "If you've found your
spot, than we can go over any questions you
may have from last night's homework. Yes,
there's a quiz following that." It gave him great
pleasure to say those words.
Many dug out three ring binders or spiral bound
notebooks with their homework from the previous
night. Most of the students hurriedly flipped
through pages as if a timer ticked down to the
start of the quiz.
"Show of hands, how many actually did their
assignment from yesterday?"
A look around
the room revealed most everyone chose not to
slack off and do the coursework this time. A rarity.
"Good!" the teacher praised his class. "Then
you should have no problem with the quiz over
polynomial functions then, am I right?"
The
faces that stared back looked less than certain.
Finally a girl who sat in the front opened it up for
questions on the homework.
Azriel didn't pay
any attention to the back and forth student
teacher interaction. It didn't concern him all that
much. When the same girl that asked the first
question became a repeat offender with another
one, Azriel impatiently piped up with the answer.
The teacher looked down in the answer guide.
"Why, that's correct Mr. Markov."
"Of course it is," the boy quipped.
150
"Is there something you'd like to tell me right
now young man that you haven't before?"
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"Why you're here?"
His quick tongue didn't have a speedy reply for
everything. This caught him off balance.
The
math teacher continued, "Today is the first day I
ever see your face, you walk into my class,
having taken no pre-requisites to this class to my
knowledge, and you're answering questions to
the homework that you've never even done?"
"So?"
"So?" The remark sounded even more stupid
than before being parroted back by the teacher.
"In all my years of teaching, I've never witnessed
a case like today." "Then what are we gonna
do about it?" The Jewish boy defiantly stated,
ready for anything.
"You'll be taking that quiz, just like the rest of
the class," came the ultimatum. Followed up by,
"Now close your books and let's get started."
Several faces turned to glare at Azriel for
cutting short their last-minute preparation before
taking the impromptu quiz.
He pretended not to notice. He was good at
that.
--
151
Moldova
Psychological warfare. No one knew much
about it. Each of the five guys at the safe house
had always dealt with real enemies, real
bullets...death. Not chasing ghosts.
…
The sound of an idling engine being cut aroused
the sleepy, nonetheless alert agent.
"Are we
expecting visitors?" Seth asked anybody listening.
A short stocky man with a body builder's frame
joined Seth. His face had sharp features, high
cheek bones, and a small pointed noise. The
guys called him Baruch. Whether that was his real
name or not, no one knew.
Baruch ignored the question and drew his gun.
If there were prowlers traipsing around the
premises of a Mossad safe house at midnight,
they would pay for it. He motioned Seth to take up
a spot by the entrance into the house while he
snuck around to the back.
Seth stuck his toe out and halfway pivoted
around the doorframe using his right shoulder to
push the screen open a little. Straining his ears to
hear, light footfalls treading the blades of grass
came through loud and clear. Just one person.
Enough time had gone by he figured Baruch had
to be in position.
152
Then he heard the safety click off and the firm
words, "Put your hands behind your head."
Seth moved across the threshold to where the
switches on the wall were. He flipped the one that
activated a flood. Now the front yard was awash
in the yellow glow. What he saw greatly surprised
him.
An African-American dressed in jeans and a
black leather jacket stood erect, with his hands
out, a gun in the non-offensive position pointing to
the sky in the palm of his right hand.
"Drop the
weapon!" Baruch said a little louder than before.
The man with a gun pointed at his head did as
he was told. The pistol landed a couple feet away.
"Now put your hands behind your head and
interlock your fingers!"
When he complied the Israeli agent rushed up
from behind and patted him down. After he
decided there were no more weapons he asked
the obvious, "What are you doing here?"
"That man right there can identify me," the
stranger pointed straight at Seth who now
stepped off the porch.
Agent Markov instantly recognized the raspy
smoker's voice. It hadn't changed much all these
years later from the night at the bar.
"Put your weapon away Baruch, he's no threat."
But he didn't react. His pistol's line of sight
aimed to kill if the intruder made a move.
"We
can make this quick," Seth said. He walked the
rest of the distance to where the black man stood.
"Lift up your shirt."
153
The man unzipped his coat. Looked Seth in the
eye and raised the fabric of his tshirt just enough
to reveal a Star of David tat on his left hip.
Agent Markov raced forward to embrace the
man. "Tyrone Banks!"
"Seth Markov!" Tyrone thumped his old friend
on the back.
"God, where have you been old man?" he
stared into the stubble complexion of an agency
man worn thin like an overused eraser from years
of service.
"I'm not with Mossad anymore, Seth. These
days, I'm non-government. But pro- Israel!
Make no mistake about that."
Seth holstered his gun and put his hands on his
hips. "So what brings you here?
Moldova isn't exactly your backyard."
"And how did you know we were here?" Baruch
still had an edge to his tone. "I have my
sources," his non-committal answer hung in the
air. No one questioned so he continued.
"Others left with me because they had the same
conviction."
Seth full of curiosity asked, "Same conviction
about what?"
"You got any coffee? You know me, I won't do
much talkin' without a good roast and my cigs."
"I have half a pot," Seth answered. "It'll need to be
heated up though."
"That'll do," Tyrone said in a husky voice.
"What about the rest of your crew?"
"What?"
154
"Aren't there five of you?" Tyrone asked.
"The rest are sleeping. We're on watch," Baruch
replied.
"Yeah, they needed some rest after that intense
game of blackjack earlier tonight," Seth cracked.
He looked over at Baruch as they headed back to
the house to see if he'd react at all.
But he
didn’t show much.
Tyrone pulled out a pack and lit one up. Three
rings of smoke left his mouth, dissipating into the
night air.
Seth's eyes followed the glowing red stick of
tobacco and carcinogens go from the mouth to a
slack, relaxed position down at Tyrone's side.
"I thought you quit that habit."
The African American licked his lips and said
with a straight face, "Giving up smoking is the
easiest thing in the world. I know because I've
done it thousands of times." "Mark Twain."
"Are you gonna fix me a cup of coffee or what?"
he demanded with a wink.
"Coming right up, boss," Seth said shaking his
head and smiling.
Tyrone followed him into the house, taking a
few more puffs as he went which prompted Seth
to turn around and say, "Oh no, you're gonna
have to extinguish that if you wanna join me in the
kitchen. You're walking into a smoke-free
environment."
Tyrone curled his upper lip in disgust. There
were no ashtrays around so he dropped the joint
where he felt like it and stamped it out. The shifty
character did something unexpected by reaching
155
in his rear pocket for something. Tyrone’s guilty
eyes darted around making sure no one was
watching. In a stealthy move the man placed a
note where it’d eventually be seen, just not in the
moment by Baruch or Seth.
He retraced his steps back to the porch. Tyrone
then looked up at the heavens, casting a
suspicious long look. Because of what he knew
he couldn't look at the sky the same.
Tyrone stuck his hands in his pockets and
turned towards the house. He noticed a low plank
set on stilts underneath a window with a face
brick wall as the backdrop. A small resigned sigh
proceeded him as he lowered his weight onto the
bench.
His dark eyes traveled the free range. There
were nothing but low hills and fields between
them and Ukraine's southern border.
Heavy
footsteps from behind made the plank boards of
the porch creek. Seth had returned with Baruch.
The latter man held a flask in one hand and a
sour expression on his face. There was little
wonder as to what the contents were. Seth
meanwhile carried two short white mugs with thick
handles.
He handed the steaming beverage to Tyrone
and watched the thankless man sip and
contemplate.
"We have less than five days, boys," he said at
last.
Baruch's drink dripped from his beard. "Till
what?"
"The end of the world."
--
156
Barcelona, Spain
By mid-afternoon his case officer felt the need
to check in.
"What are your plans tonight, agent?"
"I'm going on a date, actually."
It was unclear whether or not the impersonal
voice on the other end appreciated the
facetiousness. The fact is, these guys learned to
go through life without much of a sense of humor.
"The German state secretary and commissioner?"
"Yes."
"Need backup?"
"It could be dangerous..." Alfonso joked.
"Do you plan on bringing them in?"
"I plan on enjoying this."
157
"Agent Marcelo, are you going to be an asset or
a liability to us?"
"Send a tag team to pick us up. Don't keep me
waiting."
"What have you learned from them so far?"
"Not over the phone. I'll brief you when I come
in tonight."
"I expect to be read in first thing, agent."
There was more the case officer had to say, but
Alfonso wouldn’t let him finish.
"Gotta go."
In truth, he had a couple of hours to kill.
Alfonso didn’t like working with his handler very
much. The man didn't know how to separate work
from personal affairs and as a result the
breakdown interfered in how he managed assets.
On more than one occasion Alfonso had to bluff
his way out of hot spots his handler created for
him. The mistakes needed to be stopped before
they jeopardized Marcelo's life for the last time.
Since he played the role of street bum during
the day, it's not like he had any particular place he
could go to and wait.
Life was one big adventure.
Alfonso of course did better on his evening
rotation than the survival of the fittest drama on
the streets of Barcelona the better part of the day.
Of any part in the city, the Eixample district
became home to Alfonso Marcelo. The
neighborhood is anchored by the beautiful
Sagrada Familia Roman Catholic cathedral with
158
its towering spires. It also has a high-speed
subway line running all the way to France.
...
A big street clock indicated the time dragged: a
shade past three. With the agency instant meal
already wearing off this wasn't good news.
Alfonso wandered the streets because that's what
he did. He felt gratitude for the fact that policemen
weren't sniffing around asking pedestrians on his
whereabouts. Grateful, also, that he didn't have to
endure any more of the awkward shenanigans
between two German officials who had a thing for
each other.
Alfonso had managed to stay single all his
years. A feat in and of itself considering how
handsome the swashbuckling Jack Sparrow
looka-like was. He hadn't even been on a date for
over five years. Part of that most likely had to do
with his most recent assignment--vagrant, bum.
Nothing in the rulebook however forbade
interagency dating. There were some single
females he worked closely with, but none of them
fancied Marcelo.
For now singleness actually spelled happiness.
Another reason he would always tell himself why
a relationship would never work was the fear of
her being used as leverage in a hostage situation.
Alfonso couldn't live with the thought of that;
knowing his occupation could possibly put
another life besides his own at risk. Siblings?
He didn't have any. Being the lone child from a
home that barely scraped together the cash to
keep the land lord away taught him at a very early
age how to be responsible and independent.
159
From time to time he would wonder how his
parents got on. They lived in Israel still, he was
sure of this. If poverty or disease hadn't claimed
them, then they had successfully reached old age
in their seventies.
He never actually told his parents he dreamed
of becoming a spy. What he did for Mossad
fulfilled a childhood fantasy of his though. The
only downer to living the dream was that his work
seldom involved dressing as an action figure
brandishing an
Uzi, ready to do battle like he had envisioned he'd
do.
Only twice did Alfonso need to blow somebody's
brains out. Both times in self- defense. He had to
live with the images, knowing he took two lives.
Few people are able to kill and feel nothing. He
wasn't part of that club.
Alfonso looked a little silly jogging in place at
the street corner while he waited for the crosswalk
to be clear of traffic. He didn't have a warmup suit
on. No sweats or running shoes. Just his
everyday dumpster uniform with its permanent
stains and holes in odd places that weren’t
patched up yet.
Some people might find it hard to fathom being
in a city full of people is the loneliest experiment
ever. But if you're a Mossad agent? It's the truth.
Alfonso's personality didn't necessarily lend itself
to being a socialite, but nevertheless he had
needs just like the rest of the world existing
beside him.
160
He looked at the person next to himself. She
also waited for the signal to change. But she
engaged in an interesting phone conversation
from the looks of it. Boyfriend probably. An elderly
woman played with her granddaughter's hair. The
little girl cherished the extra attention and the
colorful strands woven into her hair.
Alfonso wasn't one to get lost in his own
thoughts during the absence of human
interaction. Rather he employed his mind in
elementary puzzles to stay sharp. Whether it be a
man's necktie, a woman's purse, a
landmark...almost anything was game to Alfonso.
The man didn't get straight A's in college for
nothing. He had his own system, and it worked.
The white traffic signal began to flash; people
responded to it. Alfonso crossed at reduced
speed though. He was in no hurry to go
anywhere.
--
Scorpion War Room
161
Over the years the U.S. Air Force covertly put
shuttles into orbit. No one knew their mission or
what their payload was. The first one hitched a
ride on an Atlas rocket to join the satellite crowd
looking down on planet earth. Then another
joined its brother in space a year later. Both
missions were judged a success by leaders in
Washington. Which is why the Armed Services
Committee saw no harm in continuing the
program under DOD's direction to be a thirtyclass
acquisition over the course of twenty-five years.
What really makes these space craft especially
effective, is their invisibility cloak. For years Area
51 and Skunkworks developed stealth planes for
the military. The unconventional, lessthanaerodynamic airframes were expert at
deflecting electromagnetic waves from radar
rendering them nearly "invisible." However, the
holy grail of
stealth technology not only involves simply fooling
radar, but also the human eye.
Thanks to the
collaborative efforts of universities, government
think-tanks, and other ancillary groups, a lightbending material came into existence. It
essentially bent light around objects without the
aid of cameras or mirrors. And best of all: it came
cheap. In a few years after rigorous testing and
development, a version of the invisibility cloak
clothed the Air Force's secretive spacecraft. Best
of all, the specialty skin could endure re-entry
which then multiplied the planes' number of uses
exponentially.
After the Union dissolved Scorpion waited in the
wings to gain control of the Air Force's Space
Command...and the fleet of thirty space ships no
162
one knew existed. Howard had far more devious
plans for them than functioning as moving
satellites conducting routine ISR (intelligence,
surveillance, and reconnaissance). He planned to
put Damion Westover's military-grade holo
emitters in the mission bay of each plane.
...
The near future
"It is time. Commence the Great Deception," a
voice that sounded an awful lot like
Howard's instructed the highest commander in the
Scorpion hierarchy.
A little Star Wars-esque hologram of the caped
and hooded individual that gave the orders
appeared in front of the commanding officer with
the power to initiate the mission. He tipped his
cap and nodded his consent.
"Right away
your excellency."
The silent hunters in outer space lurking around
the black nothingness navigated around space
debris and satellites to get in position. Longitude
and latitude coordinates were sent to the
thirtystrong fleet which positioned them over
every major population center on earth.
When
163
it was time to begin the show, the invisible
psychological warfare squad of
Scorpion beamed incredibly realistic holograms of
an extra-terrestrial invasion force.
Huge black, dish-shaped saucers partially
blotted out the sunset over cities in the Western
hemisphere. In the east, they rode in on the wings
of a beautiful sunrise. To anybody on the ground
witnessing the spectacle it must have felt eerily
similar to the movie Independence Day.
--
Tel Aviv, Israel
The math quiz unfolded and in the end, it
proved to be more subdued than a lamb to the
genius Jewish boy. Afterwards the students were
asked to grade each other's quizzes. Azriel stifled
a yawn and made the exchange with the person
that sat to his right. A moment later when he got
his back, an A+ circled at the top of his paper
confirmed his suspicions.
"Good job," his seat mate whispered after
handing off the flawless quiz to Azriel.
164
"Thanks, you too," the boy dutifully replied. In
truth he hadn’t even bothered to remember what
grade the boy next to him got.
Already he figured pre-cal to be a bore. He had
hoped he missed the girl of his dreams slip in
undetected, but that just wasn't the case. The one
with the pigtails, blonde hair, and pink
cardigan/sweater combo planted herself firmly in
Azriel's brain. He knew it'd be unrealistic to share
EVERY class with her, but four out of five would
be nice.
...
The nearly-invincible double agent flew
helicopters, drove against the flow of traffic in
crazy chase scenes and gave his victims a third
eye more often than not...because he could. The
pages turned themselves like any good fiction
novel.
Another interruption.
The book flattened once more and a dull voice
answered, "Yes?"
"Rafael, are you doing your job or enjoying one
of those paperbacks again?"
"Both, sir," the assistant principal mumbled into
the receiver.
"No. I'm paying you to watch the boy!" Curses
and incoherent threats ensued. "Has he noticed
the girl yet?"
165
Rafael scratched his head. "I think so?" In truth,
he HOPED so.
"This is why you need to be diligent to watch
your monitor!"
Rafael gave the answer he thought the man
would want to hear. "I'll do my best."
"I
don't have to remind you how important it is
these two connect. She's our key to get to the
boy."
"I understand sir."
"Good."
--
Westover Ventures, LA
"Go, go, go!" lieutenants urged their troops.
The fireworks continued in the sky above with
loud bangs and different colors. Red from the
glow of exploding aircraft lit up the scurrying
platoons that hastily retreated back to their
planes. The soldiers left behind vehicles and
machine guns in favor of expediency. What they
didn't leave behind though were the items they
had collected from Westover Ventures.
166
...
The FRN thought they had made off like
bandits. In truth, they hadn’t. What President
Alexander Toporvsky and his administration didn't
know was Scorpion had got what they needed.
Howard and company weren't going for a
knockout punch to the FRN. Instead their
endgame followed along the lines of making the
enemy believe they had achieved a partial victory
despite the heavy losses inflicted.
…
The large transport aircraft had their rocket
turbines pointed towards the improv runway in
preparation for an imminent vertical takeoff.
Several squadrons of fighters were ready to be
their escort.
Despite the diamond formation of protection,
two more heavy-lift craft wouldn't make it out of
Sector Six airspace alive though.
--
167
The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii
President Alexander Toporvsky sweated bullets.
Until the last plane had lifted off only then did he
decide to breathe.
At last the images came in. Alexander didn’t fail
to miss that two more big planes fell prey.
His lungs drank in the oxygen as if he had just
surfaced from underwater after holding his breath
for a while.
"Mr. President, are you feeling alright?"
Secretary of State Edith Wharton asked.
"If
you must know the truth? No. I'm not doing
alright Edith," Alexander admitted. It didn't make
him feel any better to speak the truth either.
…
Ever since the republic's president was sworn in
his body became accustomed to the barrage of
security briefings that woke him in the night. Not
like he could get much sleep anyway with the fate
of the FRN always heavy on his conscience.
The stress only continued to pile up. It
became easier to miss meals. Add to that,
members of his own cabinet wondered if his
backbone had begun to erode away.
168
The person he needed the most wasn't there.
Margaret. He had a chief of staff, a national
security advisor...heck, a whole phalanx of
advisors. Yet it was his wife's judgment he trusted
most. The vacuum left in her absence couldn't
possibly be filled. But he did his best anyway.
...
Ahmed Negler's analytical mind had been
working overtime. Unfortunately his foresight
didn't get him any raises; an occasional pat on the
back or ata boy couldn’t hurt though
"Mr. President, of course we'll track the process
of the returning planes until every last one is
grounded," he said in a reassuring sort of way.
"Where are you going with this?" Alexander
rested his chin on his knuckles.
"Sir, I think
our focus needs to be on an investigation of
Damion Westover and the reason Scorpion went
after him. And who knows? Scorpion beat us to
Westover Complex today. I doubt for the purpose
of picking off some Viper agents."
"Your point?" Demsky said. He looked at
Toporvsky who undoubtedly wondered the
same thing.
"What if..."
Alfred cut the national security advisor off
immediately to stress a point. "Please spare us
the what-ifs. Governments won’t do well dealing
with the world through hypotheticals based on
pure speculation."
Alexander gave the director of Sentinel a stern
gaze. "You May proceed Ahmed."
Alexander’s security advisor showed his
169
appreciation for being allowed to go on via a curt
head nod.
He said, "What if today's events really are just a
sideshow to something even bigger going on
here. I think Damion had something Scorpion
wanted. They maybe didn't need him to tell them
how it works, but simply to keep quiet about it."
"Won't we know if something's missing by
checking the logs of the inventory control system
at Westover Ventures?"
Demsky had raised a good point.
"I'm no hacker," Ahmed said, "but Donald
Holiday from CCC (Central Cyber Corps) would
corroborate my theory that records like that could
easily be tampered with--manipulated to say what
they want."
Alexander took a moment to sip his coffee to
mull it over. "When this operation is over, we start
a new one. Demsky?"
"Yes Mr. President?" the director almost shrunk
back, afraid of the president's answer.
"I need
you and your agency to get with Mossad and
anyone else capable of doing the groundwork on
this next task."
"Which would be?"
"Get Damion. Find out anything you can on
Scorpion. They've been too quiet. Almost like the
calm before the storm."
--
170
Chapter 7
Moldova
Other than his brief time in training, Seth
didn't know the enigmatic Tyrone Banks well
enough to interpret what this former-Mossad
man actually meant by his "end of the world"
statement.
"What have you been smoking tonight,
Tyrone?" Seth cocked his head and waited
for an answer.
Baruch continued the attack. "Why
should we even trust you?"
"Because deep down you know I'm right.
And I have evidence."
"Keep talking," Seth encouraged him.
171
"Many years ago, when I was in the field..."
"Hold it, you were in the field?" Baruch found it
hard to believe.
"You gotta start somewhere son. Anyways,
where was I? Ah yes. Mindin' my own
business, followin' orders...running a helluva
lotta ops." He paused for a breather. And a
sip of coffee. He swore. "They forget how to
teach you how many beans to stick in in
proportion to the water?"
"Why?" Seth countered.
"This is potent enough to stick in a spray
can instead of that Roundup you get at the
hardware store."
"Thanks."
"Looks like your weed-eaters aren't doing
good enough of a job either," Tyrone
observed as he stared down a spindly green
shoot rising above the edge of the porch.
A confused Baruch uttered, "What?"
The older man in his fifties rose midway off
the bench, enough to stretch out with the cup
and empty it over the offending weed. "You
can thank me later."
"Tyrone!" Seth whined. "Are you gonna tell
us why you're here or not?"
"No need to get bent out of shape. I was
just doin' y'all a common courtesy. But as to
the end of the world stuff, which I guess could
come before your weed problems, here's the
bottom line. In the Special Operations
172
Division, we went after some guys who
claimed they didn't know nothin'. They'd
rather die than tell us who they worked for.
And believe me, we didn't give them the easy
way out either."
"You tortured these...." Seth waited to hear
Tyrone tag these men he was talking about.
But Tyrone didn’t.
He simply answered, "Right. The people we
used enhanced interrogation techniques on."
Seth rolled his eyes at the euphemism.
Tyrone pretended not to notice Seth's body
language and continued. "Looked like they
belonged to an Al Qaeda cell or something.
But these guys were different than your
typical jihadists with suicide vests."
Baruch became curious. "How so?"
"Well young man," Tyrone put his best
story teller's voice on, "these holy warriors
weren't who they said they were. They're
the first of their kind: a secretive track
existing right alongside those that truly
wage the holy war."
"Double agents?" Seth wanted to know if
he understood correctly.
Tyrone grew quiet. "Yes, in a manner of
speaking." The ex-agent with his gray
patchy stubble and wandering eyes
seemed to lose himself in that moment in a
troubling thought. "Somehow the director of
Mossad is involved in this subterfuge." His
face fell as he condemned the director to
be a bad guy.
173
"Peretz Sheffer?" Seth inquired, stunned at
the news.
Tyrone nodded somberly. "I've always
considered the man a friend, too."
Baruch didn’t react to the news like Seth
had. Instead his brain formulated a quick
question: "Have you fully traced the
corruption to see if there are any other
unknowns calling the shots?" he asked. "Or is
Sheffer the extent of it?"
"I'm afraid we don't have all the pieces to
the puzzle. And there's no way we can get
the director to resign. Even if we tried, he'd
know and we would all be toast." Baruch
didn't understand the idiomatic expression
on toast, but Seth made it easy for him by
tracing his finger across his throat in a
straight line.
Seth had been thinking real hard up to this
point. As a leader figure he thought it prudent
to strategize first before speaking.
"So
what's the play?"
"Since you guys are on the inside but I’m
not, you will be assets and I'll be the spotter.
The goal is to find out where, when, and how
Scorpion plans to take over the world. Then
we take down the sons of bitches."
A chill went up and down Seth’s spine.
"You didn't say anything about Scorpion
before Tyrone."
174
The other man held a stupefied expression.
"I said this had to do with the end of the
world, didn't I?!"
"Yes, but--"
"Then why didn't your mind immediately
make the connection to Scorpion?"
"I dunno."
"Boy, you've been playing in the sandbox
for too many years…doubletapping princes
and clerics. It's time you grow an analytical
side to that killer brain of yours."
He would be right. As much as the reproof
stung, Seth learned to eat crow. That's what
made him a good agent and so valuable to
Mossad.
Baruch's shoulders rose and fell as he
laughed on the inside at Seth. Momentarily
he threw his head back and downed some
more strong drink. The tough guy scrunched
his eyes, swallowing hard. It somehow
brought clarity.
"What else do you know about Scorpion
and the end of times?" he asked.
Tyrone
answered, "Their leader has made a deal
with the devil. Heck, if I didn't know any
better, I'd say he is the devil. What's more, I
175
believe they’re going to invade the earth from
the heavens."
Seth gave it his best guess. "Nukes?"
"No, there are no more such things after
World War Three."
Both men sat there dumbfounded.
Tyrone leaned forward and looked from his
right to left. "You really had no clue, eh?"
Seth managed a head shake.
"What if I were to tell you we're gonna have
visitors from space? Made to look like the
real thing."
"Shutup."
Baruch's eyes widened. "No, don't tell him
that!"
Another time in the conversation where he
failed to make the connection.
Cultural barriers.
Seth ignored him. "You say we have less
than five days?"
Tyrone pointed a bony finger at Seth and
said excitedly, "So you're in then?"
Seth had to think about this a little while
longer. Tyrone Banks’s visit had been one of
the strangest things to happen to him lately.
176
But the message seemed sincere. He didn't
have a reason to lie: the man would die for
his country a patriot.
"Yeah, I'm in."
"If Seth Markov thinks it's a good idea, you
can count me in too," said Baruch with a
gutlevel sincerity.
Tyrone looked mildly relieved. "Good deal.
Alright, we'll need to make preparations
before morning."
Seth leaned up against a pillar supporting
the covered porch. "Going somewhere?"
"Downrange. You can always back out
now. I understand. But once you're in this
thing, I
can't guarantee your safety, much less you
making it out alive."
--
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Night had fallen on the crown jewel of the
United Islamic Caliphate. Spotlights lit the sky
177
from the many construction sites across the
city building the towers that reached for the
clouds. Downtown in fact was a futurist's
fantasy with its tightly compact, dense urban
core with few gaps.
The city's residents were very rich: poverty
had been expelled decades ago.
The AirTaxi waited at a light, thirty stories
above street level. Three other lanes of traffic
also caught the same light. All the flying cars
were fully autonomous, no driver's input.
To the uninitiated, they’d be in for a real jolt
after they hailed a taxi. Instead of seeing a
smiling local behind the wheel of one of the
city’s many cabs, there’d be no driver at all.
These autonomous taxis were supremely
adept at zeroing in on humans with their
hitchhiker’s thumb raised high. In a city
where millions needed to get around at a
moment’s notice, the absence of the human
touch in the taxi industry wasn’t missed at all
because of the increased efficiency in
servicing passengers that autonomy allowed
for.
Each car had its seating configured to face
each other, like in a limo. And entertainment
options straddled the fence between virtual
reality goggles or an old-fashioned tablet.
...
178
The best dressed passenger in the AirTaxi
wore a three-piece suit--brown, with a red
pocket square, starched dress shirt and
chinos. The other three men were in business
casual.
The man worth a bundle normally sported a
well-trimmed beard, but today he groomed
himself, opting for the clean-shaven look
instead. The interior of the car smelled of
strong men's aftershave.
"Rehan Kahlil himself has requested to see
you?" one of the passengers abruptly
inquired of the good-looking man of
importance.
"You sound so surprised," he replied with a
tinge of annoyance.
"Well, yeah! The king doesn't agree to see
just anyone."
That statement rubbed him the wrong way,
his pride offended. "I have news for King
Kahlil he cannot miss to hear. It's about the
Muahammad al-Mahdi."
"What about him?" A different man asked
this time, his voice high with excitement.
"He has returned."
These words wildly excited the devout
Muslims in the car. Now they had more
questions for the one who broke the news
than he could answer.
179
"Gentlemen, please," he used his hands to
make a motion to calm the thrilled
passengers down. "You'll know more in the
coming days. I've already said too much."
"At least tell us where the promised one is
currently."
It was a fair question. Even though the guy
knew the answer, he didn't look so willing to
cooperate.
"The Mahdi is from Iran of course," he lied.
Luckily for him, the royal residence wasn't too
far away. He didn’t know how much more of
this he could take. He did have a choice
though—not to tell the men that rode with him
the real reason for his visit.
--
Barcelona, Spain
Tonight would take care of itself. Alfonso
didn't anticipate anything that might put a
180
wrench in the works on rounding up the two
Germans. Then again, if something could go
wrong, it would. He wasn't a pessimist. Yet
the world he lived in frequently abided by that
rule.
The politicians would have their date, go on
their own merry way, then be confronted by
men who looked like they were hired killers.
That's how it would go down. Not too
complicated.
...
Storm clouds rolled in from the southwest
bringing with them the promise of swells. The
air had a certain humidity to it that came
before storms. Throughout it all the sun
battled for supremacy in a tug-of-war affair
with the gray masses. It was fair to say the
sun wasn't winning.
A steady stream of red taillights and white
headlights going the opposite direction
painted a scene of gridlock below. Up above
the sky highways were less congested, albeit
less traveled, too.
The concrete jungle sparkled in all its
majesty. Red lights on tall antennas sitting
atop the skyscrapers of the Barcelona skyline
blinked intermittently. Then the first drops
began to fall at will. Bystanders on the city
streets who weren't armed with an umbrella
used anything at their disposal to temporarily
181
shield themselves from an impending deluge.
But their best bet would be to get to shelter
and not fight it.
That's what Amalia Eichmann scurried to:
shelter. Which so happened to be where
she'd share a drink with her date that night.
When she walked into the impressive lobby
of a four star hotel located in a very
happening neighborhood in the city known as
22@Barcelona, that's when her thoughts
turned introspective. She wondered what he
might think of her all gussied up for the
occasion.
Her destination? The sky deck where a
world famous chef played in a gourmet
kitchen. But what she really came for other
than a plate of some of the prettiest looking
food you'll find in Spain served on fine china
was the robust bar with a whole bevy of
drinks on the menu.
The click-clack of her three inch heels drew
the attention of some of the bellhops and
other employees in the area. And it wasn't
just a glance, more like a lingering stare.
At thirty-five and in the prime of her career,
Amalia dressed well and purported herself in
such a way that communicated to those
around her just how much of a catch she'd
be.
The elevators weren't hard to find. They
had their own little hall with over twenty
182
doors, all going up. She chose the last one
on the right and stepped into the box. After
the doors closed the elevator made little
noise as it climbed with gusto. Amalia eyed
the panel with all the little circles one could
push for different floors. The display that
normally conveyed the floor count didn't even
register the progress. Which only meant one
thing: she was going fast.
After thirty seconds she figured the ride to
be almost over.
He better be here already, Amalia hoped as
she stepped off.
The entrance to the restaurant grew closer
and closer. The doors were already open.
Through the opening she could see a man in
a white dress shirt with a black bowtie waiting
to seat her. The decor of the place looked
expensive.
She read the sign please wait to be seated,
but her roving gaze caught sight of a
handsome gentleman seated at a table for
two towards the back of the restaurant near
the bar.
It was him.
Amalia felt like a runway model as she
walked. She knew the trick of going faster to
create her own wind to blow her hair about in
a desirable way. Very striking. Even the old
183
men in the establishment noticed--they
weren't dead, yet.
Two hours later after painstakingly fighting
her lank hair and split ends with a curling
iron, a trip to the salon for a manicure, and
extensive time with makeup in front of the
mirror, Amalia now enjoyed a transformed
appearance.
Wendel waited until his date entered the
red zone; only then did he get up and smile
big at the approaching woman. His first act of
chivalry was to pull her chair out for her.
A
waiter buzzing around at the fringes wasted
no time to swoop in and be helpful.
His
manner bordered pleasant and over the top.
"Hello my name is Manfred, I'll be your server
tonight. How are you two doing this evening?"
Amalia put down the centerfold with the
wine list long enough to acknowledge with a
short answer. "I'm fine, danke."
"Can I start you off with drinks, perhaps? Or
do you think you'll need another minute...."
Wendel ordered a dark lager, a German beer,
while Amalia went with a white wine.
Manfred told them he'd be back with the
drinks soon and some hot bread.
"Have you walked over to the windows
yet?" Amalia asked.
"Yes, the view is simply marvelous."
184
"But it can never beat what I wake up to
everyday in the heart of Berlin," she said,
believing every word of it.
Wendel smiled kindly. "My apartment sits
along the bank of River Spree. There's been
a lot of development in the neighborhood
lately too. Kind of noisy though." "Ah,
that's a shame. The price you have to pay
living in an urban environment; you have to
share with others."
Wendel selfishly grinned. "I don't like
sharing..."
Amalia laughed a good deal at his
comment. "Sharing is caring," she joked.
"Do you like storms?" he said while
watching nature’s display out the windows.
Forked lightening streaked across the sky.
The tall steel skyscrapers made great
targets for Zeus, the Greek god of storms.
The bright white flashes of light occurred
with greater regularity. The thunderous
booms that followed were amplified inside
the cluster of close buildings in Barcelona.
"They're really soothing," she answered.
"Kinda makes me wanna take a nap."
"Not here, I hope," he teased.
A cutting board with scrumptious looking
sourdough and pumpernickel bread promptly
slid across their table. A very traditional beer
stein was offered to Wendel which he gladly
185
accepted. The waiter then placed a fluted
glass with white wine at Amalia's place.
Manfred took out a notepad with a stubby
pencil and asked if they were ready to order.
They weren't in Berlin anymore, hence the
abundance in Spanish dishes on the menu.
Nevertheless, the restaurant didn't forget the
fact that Spain belonged to Germany now.
The addition of staple German foods
underscored that fact.
Wendel looked to Amalia to have the
honors and order first, but she deferred it
to him.
He stumbled over his Spanish
pronunciation, but Manfred understood the
man had an appetite for skewered pork
marinated in a wine sauce with spicy
Spanish rice on the side.
"Tapas, appetizers for you, sir?"
Wendel waived him off, not looking to eat
too much on a date.
The waiter nodded and turned his
attention to the fair lady. Her astral eyes and
long eyelashes made him a bit
uncomfortable.
"I have a German
appetite, through and through. No sense of
adventure when it comes to food," she
explained after ordering rouladen.
"You can't go wrong with tenderized choice
beef tenderloin with bacon and caramelized
onions," the waiter affirmed her meal choice.
186
The evening passed in a blur. When the
plates were cleared Manfred eagerly asked if
either one desired desert. Both declined.
Wendel hoped dinner would lead to more.
"You wanna go for a walk?" he asked her.
Amalia hastily tossed her cloth napkin on
the table and responded, "Where do you
wanna take me?" Her eyes shone brightly,
hopes high. "No museums though." She
had to throw that caveat out there.
Wendel looked up at Manfred who
reappeared for the last time. The German
promptly received the black leather book for
his payment. He then slipped a hand into an
incognito coat pocket to produce a billfold.
Even though DigiCoin prevailed as the most
common tender, it made him look good to
throw down some bills to pay for dinner.
Wendel hurriedly made the handoff to the
lingering waiter before answering Amalia,
"Museums are out?" he laughed and faked
his disappointment.
"Yep!"
"Tell you what, how 'bout a trip to a magical
fountain instead?"
Wendel studied her face for a reaction. She
didn't give him the idea he had hit a home run
with the suggestion, nor did it come as a
letdown either. He raised an eyebrow and a
187
corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile in
anticipation of a yes.
She got up from the table and grabbed his
hand. "So where is this 'magic' fountain of
yours?"
"Follow me!" Wendel excitedly swung her
hand. A promising look of adventure dwelled
in his eyes.
She trusted him to lead the way.
…
It had stopped raining by now. The steady
slosh of tires driving through the puddles
filled the night air. And horns. The scenery
was colorful to say the least.
The damp, muggy air clung to them like a
parasite. But at least the floodgates of
heaven had closed.
The couple exited the tower together,
Amalia leaning into Wendel in the enchanted
moment. Pity the date couldn't go on as
planned.
Three agents crouched with their weight
resting on the balls of their feet. The targets
would come to them. Steam poured out
from a sewer like a boiling hot pot of soup,
adding to the ominous details of the
moment. The temperature had dropped
significantly as dusk gave way to the
188
impending blackness. The men lying in wait
could see their breath. A rat with a big tail
scampered back into a storm drain.
Seconds went by before the shadows of two
Germans approaching came into view. At
the right time, the Mossad men dressed in
black suits, their faces obscured by masks,
jumped from cover and snatched the
unsuspecting lovers off the street without a
noise. Any screams or protestation were
muffled by gags stuffed into their mouths.
The strong men had no problem marching
the victims over to their waiting ride that
would launch up to the skies.
--
The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii
When the president and his cabinet put the
wraps on Operation Switchblade, so began
another one: the quest to get Damion
Westover. President Toporvksy had asked
189
Director Demsky of Sentinel to work with
Mossad to get a better understanding of
Scorpion's end-game plans.
…
The director of Sentinel felt like a hamster
on the wheel spinning round and round with
no stop in sight. Alfred rested his elbows on
his desk's ink blotter. His left toe tapped a
couple of times. He groaned and clutched his
stomach. The drawer slowly opened. His
hand blindly felt around for the familiar bottle.
He twisted the tamper-proof lid once he found
it.
Two tablets dispensed for him. Alfred
spotted a nearby water glass he would use to
rinse down the antacid meds. He licked his
upper lip and loudly exhaled. Twenty seconds
later he was in the right frame of mind to
make a phone call, albeit reluctantly.
He
lifted the black plastic phone from its cradle
and stretched the ancient corded device to
his left ear while he reached across with his
free hand to dial a number. It rang twice
before he reached the operator.
"This is
Alfred Demsky, director of Sentinel, may I
speak to the prime minister please?"
One
moment sir.
190
A moment later, just as promised, the
leader of the Labor party and the current
Prime Minister of Israel answered. "Ken?"
Yes?
"Erev tov Prime Minister Elkin, ma
shlomcha?" Good evening Prime Minister
Elkin, how are you?
"I speak English Alfred, and I'm fine,
thanks."
"Is it a bad time to talk?" Alfred wondered,
staring at his clock on the wall with the hour
hand barely past five...in the morning.
"It's the dinner hour here in Jerusalem,
Mr. Demsky. So no, you're not interrupting
anything. I don't have much of an appetite
anyway."
The supreme leader in Israel clipped off
the end to a cigar. He ceremoniously
sniffed it before sticking it between his teeth
and lighting up.
Demsky apologized anyway despite what
the Jewish leader had just said. Then Alfred
brought a cold, beading glass of water to his
forehead for relief before he spoke on more
important subject matter.
"Prime minister, I have some news here in
the West to report of that you may be
interested in."
Tuvia Elkin settled into his lounge chair on
the stone patio in the courtyard of Beit Aghion
(the Jewish residence for prime ministers).
191
"Tell me, Alfred. I'm listening." His hazel eyes
stared at a sculpture of a lion while he puffed
aromatic rings of smoke.
"Scorpion has a new leader. Damion
Westover has been kidnapped. And an op of
ours to extricate some valuable possessions
of his went terribly bad."
Tuvia scowled hard and grunted. "This is
bad news indeed. What can I do for you Mr.
Demsky?"
The Sentinel director eyed a younger
picture of himself on his desk while he twirled
an expensive pen between his fingers.
"President Toporvsky has asked me to
investigate Scorpion to find anything I can to
tell us what they're planning. And to get
Damion back."
"The second part will be easy. As to the first
item, I am less certain."
Alfred uncharacteristically smiled. "I only
wish I shared your same optimism. Nothing is
certain these days, I'm afraid."
"What you need is the experience and
assets of an established intelligence agency."
Tuvia's baritone voice resonated with
Demsky. "Precisely," he agreed to the point
being made. "If anybody could unravel this
enigma, it'd be the professionals of Mossad."
There was a smile in Tuvia's voice when he
said, "Don't underestimate your own strength,
director. Between our two countries, I feel a
solution is closer than you might think."
The flattering speech only went so far to
192
assure Demsky. He had his doubts. A pack of
gum resting on the first tier of a desk
organizer had his name on it. His fingers
made fast work of the shiny wrapper. No
sooner had he plopped the sugary stick in
between his teeth did he realize he still had
the prime minister of Israel on the line.
"Was there anything else, Alfred?"
"I beg your pardon Mr. Prime Minister. My
brain has been out to lunch ever since I left
the security briefing earlier this morning. Long
days, you know."
"Yes, misery loves company."
Demsky chuckled. "There was one more
thing," he said.
"Yes, anything."
"What do you know about the end times
prophecy in the Bible?"
He couldn't believe he had just asked that.
The president and his opened Bible at the
National Security Council had irked him for
long enough. It was time he got to the bottom
of it. Maybe the leather bound book with the
golden letters spelling Holy Bible was a book
of secrets after all. He would know soon.
--
193
Chapter 8
Tel Aviv, Israel
He had survived his first day back to
school. Should it have come as any surprise
though? Son of Seth Markov, real-life GI
Joe...Jason Bourne.
Azriel left the empty halls and followed the
restless students out the doors. He watched
as many filed into the waiting busses
curbside. But that wouldn't be him, he hoped.
No, for Uncle Ephraim would come to the
rescue in his Mercedes.
Azriel let his book bag fall to the pavement;
he sat down beside it. A light breeze blew his
dark curly hair here and there. The
handsome Jewish boy wistfully stared across
the parking lot towards the busy roads,
194
hoping to see the sun glinting off his uncle's
sporty car coming to get him.
Right then his sixth sense tingled as he felt
the stare of another person fall across his
back. Azriel turned around.
"Hi!"
His pensive thoughts and anxiety about
getting a ride went out the window. There
she was. The girl of his dreams from his
economics class, saying hello to him.
The
sun shone in his eyes so much that he had to
cover them--and lose sight of the pretty girl
as a result.
"My name's Azriel," he shyly introduced
himself.
"I know what your name is. The whole
school does." Her eyelids scrunched as she
giggled.
"I wonder how? I've only been here a
day," he replied a little dully. "Come on,
economics class? That little stunt you
pulled?" She loomed larger now, presently
inviting herself to sit next to him. Drawing
her knees up to her chin, she appeared to
settle in.
"You like it here?" Azriel asked, not
knowing what else to say. He was more
nervous than anything else.
She smiled, showcasing her beautiful bite.
Amazing what braces can do for an
individual: it corrected her overbite and made
it hard to look away whenever she opened
wide.
195
"Yeah, you can make good friends here. I'm
Esther by the way," she said while examining
him when he wasn't looking.
"Esther? That's a beautiful name."
"You're just saying that!" she playfully
shoved him.
He blushed and shrugged. "What else do
you want me to say?"
The last buss filled up. The driver gave it
another minute before pressing a button to
close the doors. A deep rumble of the engine
proceeded a belch of exhaust as it rolled off
the lot.
Esther watched all this before turning to
Azriel to ask the obvious. "Waiting for your
ride?"
He nodded. "Someone coming to get you?"
"My mom gets off of work soon. She'll be
here no more than ten minutes from now.
You need a ride?"
For a moment the offer sounded amazing.
But Azriel had no idea if his uncle intended to
pick him up or not. He'd sure hate to leave
and later have to explain to an upset Uncle
Ephraim he had made other arrangements.
"It really isn't a problem Azriel," she said
softly in a coaxing voice. "This doesn't have
to be an everyday thing. A little favor once in
a while wouldn't hurt anybody."
196
Azriel didn't want to say no to the girl he felt
so strongly attracted to. "Oh alright. Just this
once," he gave her a wry smile.
What he felt at that moment? Excited.
"Great!" Esther played with one of her
pigtails briefly. "Did you have a good first
day?"
Azriel didn't have to think very hard to
answer.
Um, yeah?! I'm talking with the girl I've had
eyes for...after only one whole day!
"Hmmm, considering I didn't even imagine
myself back in a school again, yeah, I'd say
today turned out great."
"What do you mean...you were a dropout or
something?"
Azriel kicked a loose piece of gravel. "I
don't like talking about it." Esther didn't
want to make him feel uncomfortable. Yet
she very craftily thought of a way to make
him share without appearing eager to do
so. "If it's nothing you'd care to pass
along, it's alright." Silence.
"I lost my dad when I was two." She looked
to him for a reaction. Her face told on her:
she knew more about Azriel than she'd ever
let on.
The guard slowly started to come down
anyhow. He looked interested now. "I'm sorry
to hear that," he said with genuine sympathy.
197
He knew what it felt like to lose a parent. "I
never met my mother," he admitted very
cautiously. It was easier for him to be
cloistered than to come out of the shell. But
somehow Esther made him feel safe; he did
not know how.
"That's tragic!" she reached over to gently
scratch his back with her long white nails.
Azriel's muscles tightened.
"Does that make you uncomfortable?" she
asked surprised.
He looked chagrinned. "I'm not used to
much attention from females. That's
all."
"Ah! I know something you could use a little
more of then!" she said with a mischievous
grin, continuing her strokes on his back.
Azriel resigned his tortured self to the
continuation of the treatment. Off in the
distance the sound of an approaching engine
growing stronger made him look up to see
who was there.
"Is that your mom?"
A deep purple aerodynamic van with a
white racing stripe down the hood, flared tail
lamps and running boards that jutted out
cruised through the parking lot with efficiency
until it came to a stop a short distance away
from the waiting teenagers.
198
Azriel squinted in vain to see through the
tinted windows.
A window rolled down and a very young
woman smiled and waved at them.
Esther rose to go first. "Come on!" she said
to the ever reluctant Jewish boy. The
butterflies came back again. They had never
gone away, really...maybe stopped flapping
their wings though. He could feel the
fluttering feeling in his stomach ramp up as
he approached the sleek ride.
A giant side door effortlessly popped open
and appeared to be suspended in mid-air. No
sign of hinges what-so-ever. Twenty-first
century engineering.
"Who's your boyfriend?" Esther's mother
teased as the two youths found a seat next to
each other.
"Mom, meet Azriel, he's the new kid at
school," she said, all in one breath. The
craft vibrated as its ducted fans began to go
round and round, gaining momentum for what
took place next.
"Thanks for the ride, miss," Azriel quietly
said.
"Don't mention it. Anything for my
daughter," she tossed a needling look
Esther's way.
"Where do you live Azriel?" Esther asked…
more for her mom’s benefit than her own.
199
The boy gave her the address to an
apartment on the west side of town.
"You live in Park Tzamaret?" She asked in
disbelief.
She must think I come from money or
something.
"It's actually just a small studio apartment
way up in the clouds. Not exactly luxurious
accommodations like you might expect."
He could tell they were still dubious, but
none of it mattered.
Through voice commands Esther’s mom
told the car where to go. After that she
submitted her ticket to the automated traffic
system to gain access to one of the many
beltways that the city's air traffic commonly
took to get places.
Thirty seconds later she was cleared to safely
join the traffic up in the sky. The purple van
did all the pitching and maneuvering--taking
all the hassle out of driving.
--
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
200
A long, winding spiral staircase climbed to
the upper stories of the royal residence of the
leader of the United Islamic Caliphate. There
were no stairs to traverse, only a sloped
incline.
The well-dressed man put one foot in front
of the other while occasionally peering over
the edge of the ornate white staircase with its
many colorful banners flowing down from it.
At the very bottom his eyes gravitated
towards a splendid crystal grand piano and
its accompanying band with all their wind
instruments striking a familiar tune.
The
melodious musical notes drifted up to his
ears. Their intervals varied as greatly as the
tempo to the score itself. The overall effect
was delightful nonetheless. It almost made
him envious of the band members'
skill...make him regret his decisions during
his youth to put away the instruments in favor
of playing sports.
At last the upper landing to the ascent
drew nigh. Below him the snaking staircase
went in and out of focus: he now truly felt the
height of where he stood. This was all very
symbolic and by design. Soon he and his
entourage that went with him would be at
the very threshold to the throne room
belonging to the most powerful man in the
Middle East--Rehan Kahlil.
201
The gilded doors with the crescent moon
embossed into it and the phalanx of body
guards in front were signposts that royalty
was near. The lead guard came forward and
cautiously eyed the group of four strangers.
He pulled up his guest list on his wearable
computer (like the preceding two
checkpoints had dutifully done) to begin the
vetting process before letting anyone into
the king's chamber.
Three of the four men stated their names
and provided identification. The whole affair
proceeded along very unceremoniously until
it came time for the king's appointment to
identify himself.
When he spoke a mysterious wind rushed
over everyone. The forces of darkness were
at work within the members. The unknown
man destined to have an audience with King
Kahlil appeared on the list under a
pseudonym. The name must have checked
out though. Upon further examination of the
palace records and a thorough check of the
database, this man who would see the king
held all the rights to do so.
All guests passing through the king's court
had to trouble themselves with yet another
full body scan before they could see his royal
highness.
The administering agent asking all the
questions and directing the process cast one
last doubtful glance at the visitors before he
202
begrudgingly told his fellow men of the watch
to get the doors.
They grabbed for the great door pulls and
gave a mighty tug. The doors that were
barely a decade old stubbornly yielded on
hinges that belied their short life.
A room
lit by ancient methods with a lack of air
circulation took the newcomers by surprise.
An empty hall with marble pillars on either
side pointed towards the most important chair
in the land. On it sat a fellow not fit to be
sitting in it--from physical appearances, that
is.
Make no mistake, however. For where
Kahlil came up short in terms of a
commanding physical presence, he certainly
overtook with his rational mind and subtle
tongue.
The men walked in a procession, single file.
The king spared his roving gaze for the
character he most wanted to see. He caught
glimpses of the man's face from the light the
flickering torches threw. Shadows played
across the face of the man in question,
distorting his features to a curios King Kahlil.
There he precariously sat, half off his chair in
an eager posture: his leg muscles, which
suddenly were called upon to support the
extra weight, coiled with anticipation.
The three leading Islamic clerics
representing the Ummahs (people groups) in
the kingdom took their seats before the
203
throne. Before they sat though, each one
reverentially greeted the king with the
traditional salaam treatment (a low bow with
the palm of the right hand on the forehead).
Kahlil curled his finger twice in a beckoning
motion. "Come Jabour, you have news to
tell."
Jabour came forward upon hearing his alias
surname.
"Have a seat," the king offered.
A red pillow with a throw on an expensive
rug invited the messenger to recline in
comfort while passing along the dispatch.
He found the furnishing to his liking. Jabour
swept the shiny dark hair off his face to fix a
side part. Untold secrets stared at the king
behind a set of inscrutable eyes.
"Long
live the king and may Allah be praised!" he
opened it up with, hoping to grease the skids
for what came down the pike.
Kahlil nodded slightly and waited for Jabour
to skip to business. A brief bought with thirst
was quenched after he delivered a golden
goblet to his lips and held it there for quite
some time.
"Something is about to happen all around
the world your Excellency," Jabour started off
with grim certainty.
The king's cup quivered a little. He studied
his visitor to know even more than what had
204
already been spoken. A ring on the right hand
stood out to him.
He noted the ring seemed to be reversed,
hiding a symbol on it from view. Whenever
the character would shift his hands a little a
flash of blue from the underside of Jabour's
hands would show.
Intriguing, Kahlil thought.
Jabour continued, pretending not to notice
how removed the king was from what was
being said.
"A great evil is afoot. Nations will be
supplanted, mountains...moved." "Come
now, stop speaking in riddles and get
straight to the point," the king snapped.
"But there is much to tell your majesty, and I
wish to do it all in good time," he paused to
thoughtfully interject, "with your permission,
of course." The king ignored the petition,
instead choosing to speak freely on what he
really wondered about.
"And Muhammad al-Mahdi?"
"Yes, he has a role in all of this." Jabour
appeared eager to get by that name and on
to something else he had come to say. For a
millisecond he flicked his wrist giving the king
a better angle at the pattern on the ring.
Rehan Kahlil inconspicuously took a
snapshot photo with his mind's eye of what
he saw. Somewhere before he had seen a
marking just like it.
"Whatever do you mean, Jabour?" he
questioned. The king wouldn't let it drop that
easy.
205
The guest twitched at the mouth and
straightened his pocket square. "You see o
king, a great calamitous event is about to
happen."
"Another asteroid?"
"No--worse!" Jabour baited him in.
"Another war? Is that it?"
"No..."
"Good! Because I'm afraid my people prefer
peace over our blood and fire, war-mongering
ancestors."
This triggered an involuntary smile on
Jabour's lips.
Kahlil dubiously rubbed his jaw. "You
said the Mahdi is involved in all this?"
"He's our savior, o king. Only he can save
humanity from what we're about to face."
He appeared ready to say more, but not
before the king had something to say.
"Oh, I don't care about the Jews or the rest
of the westerners." The king made a
sweeping motion with his arms. The
freeflowing fabric with white fluted edging
wrinkled under his arm's capricious
movements. His nose wrinkled too as if the
mere mention of those people groups
equated to debauchery and smut. "They can
get what's coming to them. May Allah's holy
judgment purify the land of the infidels."
206
"Absolutely. None of that is in question,"
Jabour reciprocated, eager to show the king
he shared the same level of detest against
the unholy enemies of Islam. "But I'm afraid
even the United Islamic Caliphate isn't safe,
either."
"Whatever are you speaking of? Your
impetuous language baffles me, Jabour. Do
illuminate me of this great evil of an impartial
god, judging all."
Jabour's eyes grew dark, hallow. His mouth
opened to deliver the message. Suddenly a
hot wind gusted over his shoulders, ruffling
the king's clothing and dissipating into the
thick tapestry behind the throne. Its intensity
and brevity were remarkably similar to the
same experience one would get when
standing in the path of a blazing furnace after
the door just opened up.
Confusion washed over King Kahlil. He
understood the message from the man
seated three feet away. Yet, he strangely felt
tampered with. Violated. Like he had woken
from a drunken stupor, forgetting how he had
gotten to where he now lay sprawled in a
disorderly, but sober mess.
Meanwhile the three clerics who had been
peacefully observing with indifference
appeared equally shaken by what had
transpired. Their experience had an
otherworldly quality to it that left all of them
207
extremely uncomfortable like an itching rash
with no relief in sight.
The king struggled with the news
immensely. Suddenly the title that went
before his name didn't mean anything. If what
Jabour said was true, his days were
numbered as ruler of the United Islamic
Caliphate.
Kahlil drew in a sharp breath and held it.
"You know all of this for a fact?"
"With
one hundred percent accuracy. I stake my
life on it." Jabour stared at the ruler with little
sympathy before adding, "I'm just
the messenger."
"Oh?"
"There is one thing."
"Name it," Kahlil said without hesitation.
"The Mahdi needs to use Jeddah's
spaceport."
"For...what? Why does he need ours
when there's one in North America?"
Jabour squinted. The king's answer was
unsettling. "North America, your majesty?"
Kahlil shrugged. "What's in it for me?"
Jabour expected this. He had rehearsed
himself beforehand for this part in the
conversation. He sat up straighter now. "For
your services, Muhammad al Mahdi will
reward your kindness with a seat on his
208
council with oversight privileges over one of
the ten regions in the New World Order."
A moment ago it looked like he would get
nothing out of the deal. Now he had an offer
he couldn't refuse.
Rehan Kahlil gathered his robes and
resituated himself on his throne.
Jabour tilted his head to one side, his
eyebrows raised.
"Jeddah's spaceport is open for business.
Whatever the Mahdi needs."
"Excellent! He will be very pleased to hear
it."
Both men rose together at once and shook
on it.
Jabour bowed slightly before turning to
leave. He turned to the clerics expectantly.
The unspoken message, understood. Each
man scampered off their chair to join him.
The door going into the king's chamber
opened for the guests to make their exit. The
well-dressed man lingered at the top of the
stairs to take in the view one last time as a
token of his victory. He had played his part.
The royal musicians began to play a joyous
song. Their choice seemed more than fitting
for the occasion.
Jabour rested his elbows on the railing.
209
A voice that originated from over his left
shoulder got his attention. "You seem very
upbeat after speaking to the king," one of the
religious leaders noted.
"Yes," Jabour turned to the man who had
spoken. "I am. Who's hungry?"
--
Barcelona, Spain
Alfonso Marcello expected a phone call. He
waited by his phone. When it went off he
answered after the first ring.
"Yeah."
"Ready to come in?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
"You're gonna interrogate the Germans."
"Me?" He wasn't sure if he had heard right.
210
"Do you need hearing aids, agent?"
"No. No I don't. Just...I'm surprised you
wouldn't go with a more experienced
interrogator."
"Do you wanna turn your badge in?
Because we have lots of other talented
recruits who would love to get a crack at your
job."
Alfonso rolled his eyes. His case officer
rarely made good on threats. But still, he
didn't appreciate the sentiment all the same.
He looked up at the sky and watched some
clouds scroll past a full moon.
Alfonso shivered. It got very chilly in
Barcelona at nights. Especially in spring.
"I'm coming in," he murmured into the
receiver.
"Interrogation room 3a. We'll be waiting."
He wanted to say something smart before
clicking off, but decided better of it. Alfonso
had racked up some good miles in his time
with Mossad. He wasn't ready to throw it
away over a silly spat with a difficult agency
man.
The image of the googly-eyed German
couple holding hands flickered in his mind
like a broken computer screen. He felt
nothing.
211
Whatever it took to get answers from them,
whatever methods of torture, if it even went
that far--Alfonso wouldn't be shy to use all
necessary force. It was personal for him, too.
The Nazis had herded up his great-great
grandparents during world war two where
they ultimately snuffed out their lives in ovens
at the concentration camps.
What a terrible way to die. Bastards, he
thought as he reflected on the plight of his
forefathers.
The anti-Semitism in fact didn't go away
after the holocaust. Instead it raged on for
many, many years with bloody wars fought in
the Middle East and world-wide persecution
of the Jews. If anything, the white-hot hatred
for the people group was at an all-time high.
Without his disguise and alias, there was
no mistaking it, Alfonso looked like a Jew. It
shamed him to hide a heritage he took
tremendous pride in. But the benefits of doing
the state's dirty work far exceeded the burden
of wearing the cloak of anonymity.
...
A brisk walk in the city to his destination
ended in a photo booth at the back of a
rundown arcade. Alfonso felt some coins
bulge in his pant pocket. His eyes stared at
212
the familiar floor layout, the machines
covered up by white sheets. The Jewish man
grunted. As a little boy he enjoyed many late
nights out in the town feeding his favorite
arcade game shekels.
Alfonso closed the curtain on both sides
and sat down. His weight triggered a sensor
under the cushion which prompted a
response.
An invasive male voice came out of a
speaker. "Say cheese."
Alfonso looked dead center at the camera
lens and weakly smiled. An eye scan
positively identified him as agent Marcello.
Then the floor dropped out with no warning.
The drop lasted no more than five seconds.
Five seconds of stomach flipping fun. After so
many rides though Alfonso didn't get much of
a rush any more. What used to be a thrill
turned into a tame kiddie ride.
A sealed
blast door opened up. A nondescript hallway
took him to another door. Alfonso pulled his
badge out. The scanner on the door accepted
it with a buzzing noise. A little later the double
doors opened inward to let him pass by
before abruptly closing behind him.
Interrogation room 3a. Two lefts, a right,
down a flight of stairs and right at the fork. He
knew the station inside and out. A fastwalking
male, late-forties, thinning hair, square jaw
caught up to him at the second turn.
His handler handed him an earwig to wear
which Alfonso reluctantly accepted knowing
213
full well he’d have his favorite person in his
ear while he worked on the Germans.
"Don't hold back. This is important. Level
10."
The few word transmission held a lot of
weight.
Alfonso only nodded. He knew his handler
didn't have anything else to say anyways.
Their conversations were always short and
sweet; never any time for personal matters or
unnecessarily verbose replies. He walked
for a little while longer--alone this time.
Alfonso glided down the stairs, two at a
time....Almost there. There were no friendly
faces along the way happy to see the Israeli.
Mostly part-time staffers trudging along at a
harried pace.
The hallway only went two ways. Alfonso
hung a right and wound up at the door in no
time. A glass block window and a narrow slit
of glass in the door were the only outside
sources of light into the dark chamber. A red
faded 3a on the metal indicated this was the
one.
Alfonso's head pounded. In his own time he
punched in the code to disarm the alarm.
Access granted.
The weight of a hesitant hand resting on
the handle wasn't enough to will the door to
open. A second went by before Alfonso finally
turned the handle all the way.
214
--
215
216
Chapter 9
Maldova, Mossad safe house
"We need to disappear," Tyrone stated the
obvious.
Baruch stood with his arms spread wide
and a stupid look on his face. "And go
where?"
Tyrone stopped pacing and lifted his head
up. In the time he spent thinking, he
managed to snap up a piece of wheat and
stick it in his mouth. All he was missing was a
straw hat.
"Quiet! I need to think."
"You mean you don't have a plan?" Seth
stared in disbelief.
"I do have a plan," Tyrone corrected. "Do
something."
217
Crickets.
The sound of Baruch dropping his flask
followed up by, "Great," was all that passed
in between the three men.
Seth leaned in closer to Tyrone and asked,
"Mossad is corrupted you say?"
"No duh."
"I needed confirmation is all," Seth replied,
feeling a little irritated.
Baruch was slow that night. "For what?" he
asked his partner.
"We're gonna disobey orders, go
rogue." "It has to look like an accident
though," Tyrone interrupted, getting
excited. He continued, "Your deaths, both
KIAs."
"That could be difficult," Seth
mused.
"He's the best," Baruch jerked a humble
thumb in Seth's direction. "But I'm a close
second," he grinned widely. Getting serious,
he added, "We're gonna have to get a
mission profile that makes this plan all come
together."
"He's right," Seth echoed. "We're the best.
The circumstances would have to be terrible
for us to be 'killed in action,' otherwise just
any old cock and bull story given for our
disappearance will undergo some serious
218
scrutiny logically followed up by plausible
deniability, most likely."
Tyrone nodded, chewing on the end of his
find from the field. "I concur," he said quietly.
Then he ambled over to the side of his
parked SUV and stopped. "Well shoot, I've
got just the thing."
"You do?" Seth inched closer, reluctantly.
Baruch kept at a distance with hands on
hips.
The African American touched the door
panel to his car and it opened instantly.
Now it was Seth's turn to share his partner's
incredulity.
"You know how easy that would be to
steal?"
Clearly he preferred the old-fashioned over
the high tech garbage they shoved down
consumers' throats. Seth was the kind of guy
that would keep a cell phone until it made its
last call. Or drive a car until it dropped.
Tyrone scrunched his eyebrows and
snorted. "People like you can never enjoy
the latest stuff 'cause you're always worried
it'll break, or it's not tamperproof enough.
This my friend," he patted the dashboard, "is
safe and secure." "Your plan?"
"Oh, we're back to that again?" Tyrone
joked.
219
"....Do you have one?"
"I have a contact," Tyrone said in between
keystrokes on his laptop. The screen
refreshed a couple of times before a login
window popped up. "No peeking," he
laughed, thinking back to their conversation
earlier on security. Baruch mockingly put a
hand over Seth's eyes. What he didn't count
on was getting his arm twisted.
"Every action has a reaction. The abridged
version of Newton's Third Law." Seth
flashed a rare smile while appearing to enjoy
watching Baruch's discomfort.
"You got a
mean grip there sir," Baruch gasped. He
continued to clutch his arm. Every now and
then he'd watch Tyrone on the computer
with little interest.
Tyrone drew out the syllables, "Alfonso
Marcelo," as he instant messaged somebody.
"What?"
"He's our boy in Barcelona," he explained.
"What good can he do us there when
we're sitting here in Moldova without a
plan?" Seth cried. He looked to Baruch, who
simply shrugged, conceding the point.
"Obviously we can't communicate across
open channels," Tyrone said, talking about
his contact in the background, "but from what
I've deciphered already, I'd say he's close to
something big. You see, I've been looking for
pieces to the puzzle for quite some time."
220
"Where is this going?" Baruch impatiently
interrupted.
Tyrone put his hand out and held a
finger up. "Do you trust me?"
After a little time Seth was the first to
nod. "So what's the picture you've
pieced together--so far?" "It goes
like this..."
But before he could finish he made an
excited noise. "He's online!"
Baruch
rolled his eyes and smirked. "Any of your
other buddies online?"
"You got a
Facebook?" Seth continued the line of
teasing.
Tyrone slowly looked away from his screen
and with exaggerated disgust said very
slowly, "Facebook's been dead for quite
some time, son. These days I'm on the
Campfire network."
Baruch held his chin up and imitated in a
goofy tone, "I'm on Campfire."
Tyrone didn't appreciate the mimicry. He let
the other man know that with a questioning
stare that guaranteed discomfort. Then his
eyes grew wide. "He just got done
interrogating two sources connected to what I
was going to tell you about!" he breathlessly
communicated after it had sunk in.
"Alfonso Marcello?"
"Mhm." Tyrone ignored any distractions for
the moment while he fast-typed his
responses back to his liaison in Barcelona.
221
The two Israelis patiently waited. Seth
pulled back on his shirt sleeve to check the
time.
"We don't have much time until it's the
second watch's turn," he whispered to an
attentive Baruch.
The man didn't flinch. "Yeah."
Seth thought about it for a moment then
took the plunge. "Tyrone?"
"Hm?" Obviously the man wasn't in the
mood for any more childish behavior or jokes.
"I'm not sure we can trust the rest of our
team." The words came out slow but sure.
Tyrone blinked. "What?"
"The second watch wakes up soon, too."
"Elaborate on what you just said," the
former Mossad man urged him.
Baruch
answered, "What Seth is saying is we
haven't worked with this group before."
"And there's no way of knowing where their
allegiance lies," Seth added.
Tyrone's eyes shifted back and forth as he
mulled the new information over. His answer
to the current dilemma suddenly appeared on
his screen.
"Gentleman?"
"Yes?” they both said in unison.
"You have been reassigned," he inserted a
dramatic pause, "to Germany!"
222
"What's there?" Baruch asked.
"Your next target."
Seth's eyes narrowed, his muscles
tightening. "Okay...?"
"You'll need my wheels for this first leg of
the journey. I'll get you up to speed on the
road," he explained.
Both men stood there for a moment unsure
of what to do.
Tyrone put his hand on the steering wheel
and said, "Your mission, should you choose
to accept it..."
Seth and Baruch recognized the catch
phrase and instantly smiled.
"...starts--now!"
Seth opened his mouth to say something
but Tyrone was already talking again. "And
no, this message will not self-destruct in ten
seconds." He laughed at his own comic relief
and added, "I want to live."
At this point the men had already piled into
the back of the SUV and told Tyrone to step
on it.
A couple miles later the vehicle crossed the
invisible boundary between Ukraine and
Moldova. Tyrone chose to stay off the roads,
avoiding any possible chokepoints altogether.
Border patrol would be much more relaxed
during the wee hours of morning anyways,
223
but it didn't hurt to be more cautious than not.
"So what happens when the next watch
wakes up and finds us missing?" Seth had to
ask the obvious.
Tyrone bucked and pitched in his seat from
all the bumps and jolts in the uneven terrain.
"Remember when I went into the house after
you?"
Seth nodded, remembering.
"I planted a little note in official Mossad
letterhead--with forged signatures of course."
"You sly devil!" Baruch erupted.
"Yeah, he's good," Seth murmured. He
shook his head a few times and secretly
chastised himself for not being more
observant. Another detail of Tyrone's life
trickled into his mind while he inflected. "You
don't like coffee anyways," he said sort of
half-way.
"What?" Tyrone yelled over the road noise.
In actuality his hearing was quite good--he
hadn't missed a syllable.
Seth locked eyes with Baruch and shared a
knowing look.
"I'll bet those weeds never knew what hit
'em though," Tyrone said rather abruptly
before the conversation turned elsewhere.
Only one man laughed in the vehicle at this.
And it didn't come from the back seat.
"So...Tyrone," Seth started.
224
"So...Seth?" he parroted back, keeping his
eyes on what was in front of him.
"You
were talking about this puzzle of yours you
said you had begun to figure out," he paused
to relive the memory, "before that buddy of
yours decided to chit-chat."
Tyrone
gripped the steering wheel at the one and
eleven positions. His muscles flexed as he
constantly wrestled against a vehicle that
desired to err to the left or right.
"Let's review," he said sternly. "There's
Scorpion, a new director, mysterious
spaceships floatin' around, and doomsday
draws near." He looked in his rearview mirror
and observed disconbobulation was in the
air. "Don't worry though. We'll have plenty of
time to unpack each and every one of those
items I just mentioned," he said with a
reassuring grin.
--
The Israeli prime minister dug into one of
his ears with a finger nail for the offending
wax that must've been the reason for him not
hearing the director of Sentinel right.
"The Bible?" the secular leader croaked.
225
Alfred's face burned with shame. Instant
regret struck him in the face like one of his
wife's backhands after he had done
something terribly foolish.
"You see sir, our president has been on this
Bible kick lately. Hell, he even said we need
to go to it during turbulent times such as this.
What could it mean?"
Prime Minister Tuvia Elkin didn't like where
the conversation was going at all. He and his
very leftward-leaning party held the majority
of seats in the Knesset. Their rule
represented what the godless Jewish culture
had become. The Bible to them was a
collection of useless tomes not relevant to
modern times and problems.
When there was deafening silence,
Demsky took the opportunity to ask a second
question. "Isn't there an antichrist figure in
that Bible of yours?"
This time Tuvia loudly scoffed. "My
Bible?" he blubbered. "Far from it!" He
needed another smoke right now. The
fragrant smell of the burning cigar reminded
him it was there for him. Right next to it a
shot glass of vodka begged his hand to
reach out and grab it.
Just when Alfred Demsky thought he had
reached a dead end, that's when he heard in
his ear, "The antichrist is real. We shall both
of us witness his rise to power in our
lifetimes. Sooner than you think," the eerie
voice tacked on.
The Sentinel director swung from
listlessness back to his stoic, confident self in
226
a heartbeat. "You mean a one world
government led by this," he searched for the
name, "antichrist, is not a figment of some
author's whack imagination?"
After some delay Tuvia said, "Alfred, I'm not
a devout Jew, by now you know this if you
didn't figure it out already." He took a draw
on his custom cigar and exhaled. "But," his
voice grew louder, "the Bible hasn't been
wrong when it comes to prophecy, to date."
Demsky was a man of science. The facts,
give me the facts, he would say.
"Give me an example Prime Minister, if you
would."
"But of course. Your first lesson in
eschatology: Israel's rebirth."
"I beg your pardon? Escha-what?"
"The study of end times, Director."
"Okay," Demsky said, now on the same
page, "I think we see eye to eye now."
"No other nation has been scattered
before, the diaspora, and then rejoined as a
whole. Thousands of years later, I might
add," Tuvia stated.
"You have a point," Demsky conceded.
"But what if it's just mere coincidence..." The
Sentinel director grew so bold so as to share
with the prime minister his hand in that one
comment. It was flush with doubt,
agnosticism, and cynicism.
227
"You're crazy," Tuvia lambasted him. "Look,
Director, I don't much care to engage in a
polemical diatribe on what I know to be true."
"You must understand where I'm coming from
though," Alfred argued. "President Toporvsky
is..." he chose his words carefully, "letting his
grip slip from control of the situation. I can't
keep shoveling crap when things go terribly
wrong. As it is, we're
already up to our eyeballs in the stuff."
The picture Demsky painted didn't sit well
with Israel's most powerful man. He grunted,
"I don't like the way you talk to me
sometimes, Alfred. You want me to enlist in
helping your cause? Listen to me. It's that
simple."
"You have my attention, sir."
"There's really nothing on the historical
timeline left over before antichrist asserts his
claim to rule, worldwide."
Alfred jumped at the first break in the man's
speech. "Where's this guy coming from?"
Tuvia Elkin took his time to set it up. "Most
Jews don't even believe in an afterlife, let
alone end time events spoken of in the book
of Revelation and elsewhere in the
Scriptures. There are those that consider
themselves 'reformed.'" He made sure to
punctuate his point with quotations marks
around reformed by the use of his middle and
index fingers bouncing up and down on both
hands.
228
Demsky most assuredly caught the prime
minister's disdain.
"I don't take sides," he said rather thickly
into the receiver. "I'm a pragmatist. I have a
Jefferson Bible of my own. I keep the parts I
like, and chuck the ones I don't."
“I see," Demsky said in a faraway voice. He
started to like Tuvia a little more the deeper
they got into conversation.
"North America. The revived Roman
empire. That's where he's coming from."
"Antichrist?" Demsky hastily replied, reeling a
bit from the rapidity of the new info.
"Who
else?"
The reality began to sink in. Demsky swore.
"I need your help."
"Anything for the Free Republic of North
America."
Hearing that name coming from Tuvia
sounded so strange.
Alfred stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Where does the Middle East fit in all of
this?" "It's at the center of it all."
"Thought so," he answered quickly. "What
we need to dissect is how Scorpion is
connected with the United Islamic Caliphate. I
229
guarantee you there's an evil marriage
between the two."
"Perhaps I can shed some light," Prime
Minister Elkin offered.
--
Tel Aviv, Israel
At least on the ground he had a sense
where he was going. Up in the air, not really.
The young passenger in the flying car looked
in vain out the window from time to time. He
saw a cluster of skyscrapers off in the
distance. He couldn't tell though if they were
headed for them or not.
Azriel looked at the beautiful girl that sat to
his right. He smiled. But inside he felt like a
hitchhiker at the mercy of the driver: grateful
for the ride, however uneasy at the same
time about the prospect of trusting a stranger
at his word (her word).
230
"How old are you Azriel?" Esther's mom
asked.
"13, ma'am."
She laughed and told him to call her Stacy.
"You're a little young to be going to high
school."
Esther cast a wistful glance at the Jewish
boy before answering her mom.
"He's smart. He could skip a few
grades and still be in good shape."
"My, my!" Stacy gasped. "Who are your
parents? If you don't mind me
asking."
"Seth and..." his voice trailed off, "Jessica
Markov."
His eyes remained on a fixed point on the
floor while he said this. Suddenly a warm
hand rested on his shoulder which caused
him to swivel. Her blue eyes stared into his
soul. Esther reached in and tugged on his
heart strings. The love in her beryl eyes
communicated to him everything would be
okay.
The hurt of uttering his mom's expired
name left him.
He shared her same smile and forgot for a
moment how much his personal space
bubble had been invaded.
231
Esther's mom kept a wary eye on the young
people in the back as she stayed vigilant at
the helm of the flying shuttle. Something in
the boy's reaction to asking about his parents
told her to not ask any more questions and
leave well enough alone.
Some time went by minus any additional
probing questions on her part. She began to
bank sharply to the right before speaking up,
"You said Park Tzamaret is where you live?"
"Yeah," Azriel mumbled.
Esther inconspicuously glimpsed where
they were. Her posture suddenly stiffened a
little. The trip was over.
They weren't at Park Tzamaret.
--
Barcelona, Spain
232
A rickety steel blade lazily rotated in the AC
wall unit. It functioned better as a noise
maker than an air conditioner. One lone light
chased out the darkness in the cramped
interrogation chamber.
A wood grain table took up the center of the
room. Behind it, two metal folding chairs
faced the only exit straight across the way.
That night two German BfV diplomats were
the distinguished guests of honor. Their
interrogator would walk into the room at any
moment.
When they were led into the chamber in the
first place, they had hoped the cuffs would
finally come off. They weren't going anywhere
after all--prisoners to their present
circumstances. No such luck however. The
man that disposed of them in the holding cell
thought it best to tie their hands behind their
backs. Strong tape kept their mouths sealed
shut, too. There would be no need for
chitchat: not until the interrogator asked his
questions, that is.
Amalia could only share her worried eyes
with her date sitting next to her, who
happened to mirror worry right back. How
sorry she was to make him endure the same
fate she did. She knew it wasn't her fault, that
it encompassed something bigger than the
both of them, but that didn't make her feel
any less responsible.
She wondered how Wendel must've felt. On
the surface he didn't appear to be an overly
233
emotional type of guy. Nor did he come
across as withdrawn, indifferent to the world
around him. In a word? Balanced.
Surprisingly intimate for a male, but at the
same time nowhere near emasculated.
A new noise filled the room causing the two
prisoners' heads to snap up. A dark,
poorlydressed individual with an
unimpressive stature and little bulk in the
areas where it counted cracked the door
open wide enough for only someone his size
to slink through.
He glanced in the
Germans' direction and noticed the wideeyed surprise in their eyes.
He got that a lot.
Agent Marcelo quickly discerned his new
surroundings to be a bit warmer than the last
time he had the pleasure. Off came his floral
button-down, leaving him with only a
sweatstained wife beater on--one size too
small at that.
Amalia caught herself in a deadpan stare at
the inked arms of whom she presumed to be
the interrogator. Something seemed to be
missing from his ensemble though and it
bothered her. She had seen torture scenes
from TV shows and usually the inquisitor
brought with him the tools of the trade to
extract answers from his subjects. This guy
looked out of his element. She knew not to
make snap judgments on individuals though.
Perhaps his appearance was by design she
234
reasoned...get the guard down and hit 'em
when they're most vulnerable.
Wendel sat there wringing his hands in
angst. His handcuffs were beginning to cut off
circulation to his wrists, too. He used that as
an excuse to convince himself he squeezed
his hands to get the blood flowing again and
not to mitigate the turmoil within.
His eyes
dwelled on the air bubbles in the painted
cinder block wall in front of him. Up until now,
dread had successfully penetrated his
permeable mind.
Wendel closed his eyes and silently
exhaled through his nose. All the fibers in his
being premeditatedly braced for the worst
that could happen to him in the hours to
come.
A fourth person had entered into the room
undetected. He positioned himself directly
behind the detainees' heads. Upon being
given the subtle signal from Alfonso, the man
with the invisibility cloak sprang into action.
Wendel and Amalia suddenly pitched forward
so hard that their foreheads smacked against
the table in front of them.
Alfonso didn't wait for them to recover
either. He motioned to his incognito helper to
continue his work.
Next, the victims were grabbed by their hair
and sharply jerked backwards to an upright
sitting position. Amalia yelped, but Wendel
barely grunted. By now both victims were
235
seeing through glassy red eyes at their
interrogator who seemed ready to ask his first
question.
At the last possible second Wendel
noticed a distortion in the space around his
mouth. He accurately guessed what would
come next. Whatever facial hair he might
have had got painfully plucked out by the
duck tape that slowly peeled away from his
face. The German grimaced.
Amalia received the same treatment after
her partner got his.
Alfonso smiled like a shark and said rather
snarkily, "Now tell me, what's the real reason
for your visit to lovely Barcelona? The lady
first."
"Uh―" her voice wavered. "―business..."
"What kind?"
Wendel shot her a cross look.
Alfonso didn't wait around before saying,
"Don't force my hand. I always get what I
want."
Amalia looked miserable already. How
much longer could she play the martyr for
Germany? For Scorpion?
When neither one volunteered an answer to
the current inquiry, Alfonso shook his head.
"Flagellation it is."
Amalia began to whimper a little.
236
"You have something to say?" the Mossad
agent extended a little grace.
In an instant the woman's fragile features
went from broken to tough as Teflon.
Alfonso recognized the stubborn streak and
reluctantly nodded to his assistant.
The
blows came hard and often with hardly any
time in between. The resolve the Germans
showed didn't surprise Alfonso in the least.
He had a whole show lined up for them--and
they were still in the opening credits.
--
237
238
Chapter 10
Ukraine
Tyrone's hulking black SUV with fake plates
came to a stop on the side of a rural highway.
Baruch demanded they pull over after four
hours of driving so he could take a leak. No
one else had to go but him.
The mile markers couldn't have gone by
fast enough for Seth on the twenty hour road
trip.
A light breeze trickled into the cabin from the
cracked windows. He glanced out the
passenger side window to check on Baruch's
progress. What he saw was a man rather
clumsily slide down the embankment and
nearly loose his footing at the bottom of the
stopgap latrine.
239
Baruch tossed out a few curse words as he
let the juices flow.
"Does he normally drink so much?"
Tyrone referred to the man taking a piss.
Seth, caught off-guard by the question
hemmed and hawed a bit. "I--I don't
remember him ever being a drinker, come to
think of it."
"Can we count on him to get it together
down the stretch?"
"Without a doubt. There's not a better man
to go with me on this mission than that guy
out there."
Seth grew thoughtful and wondered about
the veteran next to him. "You stay single all
these years?"
Tyrone had to think about it before
answering. Obviously he had a two-part
answer because of how he dawdled. "My
track record―almost perfect,” he said while
making a hand gesture. “I was on a streak
until....I fell hard," his voice grew faint.
"Ah!" Seth's eyes shone brighter. "I knew
you weren't cut out of that cloth."
Tyrone knew his friend to be talking about
singlehood by his reference. He balked
anyhow. "How you figure that?"
Seth glanced in the side mirror. Baruch had
nearly made it back to the vehicle already.
240
Light poured into the backseat. Highway
noise commingled with it until the Mossad
man put an end to the outside influences by
shutting the door behind himself.
"Ready to go?" he called from the rear.
"Next potty stop won't be for a while,"
Tyrone said turning around to address the
agent.
"Yeah, yeah."
"You don't like me, do ya, son." It was more
of a statement than a question.
"He's
like that with everybody," Seth explained.
"Baruch only knows how to get along when
lives are on the line. In every other situation
he's a complete douche." "Thanks
partner."
"I've got your back."
More sarcasm. "Yeah you do."
"Did you forget about my question?" Tyrone
reminded Seth.
"I won't answer until you get us back on the
road and are doing a hundred and fifty
kilometers per hour."
Tyrone activated auto pilot with adaptive
cruise control. Set and forget driving at its
best. He made a clicking noise with his
tongue. “Better?”
Seth made a face. "Suffering succotash,
I must give it to you straight." He slurred
his s's like a pro.
241
Baruch howled in laughter. "I've never
heard you do that before!"
"I bring out the best in him," an
equallymystified Tyrone muttered.
…
Two hundred miles later, after lengthy
conversation the three men confined
themselves to silence.
"We couldn't get anything faster than this?"
Seth complained with his face to the window.
"Hey, my pockets aren't as deep as
Mossad's. You're just gonna have to make
due."
"Who's our target?" Baruch asked.
"Thought you'd never ask," Tyrone smiled.
"I've got your mission packets in the center
console. You can read all about it."
Since Seth sat the closest to it he opened
up the compartment and found two tablets
waiting there for him. He tossed the one back
to his partner. Both men were grateful to lose
themselves in the digital world and for a
moment, get their restless minds off the
never-ending road that stretched on before
them.
"Sofia Keller? A woman?" Baruch said after
a little while.
242
"What's the matter? You have some kind of
code that doesn't permit you to target
members of the opposite sex?" Tyrone
teased.
"No," Baruch replied. "I was hoping for
somebody a little higher up in the German
hierarchy is all."
"That goes for me, too," Seth admitted,
feeling the same disappointment. "I had really
hoped to read Lothar Kirsch's name instead."
"Him?" Tyrone crinkled his nose at the
mention of the Fourth Reich's corrupt leader.
"He's on a short waiting list. He'll get what's
coming to him. Don't you worry." "He'll get
my bullet," Seth uttered through gritted teeth.
Baruch felt the same anger towards the
German leader as his partner did, yet he said
nothing of it.
"So who ordered the hit on Keller?" Seth
wanted to know.
Tyrone disengaged from the road and
turned in his seat to face Seth.
"Mossad, of course."
"C'mon. They're doing the job for someone
else. I'm not gonna ask again."
"Well shoot junior, you're not half bad.
You're right. The local government
Berlin set up to oversee Spain has fallen in
on hard times."
243
"Meaning?" Baruch pressed.
"Sofia Keller has led a witch hunt against
Governor Castell and his administration."
"This Castell guy," Baruch began, "he
somehow connected to Mossad?"
Tyrone nodded. He was pleased by the
man's deduction. "Bingo. He's very pro-Israel,
hates those nazi bastards...blah, blah, blah."
"Sounds like a guy I could like," Seth
remarked, thinking of his own hatred towards
the Germans.
Tyrone looked at Seth and saw a man
roiling like a kettle over raked coals. He knew
Seth Markov's heritage, knew how
passionate he was about protecting the
homeland. Which was precisely why he
recruited him into Mossad without hesitation
more than a decade ago.
Tyrone felt the need for a subject change.
There would be plenty of time to revisit the
Germany topic and their reason for being
there. Later.
"You have a son, right?" he casually asked.
Seth's eyes moistened a touch. Jessica and
Azriel were the only two people in the world
capable of making him feel emotions.
"Yeah," he responded.
"When was the last time you--"
244
Seth cut him off: he knew the question. The
answer didn't come easy, nevertheless. "Five
years."
Tyrone let out a low whistle.
Baruch decided to participate in the
conversation and join with the question,
"How old is he now do you think?"
"He's a full-fledged Markov man by now.
Eighteen, I reckon," Seth reflected.
"Damn," Tyrone said. He didn't know what
else to say. He never got to experience the joy
of having a kid. As he sat there and watched
the broken yellow lines on the road go by in a
blur, all he could do was imagine the pain that
must have been there for Seth having missed
most of his son's teenage years.
--
Tel Aviv, Israel
245
The flying car came to the bottom of the
wave of gravity it rode on, coming to rest on a
helipad high up on top of a modern tower.
Azriel was no fool. They hadn't dropped him
off at his apartment.
He squinted. "Where are we going guys?"
Esther reached for his arm, but Azriel
shrugged her off. The young Jewish boy
recoiled for once from the girl who had
previously held him captive under her spell.
"What's wrong?" Esther said in a concerned
sort of way.
Azriel balked. "Like you don't know?!"
Stacy had already gotten out from the
driver's seat and stealthily moved towards the
side hatch closest to where Azriel sat. Esther
had bought her just enough time so she could
be in position to block any way of escape.
Not like the boy had anywhere to go
anyways.
She flung the door open expertly. All her
motions were fluid and precise with little
energy wasted on needless movements.
Stacy had no intention of knocking Azriel out
cold for the moment. She needed his mind to
be the farthest thing from groggy in order to
perform the operation on him that would
change his stars forever.
246
From her pocket she took out a mysterious
cylindrical object and brandished it. It emitted
a pulse invisible to the human eye. But its
effect was certainly visible.
All of Azriel's muscles went into lockdown.
He was as good as a paralytic. Esther moved
forward just in time as the youth collapsed
into her outstretched arms.
His skin turned a few shades pinker. The
hair on the back of his neck stood up.
"What'd you do to me!" he cried.
"Relax and don't struggle, you'll only hurt
yourself," Stacy informed him.
"But why? What's this all about?"
"You must come with us, Azriel. You'll see."
Esther smiled sympathetically at the
incapacitated boy she held on to.
The winds gusted at their height, high
above Tel Aviv.
Stacy helped her daughter with the limp
body of Azriel's. They struggled for a little
ways until they came to a shaft on the east
side of the building just before the parapet.
Esther raised her palm near the door; it
recognized her immediately. An implant in
her arm provided her the security clearance
she needed. The elevator waited to receive
them.
The group of three laboriously entered the
box in due time.
247
Stacy reached forward and mashed a
button to go down.
A noise of the break disengaging gave the
passengers just enough warning before the
little elevator raced for the floor it was called
to. Azriel's eyes rolled to the back of his skull.
It appeared as if he stared at Esther who
propped his head up with her knees. She
didn't seem to pay any attention. Right
then Stacy got a tone on her headset buried
deep in her ear canal. She swiped at her
smart watch to accept the call.
"Hi hon....I'm with the boy and
Esther....Wait where?....They're not ready
yet?"
Esther shot a questioning stare at the last
thing her step-mom had said.
Stacy waited a bit before eventually saying,
"We're gonna make a beautiful family."
--
Barcelona, Spain
248
The room began to spin. Wendel reeled
from the many blows. His body had never
undergone such a beating before. He hadn't
even gotten in a fight as a lad in his early
years let alone torture.
Sweat dripped off his eyelids and stung his
eyes.
Alfonso had by now turned his chair around
and sat backwards on it. His torso leaned
against the chair back, enough to tip it
forward until his forward progress was halted
by the edge of the table.
He leaned in uncomfortably close to the
detainees, his elbows steadying himself on
the flat surface. In a lightning-fast maneuver,
his hand clapped down against the tabletop
like a fly swatter.
This startled Amalia more than Wendel.
He decided to throw the trick question out
there: "Who do you work for?" Alfonso looked
to the male to say something this time.
"The German government--even you must
know that," Wendel said with disgust.
"I
don't like your tone," the interrogator shot
back. He then shifted the bullseye back to
Wendel and motioned for his cohort to go
through with the retaliatory strike.
Alfonso's eyes traced the path of the blunt
object that appeared to lift itself off the
ground. It traveled in an elongated arc with
249
the bottom of its trajectory being Wendel's
head.
At the very last possible second Agent
Marcello held out a hand to stay the
impending blow that would've knocked the
German into the following week. The weapon
that would have connected with Wendel's
head clanked to the floor right next to where
he sat.
Alfonso watched the German jerk his head
at the sound of the noise. "That could have
gone a lot worse for you." He rested both
forearms on the table and cupped his hands.
"Now I'm gonna ask you again, who do you
work for?"
Amalia grew extremely flustered and threw
her hands up. "We've already told you," she
whined.
"Pity."
"No! Wait!" she appeared to have turned a
corner.
Alfonso's bushy eyebrows were hiked with
anticipation. Would the woman make his job
a little easier right here, right now?
To his disappointment what he saw was a
woman harden once again with increased
impudence than before. Amalia bore the
distinct resemblance of Pharaoh saying no to
Moses.
She then lowered her head and narrowed
her eyes. "Go to hell," she uttered.
Alfonso could feel the heat in his bones
from the hatred in her speech.
250
"Well," he began, "I was hoping you'd spare
me the pain from going forward. But all this
unnecessary pretext must be punished until I
hear what you won't tell me." When neither
one of them braved an answer, Alfonso
sighed. "As you wish."
--
The Ozarks
Damion's eyelids were heavy with sleep. It
had been forty-eight hours since he last
resigned himself to a bed. Why? There were
simply just too many things that troubled his
mind.
Many projects at Westover Ventures got
Damion's signature from a notorist, but not
his due-diligence review. One such project as
a matter of fact happened to escape the
251
company think tank and be free—ultimately
getting a new lease on life in the mission
bays of Scorpion’s shuttles of great
deception which lurked around in low-earth
orbit.
Call it a premonition or a pure gut
feel….Damion began to ponder Project
Canvas. He didn’t possess intimate
knowledge of the program’s innerworkings,
but he knew what mattered. If used by the
wrong people, on a large scale?
Psychological warfare of the holographic
nature which could lead to a great deception
never before seen since the days of Adam
and Eve back in the garden.
“I’ve gotta get outta here and warn them,”
he blurted while suddenly feeling out of
breath by the startling new reality.
Christophe shifted on his cot to better
position himself for conversation.
“Say what?”
“They took you and me because we’re the
only ones dangerous enough to wreck their
plans.”
“Which are?” Christophe struggled to
follow.
“Isn’t it always an issue of world
domination with people like whom were
dealing with?”
“Well no,” Christophe
begged to differ. “It’s more spiritual than that,
really.” Damion looked panicked. “Don’t go
252
there with me again. We won’t revisit that
topic.” “Why is it you’d rather not talk
about anything in the spiritual realm, yet
you’re more than comfortable slipping into
bed with a woman you don’t even know the
name of?”
Damion’s face contorted. “I fail
to see the correlation.”
“Right, because you only see what you
want to see. You don’t need to tell me that.”
“Can we get serious here?” Damion glared at
Gerard. “Scorpion plans to use the military
grade holo-emitters and retrofit them to work
with a littleknown spacecraft.”
“How in God’s name would you know
that?” the scientist gasped. He wondered if
the sleeplessness hadn’t finally worked a
number on his business partner. How else
could he have yielded such a fantastical
revelation?
“Remember that break-in at my house?”
Christophe searched his memory and said, “I
vaguely remember.” His brain continued to
sift through layers of dormant files. “Oh!
Right.”
“It’s coming back?”
“Iris the virtual thief. She started you on
your journey for answers.”
Damion swung his legs over the side of his
bed now. It excited him that they were both
on the same page now.
“That day I called you with the news and
told you to come over?”
253
“Yeah?”
“What I didn’t tell you was the directory
for Project Canvas also had been
accessed…in addition to my Mark I test
vehicle.” Damion looked at Christophe to
see if the old man would fill in the blanks on
his logic.
And he did.
“So they were really after your hologram
technology…delving into your little pet project
was by way more of a distraction than
anything else.”
Damion gave a single clap and pointed at
Christophe, “Sharp as a tack! I am never
disappointed by you my friend. What else do
you think you can tell me on Scorpion’s end
game plans?”
“Why ask me when you already know?”
“Do I?” he facetiously put in.
“Do you?” Christophe fired back.
Damion rolled his eyes. “Did I complement
you too soon, Gerard? You really can’t finish
this or you need me to….”
“There’s a Jeddah connection,” the
scientist began to say, causing his friend to
start. “Wait your turn monsieur, I have more
to say,” he flagged Damion down.
The
billionaire merely folded his arms across his
chest and patiently listened.
“They
haven’t integrated your invention to their
armada of spaceships quit yet because they
have to use Jeddah’s spaceport.”
254
“Because FRN would otherwise be alerted
to a launch from the War Room’s space pad
off the coast of S6.”
Now it was Christophe’s turn to lavish
praise for Damion’s strategic mind. “Yes, that
is precisely the reason. And what’s more,
Howard has all but made the world his
footstool with the world rulers bowing down to
him. King Kahlil of the UIC has fallen in line
with the Great Deception without a doubt…
one of the last dominoes to tumble before we
see the long awaited New World Order
brought to bear.”
One could hear a pin drop in the room
after Christophe said his piece.
“Is
this thing too far along from being stopped
do you think?” Damion asked.
Christophe nodded his head. “From one
professional to another, I think we’re out of
time.”
Damion was a little surprised by his friend
so quickly dismissing any possibility of
flipping the situation around.
“You never used to give up so easily.” He
hung his head and contemplated the floor
while he said it.
Christophe made a face. “I haven’t rolled
over and played dead yet. I just stated my
opinion on how good our chances are.”
Before Damion could open up his mouth to
speak, Christophe further added, “You’d
better hope those Viper agents just got lost.”
Damion waved him off, “Nah, they ain’t
comin’. There is an outside chance though
255
that Israel’s intelligence might piece the
puzzle together quick enough…and maybe
attempt a rescue,” he twirled his wrist, “…you
get the picture.”
“What do we do in the meantime?”
Christophe wondered.
“Be proactive. Talk with Heather. Tell her
all we know. Maybe she knows something we
don’t that can be helpful to us.”
“I like your thinking.”
“I’m sure you would do the same,” Damion
complimented the French man.
Christophe only smiled. In an anticlimactic
way, he gave the suggestion they both find a
little sleep. To his surprise, Damion actually
agreed to it.
--
256
Chapter 11
After Alfred Demsky was through talking to
Israeli Prime Minister Tuvia Elkin, he
immediately dialed another number.
The
unsettling afterthoughts of what Israel’s
leader had told him regarding antichrist vexed
Alfred.
Howard, that bastard! he thought.
While he waited to be connected with
Peretz Scheffer, acting director of Mossad,
he once again felt his human frailty. His
stomach churned and gurgled. The antacid
meds remained open on his desk. Demsky
quickly popped another into his mouth and
dry swallowed. It didn’t go down as easily as
he would have liked, causing him to wince.
Suddenly a new voice filled his office.
“My deepest apologies, Peretz Scheffer is
currently away from his post on assignment.
257
Would you like to speak to the department
head of the Kidon branch?”
Demsky’s stomach dropped. Kidon?
(Mossad’s tip of the spear.) In his mind, if he
couldn’t get the director, the head of Kidon
would more than suffice.
“Mr. Demsky?”
He finally answered, apologizing first.
“Yeah, sorry--that would be excellent.
Put him on, if you would.”
“Please hold.”
A little while later a man’s voice with a
heavy Hebrew accent answered, “Malach
Kemper, Kidon division. What can I do for
you today Mr. Demsky?”
“A lot, hopefully,” Alfred quickly replied,
feeling grateful to be talking with someone
powerful in the Mossad hierarchy.
The man whom identified himself as
Kemper went out on a limb with his best
guess on the reason for the phone call.
“Maybe a little agency collaboration on a
priority target perhaps?”
“We’ll get to that,” he said thinking of
Howard with his last words. “But first I would
like to dialogue with you on your friendly
Middle-Eastern neighbors.”
“Oh? The Saudis? Jordanians....Iranians?”
258
“Why do you still refer to them by their
previous nationalities and not the United
Islamic Caliphate?”
Demsky could almost hear the man smile
over the phone at this.
“You see Alfred, they are not united under
King Kahlil. Until their Promised One Imam al
Mahdi comes riding in on his white stallion,
those blood-thirsty Arabs will not cooperate
with each other. Their interests are too
divided currently. They need a leader like
none other who can bind them together into a
single people group with one purpose in
mind.”
Alfred fiddled with a lever on his chair which
enabled it to recline. Once his seat went back
his gaze naturally wandered to the black
ceiling up above.
“Which is partly what I wanted to talk with
you about.”
“You have my attention.”
“From my last conversation I had with
Prime Minister Elkin he took me down a trail
of interesting possibilities.”
“Go on,” the monotone voice on the
other end encouraged him.
“What I
am about to share with you is very
sensitive information. Are you absolutely
positive this line is secure?”
“God
won’t even hear what we say.”
Alfred
liked his answer. “Our security forces
259
recently clashed with Scorpion and
unknown bogies over Sector Six at the
Westover Ventures Complex.” Malach
Kemper’s breathing grew a little quicker.
“What happened there?”
“Operation Switchblade: an asset
recovery mission at zero hour. Damion
Westover had a contract with our
government on some breakthrough weapon
designs.” “You mind elaborating on the
scale of this operation?”
When there was pause in Alfred’s reply,
Malach quickly explained, “I’m trying to
ascertain why you had to go in there as
opposed to the weapon blueprints being
delivered to you per your contractual
agreement with Westover Ventures.”
Alfred nodded with understanding and
answered, “The venture’s business partners,
Damion Westover and his chief scientist
Christophe Gerard have gone MIA. Sentinel
used landsat to track their whereabouts to a
top-secret Scorpion black site in the Ozarks.
We believe Scorpion to be holding them there
against their own will for a whole litany of
reasons—which is partly why I’m contacting
you.”
Malach Kemper spread his hands out
across his glass workstation. In response a
virtual keyboard mapped out for him. His wiry
fingers rapidly typed a message into a search
field. He quickly made up his mind he wanted
260
the results to materialize on the heads up
display nearby.
“Mr. Demsky,” Malach resumed the
conversation as he took in the data at the
same time, “I have in front of me a transcript
from an Intel dump which I think dovetails
nicely with the subject we’re on.”
“Okay?”
“Four days ago one of our agents
stationed in Barcelona interrogated two
midlevel German diplomats who were in town
with Germany’s Interior Minister Sofia Keller
and the rest of her entourage.” “Uh-huh…”
“The significance of that being these
Germans tipped us off to some plans the
Fourth Reich and Scorpion have in the works.
But it’s really much bigger than those two
players. As powerful as they (Scorpion and
Germany) may be, they don’t hold ALL the
cards. We’re talking worldwide implications.”
Alfred was beyond intrigued now. His mind
worked fast to recall previous conversations
with various people to frame his next
question. Alfred had Israel’s president to
thank for getting himself at least on the right
footing. If only Malach Kemper could give him
further direction and increased insight into the
enemy’s plans…then Alfred would be a hero
to the FRN, but more importantly an
indispensable member on Alexander’s
National Security Council.
261
In a word? Job security. That’s what this
was about.
“Malach, correct me if I’m wrong; I assume
you have ongoing ops within the UIC?
Yes?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
This didn’t surprise Alfred. He grew even
bolder. “Is there anything in your reports that
would indicate a Scorpion connection with
King Kahlil himself?”
The silence was
deafening.
Thanks for confirming what I’ve known all
along, bitch, Demsky triumphantly thought.
Kemper came back with a copout.
“Implicating the king to underworld scum
(Scorpion) is beyond insane. It’s entirely out
of the question.”
Kidon’s director seemed unusually
adamant in denying any Scorpion/UIC
association Demsky noted. He would
continue to exploit this weakness then and
see what nuggets he could bag by the end of
the transaction.
--
262
Tel Aviv, Israel
The elevator doors to the lobby on the
thirty-ninth floor opened with the same sense
of urgency as the passengers that once
occupied it. The trio from the roof made haste
through the labyrinth of sterile passageways
to the other end of the floor.
Along the way Stacy used sign language to
communicate to Esther she was free to go.
To where? A sector in the tower where young
cadets trained in, ran missions from—the
whole gamut.
Esther simply split from her step-mom who
still had Azriel in tow. She hung a few hairpin
turns then simply vanished off into a land
very few knew existed.
Meanwhile Stacy faced what would come,
alone…with the boy. Her choice. For paternal
reasons she wanted to do some hand-holding
with Azriel while the boy’s mind and
consequently his destiny would be altered by
modern science.
“You’re gonna do just fine, son,” she said
in a soothing manner as they approached an
operating room. She also had an implant in
her wrist that radiated a signal the door
recognized. It compliantly swung open for her
263
before she was even ten feet from crossing
its threshold.
A gigantic white machine Azriel had never
seen the likes of before unhinged its jaw like
a snake, ready to swallow his limp body…
whole.
Throughout the whole experience he began
to rapidly lose cognitive ability to decipher
what exactly was happening to himself. The
room began to spin a little. Stacy’s face
which hovered only a few feet away he
guessed now came in strangely distorted.
Things began to dim, even before the woman
entered in her premeditated commands into
the console.
Azriel continued to watch her until he felt he
could no longer win the tug of war battle
against unconsciousness. In his hazy last
seconds before the lights went out he noticed
her staring out at him with an unreadable
expression etched into her features.
All
this time words had evaded him. For
whenever he attempted to ask her a question
his tongue refused to comply. Instead it
chose to stay plastered to the roof of his
mouth, unwilling to loosen itself so as to allow
speech.
His struggle against the impending
darkness that closed in from his peripherals
soon came to a close after Stacy decisively
pressed the button to start the procedure.
264
The doors to the contraption shut with a
finality after Stacy initiated the operation.
Up on a monitor a live feed of Azriel’s
spiking brain activity revealed to the
inquisitive woman just how exactly a
cerebrum memory transfiguration affected a
thirteen-year-old’s gray matter. Stacy’s
narrowed brown eyes remained fixated on
the images until a familiar ringtone in her ear
effectively broke her stare.
She blinked and mumbled something. A
peek at her smartwatch which had the caller
ID confirmed her hunch.
Stacy immediately threw her weight down
onto a swivel stool equipped with wheels.
Next she leaned in slightly while
simultaneously using her powerful legs to
careen her mobile seat over to where a
stack of monitors cast their blue glow.
“How’s he doing so far?” the same
concerned male voice she had spoken to
earlier on the rooftop intoned in her right ear.
“If you are so concerned, then why aren’t
you here with me now?” she asked the
obvious.
He clarified, “You know why that can’t
happen. I just got my ticket punched as the
new acting head of Kidon. There is an
unimaginably long list of responsibilities I
must see to. Otherwise everything I’ve
worked so hard to do up until this point will be
for naught.”
Stacy pondered the man’s explicit message
while she stared at sets of data on Azriel’s
progress. What she saw caused her to forget
265
about her otherwise standard rejoinder to the
man’s excuse for not being present.
“This
really is gonna work I think,” the words
tumbled off her plump lips.
“The operation?”
“Yeah…”
“What would make you ever doubt it
wouldn’t? Azriel isn’t the first person it’s ever
been done to you know.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! Relax. I wouldn’t do experimental
brain surgery on our son unless it had a
proven track record. And to my knowledge,”
his voice grew more distant as he read
something, “ninety-nine percent of patients
that had this procedure went back to their
everyday lives like nothing ever happened.”
“How long is the turnaround?” Stacy
wondered aloud.
“If everything synchronizes correctly
according to the pre-programmed
parameters? Two weeks.”
His answer shocked Stacy. She marveled
at the progress the medical community had
made in Israel. The fact that someone with
the proper equipment and protocols could
change the course of a life in under two
weeks overwhelmed the woman.
266
Seeing is believing though. Until Azriel
walked out of the clinic a whole person and
called her mom she’d hold on to her inborn
skepticism.
--
267
268
Chapter 12
Somewhere near the
northeastern German border…
The day -long road trip neared the finish
line with its crosshairs set on Berlin. The trio
of rough and ready individuals had only made
two stops the entire journey. Towards the end
Baruch began to whine of his rear aching.
When Seth threatened something else would
be hurting suddenly the man with a sore
bottom dropped all complaints.
In Poland it was agreed upon to further
discuss mission details. Tyrone would do his
best to answer questions or otherwise appear
to know what he was talking about.
269
There were no other patrons seated out on
the patio except for the three Mossad men,
alone with their devious plans. They had
grabbed a table in the back, as far away from
people as possible. The shade of the
courtyard and the umbrella nearby further
obscured them from view.
Tyrone spoke in a low, even voice. “Like I
told you before, we’re gonna make this look
to be an accident.”
“I still don’t see how,” Seth shook his head.
“Easy,” he replied. “First, we arrive into
town undetected, masquerading as local
vigilantes from one of the rebel cells in
Spain.”
Baruch reflected, “You said our target Sofia
Keller is stalking the interim governor there in
Barcelona, right?” He frowned like he had
more to say but didn’t know how to say it.
“What’s his name again?”
“Carlos Castell, that’s your guy in
Barcelona,” Tyrone helped him. “Did you
have more to say?”
Baruch appeared to be thinking.
“How long do we have to wait until you
have your ah-hah moment?” Seth teased his
partner.
Baruch ignored the remark. “If we take out
the interior minister, but fail to escape, we go
down in a shootout with the authorities.”
Seth had been listening to Baruch while
simultaneously tracking a waitress make her
way to their table. She appeared extremely
270
apologetic for not having seen them come in
earlier.
Tyrone saw her too around the same time
Seth did. Before the woman even came close
to where the men were talking he said in an
aside sort of way, “Yo misses, three ales for
me and my colleagues. Keep the change.”
Tyrone winked at her while placing a green
bill in her hands and folding her fingers over
the money.
She went away without a word to get the
drinks.
Seth took notice of how well Tyrone
handled the exchange. His mind however
returned to what was being said before the
little interlude. He had a question. “Is this
your plan or rather how things might turn out
after we terminate the target?”
Baruch
looked disappointed in Seth. His eyes
surveyed the table where they sat at: the
condiments, menus, salt and pepper shakers
were all in the usual spots one would expect.
He quickly made his mind up to use what was
available to aid in communicating their
playbook options.
“See these sugar packets?” he tossed
three into view in front of Seth’s spot.
“They’re the o’s. You with me so far?”
Seth secretly admired the man’s clever use
of what was on hand. He also nodded so that
his friend could continue his undoubtedly
lengthy explanation and plan.
271
“Before I go on, do you have any input on
these matters?” Baruch popcorned the
discussion Tyrone’s way.
Tyrone hadn’t been paying super close
attention since the drinks had just arrived. He
kindly accepted them from the lady with a
tray. Tyrone duly thanked her then returned
his gaze back to Baruch. “Take it away,
agent.”
“As I was saying before….” he held
outstretched arms directed at the sugar
packets.
“Next, you’ve got to deal with the x’s. We
know Sofia Keller is one of ‘em. Count on
there being collateral damage, too.” For the
x’s he threw down little ketchup packet(s).
Tyrone’s eyebrows went up at the number of
packets Baruch laid out. “Expecting a lot of
deaths or something?” he facetiously
interjected.
Baruch shrugged. “In my line of work,
things can get hairy pretty quick.”
To this Seth vigorously bobbed his head up
and down in agreement.
“You forget, I was in the field too, you
know,” a completely serious Tyrone
reminded the other men.
Both active duty Mossad agents exchanged
knowing looks of amusement hidden
underneath an inconspicuous, well-worn
272
expression that wouldn’t be misinterpreted to
mean anything else.
“Let’s get this game plan back on track
though, no more interruptions,” Tyrone
apologized. “That goes for myself as well,”
he added with a stone cold face.
Baruch’s
eyes smiled at the invitation to proceed with
the dialogue. “So after the fact-when they
bring in the black bags, tape, the police have
finished dusting the scene--the official story
that breaks across German airwaves will go
something like this: Spanish
Terrorists Assassinate Keller, Lose Their
Own Lives in Firefight with Police.”
“Beautiful,” Tyrone said. He bestowed as
little credit as possible because he knew
hatching a grand scheme plan was child’s
play for the two professionals he would spot
for in Berlin.
Seth felt the need to contribute by this
point. He had patiently waited for a good time
to jump in.
“Mossad will of course know Baruch and I
were the agents on the hit squad.
Furthermore, they will believe the part of the
official story that confirms our recorded time
of death.”
“Or so we hope,” Tyrone said using his
gravelly voice. “Otherwise…we’s gots a
youknow-what storm headed our way.”
“That’s out of the question,” Seth firmly
corrected him.
273
Tyrone shrugged. “For both of your sakes,
I hope your right.”
“Hey, you’re a big part of this too,” Baruch
said rather testily. “They’ll come after you as
sure as the sun rises in the East and sets in
the West.”
Tyrone merely tipped his head back to
finish off the dregs in his cup. His hand
which previously clutched the stein’s handle
brought the glass down against the table
with an abruptness that rattled everything to
the core, nearly spilling the other men’s
drinks over.
Tyrone didn’t apologize for his last
actions either; instead, he picked his
empty beer stein up and raised it high. “To
our success!” he toasted.
The others
reciprocated the action yet murmured the
same message less enthusiastically.
--
Barcelona, Spain
274
Moisture mixed in with blood, sweat and
tears to form the German scent of attrition.
Cell 3a was rife with the smell.
Wendel and Amalia would break in a matter
of time. Days, hours…even minutes. Their
fortitude seemed better than the interrogation
techniques used thus far. But things were far
from over.
The endurance of the two detainees put
Alfonso in a rare mood. He did his best not to
show it. There were times he’d feel the
phone in his pocket. He knew all he’d have to
do is give the walkie button on it three clicks.
Help would be on the way. Aflonso and
whomever came calling in response to his
signal could tag-team the Germans all day.
However, again, the garbage circumstances
that had precipitated the cloudy atmosphere
were too far along for a storm not to break
out at any given moment. One more nettling
comment or lack thereof following a question
that needed a truthful answer and that’s all it
would take to negatively charge the ions and
bring on the lightning.
It’s so good we’re in an intimate, high
containment cell. If I snap, it’ll be an easier
mess to clean up, Alfonso demurred.
275
Suddenly his pocket vibrated. New
information hopefully. Maybe even a little
leverage to make Wendel and Amalia sing.
Two thumbnail portrait shots lit up the central
screen on the device when Alfonso took a
time-out to respond to the interruption. The
first image had the caption, “Amalia’s best
friend, Edda Hartmann.”
Alfonso stayed disciplined long enough for
his mind to take a quick snapshot of the
ravishing woman staring back at him from the
screen. Her brilliant coffee-colored eyes were
the focal point of a sculpted face with
sweeping cheekbones, a nubby point for a
chin, and an elongated crown topped by a
stylish blonde updo.
The other image had much worse
resolution than the first, yet it was
unmistakably a male, forties. Fritz Ritter,
Wendel’s poker friend, the caption read.
Fritz looked tired in the photo. His features
weren’t anything that’d make him stick out in
a crowd, but rather quite the opposite. His
mousse-colored hair fell across his brow in a
layered crop cut.
“You know what I have here?” Alfonso
spoke with his head bowed and the phone
now resting on the table within arm’s length
from where he sat.
The Germans waited with bated breath.
“Let me show you,” he said turning the
phone around, waking it from its screensaver.
276
The first photo to appear in the slideshow
was Amalia’s friend, Edda.
Instant recognition glinted in her eyes.
Amalia’s free legs started to thrash.
“No, no! You can’t harm her!”
“That would be your choice, now wouldn’t
it?” Alfonso eyed her coldly.
The German woman avoided all eye
contact at these words. She uttered curses
under her breath in her native tongue.
Wendel tried to console her. However it had
no effect on the woman in distress.
Alfonso turned his gaze to Wendel. “I have a
picture for you too! I didn’t want you to feel
left out, you see.”
Wendel didn’t want to look at the screen,
yet he somehow forced himself to look
downward. Anger seized him.
He swore out of desperation. “If we answer
one of your damn questions, then what?”
Alfonso grew slightly hopeful. He carefully
checked his expectations though with the
Germans’ track record from the last two
hours of interrogation. He’d give them both
failing grades for cooperation thus far. But
perhaps now he finally had them in his
corner.
277
Their heart rate is up significantly. Both the
man and woman, a calm voice watching the
Germans’ vitals said from deep within Agent
Marcello’s ear canal.
He interpreted the message in one way:
now was as good a time as there would ever
be to get somewhere.
“If you make a call for me to whomever it is
you liaise with from Scorpion, then we can
talk about your freedom.”
“What about Edda?” an ornery Amalia
demanded rather sternly.
Alfonso smiled at her spunk. “I don’t think
you have position to talk with me that way
missy.”
Suddenly there was a hasty exchange of
whispers between Wendel and Amalia.
Alfonso looked from his left to right. “Well?
What have you decided it’ll be?”
Wendel took it upon himself to be the
spokesman. “We will make this call.
But after we’re cleaned up and offered a
meal.”
The answer wasn’t entirely remarkable.
Alfonso contained his excitement over the
progress. His face hadn’t changed for the last
five minutes. “I suppose that could be
arranged.”
“What happens now?” Amalia asked.
278
“I get the communications gear ready, eat
my meal, and then maybe let the cook know
to save a couple of plates for you guys,” he
said turning to leave. When he got a foot
away from exiting, the door opened outward
for him. “Sit tight, kids,” he said through an
ear-to-ear grin.
--
279
280
Chapter 13
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Jabour had signed, sealed, and delivered.
Securing the spaceport in the capitol of the
UIC would be instrumental to the Mahdi’s
plans. In anticipation of King Kahlil’s yes,
Howard’s fleet of spaceships eagerly waited
in spacedock for their upgrade and
ordinance.
Unless the FRN or the Israelis freed
Damion and Christophe from the Ozarks, the
only hope for the world would die in a
Scorpion maximum security facility deep
underground.
281
The stars were aligning just so for Howard
to take his seat of power over his world-wide
kingdom. No mere mortals could possibly
stand in his way of his lifelong plans for a
new world order.
Maxwell, also known as Jabour in the
Middle East, had run his campaign
beautifully. He thoroughly convinced the
clerics and even the king himself the Mahdi
was coming….A half-truth. Nevertheless, a
demigod like the Mahdi would indeed
establish his rule in New Babylon—Sector
Three (D.C.).
…
The celebratory dinner came and went.
The lamb, rice pilaf, roasted red pepper
humus with a basket of piping hot pitas, and
garden-fresh salads…all gradually passed.
Jabour dabbed the corners of his mouth
with the cloth napkin from his place setting.
Several strokes later he dropped the used-up
napkin over his plate. He looked to each of
the leading clerics and addressed them by
their first names, one at a time.
“….Thank you so much for accompanying
me on my palace run,” he smiled broadly.
“As a token of my appreciation, I will mention
your names to the Mahdi. He will reward you
282
for your devotion and faith to the cause.”
This elicited an overflow of obligatory
thankyou’s from each of the religious leaders.
Shortly afterwards they watched with
unhinged jaws as Jabour abruptly got up
without another word and disappear into the
throngs of hungry patrons still waiting to be
seated.
That would be their last time they ever saw
him.
--
Epilogue
283
A hastily crafted plan didn’t necessarily
mean swift success. Failure could come even
quicker. Time was one thing the agents in
this mission didn’t have much of.
The parking garage the Interior Minister of
Germany’s motor pool used would be where
the hit occurred. Baruch volunteered to be
the driver of Sofia’s heavily armored
limousine. Seth would be the one to pull the
trigger and start the series of events. Baruch
would then punch it when the bullets started
zinging.
The interior minister would predictably try to
get the driver’s attention to give him
instruction where to go. Once the partition
separating the front of the limo from the
passenger area went down, that’s when
Sofia would realize she had been done in.
And Tyrone? He would be quarterbacking the
efforts from his mobile office—the SUV. Not
only would he pay attention to the police
frequencies, but also every applicable CCTV
camera over the major intersections along
the decided route Baruch would take with
Sofia’s limo.
--
284
Twenty-four hours whizzed by. Same
room…inside the belly of the white whale.
Three high-pitch whistles in a period of a
minute sounded. A weird substance waiting
in tubes on the side of the big white machine
suddenly began to be sucked up like a straw.
Green gas slowly vented into the chamber
where Azriel lay dormant.
The monitor that recorded in real-time the
thirteen-year-old’s vital signs started acting
up. The boy’s heart rate climbed back up
towards normal. The green line on the EEG
machine squiggled up and down like a
seismogram graph recording an underground
tremor.
Stacy had almost fallen asleep in an
armchair ten feet across from Azriel. The
once-tranquil environment suddenly filled with
unfamiliar noises caused her eyelids to
flutter, her head to stir.
“Huh, wha—” she softly murmured,
beginning to rise from her place of slumber.
Once her vision adjusted to the dark room
her focus shifted to a screen which displayed
the operation’s progress. It literally just
moved from ninety-nine percent to done
when her stare found it.
Stacy touched her heart at what she saw.
Electricity surged throughout her body. The
moment had finally arrived. The
manufactured family would soon all be
together. Everything had gone to script. So
far.
285
The door to the miracle machine banged
open with little to no warning. Any leftover
gas now dissipated into the operating room in
a fog.
Azriel rose halfway up from the gurney.
His eyes burned brighter than before. His
skin even had a glow to it. When the boy
looked to his right and saw Stacy, the first
thing he said was, “Mom, where’s dad?”
The imaginary grocery bags slipped from her
slack arms and crashed to the floor. The
stunning message sucker-punched Stacy,
almost causing her to double over. A new
reality had dawned.
At that very moment intense rays from
the morning sunrise penetrated the window
blinds and set the whole room awash in its
radiance.
A gentle knock on the door made Stacy
whirl. “Who is it?” her voice trembled a little.
A familiar voice came over the intercom,
“Just open it.”
Too her surprise, Azriel was already at the
door compliantly turning the door handle per
the man’s instructions.
There Ephraim Markov stood, sporting a
warm smile, his eyes sparkling like black
diamonds.
“Welcome to Masada, son.”
286
End of Part 1
287