Everyone in the room was frozen in place, knowing one wrong move would result in the possible death of Oliver at the hands of this mad man, now a fugitive and murder suspect.
Oliver, at first paralyzed with anxiety, calmed himself enough to speak slowly and deliberately. “Forrest, you have been deceived by the Reverend Benton Spencer. He has talked you into committing murder so that he could have revenge against Dr. Newbury. You are a victim of his vengeance. If you do no more harm and help us stop this murderous plot of Reverend Spencer’s, your sentence may be lighter. Otherwise, you will be facing the death penalty.”
As Oliver spoke he noticed Maxine was holding out her right hand and slowly opening her fingers as though she was dropping something while moving her left hand upward toward her throat. Oliver got the message; slowly reaching toward Forrest’s knife hand with his left hand, Oliver then let the letter fall and flutter to the floor. At the moment Forrest reached for the falling letter, Oliver’s hand flew upward, pushing the knife aside as Maxine crashed into Forrest’s midsection, knocking him back against the window frame. Forrest, having had his wind knocked out, was immediately disarmed and pinned down by Maxine and Robert Swift.
Forrest Pierce was restrained and taken into custody by Michigan State Troopers who had been called to the lake house. Swift identified himself as the FBI agent responsible for the apprehension of Forrest Pierce. He then arranged for later transfer of Pierce to federal prison to await trial for the murder of Peter Newbury.
Robert Swift had also contacted the Ellis County Coroner in Texas, and requested that Mrs. Pierce’s body be exhumed and tested for poisoning. Forrest appeared innocent of this possible murder, since at its suggestion, he wept, and through his sobbing asked how the Reverend could have done this to his mother. He realized that as her heir, he became the supplier of her money to Benton Spencer’s murderous plot.
After Forrest Pierce had been taken away and Swift had finished his calls, the five settled into chairs in the living room. They were all still shaken by the sudden attack, but relieved Pierce was now in custody. Oliver turned to Maxine. “I owe you one, Max. You called the play and then carried it out with a body block that would have made a linebacker proud.”
“It wouldn’t have been possible without the help of that speech you made. That took guts!”
“I realized Forrest was not as intent on killing as he was on getting that letter. He knew Peter had read it but did not know if it had identified the members of the conspiracy. He was looking for it at my apartment when I surprised him, and he attacked me.”
Robert Swift joined the conversation. “Oliver, your speech may have distracted Mr. Pierce, but it was Miss Phillips’s training in martial arts that stopped him from harming you.”
“I can’t argue with you, Robert.”
“That letter mentioned an Israeli and an Iranian working with Dr. Spencer to sabotage science. I presume those two are part of your work with Miss Phillips. Dr. Spencer and Forrest Pierce are both linked to the crime at Fermilab and will be processed by the FBI.”
“That’s right, Max and I still have an international plot to try to stop. We have suspected there were three conspirators since Peter’s death.” Oliver knew he had been keeping something from Alice and Elizabeth. With a heavy heart he turned to them and said, “I’m sorry for having withheld something from you concerning Peter’s death, but Father Ryan thought it best. He confided in me that while he was giving last rites, Peter uttered, ‘You must find the three.’ He must have been referring to this letter and the threat he knew was real.”
Both Elizabeth and Alice sat silently as tears welled up in their eyes. Oliver stood and went to where Alice was sitting. He placed a hand on her shoulder and knelt before her, looking into her eyes. “Alice, I promise you, Maxine and I will follow Peter’s lead. We shall find the three, and bring them to justice.”
Elizabeth took Alice’s hand, looked at Oliver and then at Maxine. “Alice and I know you will do your best. Please be careful; we love you both and don’t want you harmed.”
8
Pistachios for the Caliph
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
-William Ernest Henley
The Iranian Benton Spencer had chosen to be a part of his conspiracy was Ibrahim Gilani. Seven years ago Gilani had been a lead physicist at the Iranian nuclear power facility. Having studied nuclear physics in the United States at Brookhaven, and later at the Large Hadron Collider at CERN, he was considered one of the top physicists in Iran and placed in charge of a critical part of the secret nuclear weapons program. He had helped design the centrifuges that would separate high grade nuclear fuel from those nuclear reactors altered to breed weapons-grade uranium and plutonium. He was also responsible for the complex computer software that controlled the speed and duration of the centrifuge runs leading to the optimum enrichment.
Following the sabotage of the centrifuges by a computer virus, inserted into his system by western interests, Ibrahim found himself at the center of a firestorm of accusation.
He had been singled out by the officials, “If you had been more vigilant, you would have detected this virus, and we would not have lost these expensive instruments. Iran has failed in the eyes of her allies, and we find you to blame, and suspect you, a Sunni, of intentionally allowing this sabotage to occur.” He had been stripped of his position within the nuclear program and had been left without any income.
Ibrahim was engaged to marry Sahar, the daughter of a wealthy Shiite family in Tehran. Following his dismissal from the Iranian nuclear program, Sahar’s family refused his proposal of marriage and prevented her from seeing him in the future. Desperate and rejected, he applied for his old position as a nuclear physicist at CERN in Europe, but was told he could no longer work within the international community of nuclear scientists because of his association with the illegal nuclear weapons program of Iran.
Angered and embittered because he had been rejected by his betrothed, his country, and finally by the international science community, he moved to Kermanshah, away from the limelight where he could live in isolation. A few months after his move, the American Benton Spencer had found him, and appealing to Ibrahim’s pride as a recognized scientist, arranged for the two to meet in England. Later that month in a pub in London, they discussed the heretical activities of modern science being carried out at labs around the world.
In particular, Spencer pointed out the recent public television series on the “Theory of Everything.” “In this public lecture, Peter Newbury described the three most evil places of idol worship: Fermilab, CERN, and the Dark Sector Lab.”
Spencer had convinced Ibrahim his destiny lay in combatting these centers of idolatry by assisting in an attack on CERN, where the “God Particle” had been found. “Ibrahim, the signs that were foretold by the Prophet are beginning to be seen. The false prophet Peter Newbury has arrived and the End of Days is approaching. We must take up the sword against idolatry and evil.”
This American man of faith gave new life to Ibrahim. He had joined Spencer in the careful planning of this action against the idol worship at CERN. Eventually, Ibrahim would bring the technology at his disposal, as well as his knowledge of CERN, to Beirut where the final phase of this attack on Satan would be carried out. In the meantime, Spencer would provide him with funds as well as the software to encode their communications as plans were made and actions taken in the days and weeks to come.
Ibrahim informed Spencer that the same virus that destroyed his centrifuges could be used against CERN in a manner that would destroy a key section of the accelerator and disable the entire facility, perhaps permanently. He would bring with him the tools needed to wage this war against the satanic, scientific community. He would somehow smuggle them out of Iran, across the ISIS war zones of Iraq and Syria, to Damascus, where he would
initiate the first phase of this cyber-attack on CERN.
Two months before Oliver had been assigned his Homeland Security mission to Waxahachie, Texas, Ibrahim had undertaken a long and dangerous journey. Leaving Kermanshah at night with a caravan of commercial trucks, he drove his old white van to the Iraqi border on the highway to Baghdad. The van was filled with wooden crates, each packed with bags of high-grade Pistachio nuts. Dressed as a merchant on a trip to market for his own load of finished nuts, he blended in with many other drivers on this road to the border. His forged papers, prepared a week earlier, were in order, and he was not questioned at the border. He was ordered to submit his cargo for inspection, and as the ill-tempered Iraqi inspector was opening each crate, Ibrahim spoke kindly to him and offered him one of the bags of Pistachios for his children. The inspector softened, and finished his inspection leaving the majority of the crates unopened. Ibrahim certainly did not want the inner-most crate opened.
Making his way through Ba’qubah and into Baghdad, Ibrahim looked for a market where he could sell some of the nuts, and at the same time make connections with merchants who planned to travel across Iraq to Damascus. ISIS was growing in influence in some of the areas through which he had to travel and there was extensive fighting between the rebels and government troops. He needed the protection of a caravan of commercial vehicles. He also needed to find out where the sympathies lay among the merchants and the majority of towns-people along the route. Ibrahim had driven through the city and into the western outskirts before he found what he was seeking, a small market in the middle of a poor Sunni enclave.
After the liberation of Iraq from a Sunni dictator, the country had adopted a democratic constitution, and proceeded to elect a Shiite autocrat. I’m fleeing Iran, ruled by the elite Shiite, and entering Iraq, ruled by a Shiite tyrant. In either country I’m a member of the despised and suppressed Sunni minority. My Sunni background made it easier for the Iranian leadership to make me the scapegoat for the failure of their security. As he stopped his van he was overcome by a strong feeling of rejection and oppression fed by his own old and modest clothing, his chosen trade, and the neglected state of this war-scarred market place.
Ibrahim parked his van near a partially collapsed building. He joined a group of other small trucks from which the drivers were selling fresh produce. Removing one of the wooden crates from the back of the van and placing bags of pistachio nuts on top, he began his trading call to the local shoppers. Most of the local shoppers were too poor to purchase these nuts, but one merchant did finally buy three bags for his store. He could probably mark up the price and sell them to the wealthy Shiites in the central district.
During a lull in the market, the nearest driver, noticing his Iranian license plates said to Ibrahim, “You must know that we don’t like Iranians. Why are you here in this market place, trying to sell expensive nuts?”
Ibrahim replied, “I don’t like Iranians either. I’ve had enough of being oppressed as a minority, and am leaving for good.”
“Then you are Sunni? Where do you plan to go?”
“Yes, I am Sunni and I plan to travel to Damascus, but I know there is much fighting along the route. Sunni or not, I feel I would be in danger on this trip. I am trying to find a group of commercial vehicles with which to convoy.”
“Let me introduce you to Hamid. He is organizing a convoy to leave this evening. But you must understand you have to be willing to contribute to his cause before he would choose to provide you his protection. If you are willing, I can now take you to him.”
After an affirmative nod from Ibrahim, both men locked their vehicles and set out on foot through the narrow streets. At the end of a small alley way, almost hidden from the street by hanging vines, they came to a metal door. The merchant knocked twice, and soon the door was opened by an elderly woman.
The merchant said, “This man of honor wishes to speak to Hamid about travel to Damascus.”
She replied, “You have vouched for him and so I will allow him to enter.”
At this point the merchant said his goodbyes and Ibrahim entered the small room. He was asked to sit as the woman poured him a glass of tea and then left him alone. After what seemed like an unreasonably long time, she returned and asked him to follow her. She led him down a dark hallway and up two flights of stairs, down another darkened hallway and stopped at one of the doors lining both sides. Again two knocks, and this time a man’s voice responded for Ibrahim to enter.
Entering the room, Ibrahim was astonished at what he saw. The room was modern and well lighted, with three computer workstations placed at positions around the room where a team of programmers could work independently, yet interact with one another.
Hamid rose to greet him from a desk and workstation in the fourth corner of the room. “Dr. Gilani, I am pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much about your plight with those Shiite devils, and now at last we meet. I hope you are willing to join our cause in bringing the Caliphate not only to Iraq, but also to a liberated Syria.”
Ibrahim was momentarily speechless and could only respond with a weak, “How….!”
“How did I know who you are? I have a hidden set of security cameras mounted in the reception room downstairs and access to a complete facial recognition system with an extensive database of people of note. Since our cause does not involve people of note, I use this system to check for government agents. I was surprised when your name appeared and I realized who you were.”
“I see. Then you know I am leaving Iran for good and seeking a home elsewhere, in Syria or Lebanon perhaps. I am here asking to join a convoy into Syria through the conflict zone.”
“You mean the freedom zone, Ibrahim, for we Sunni’s are fighting for a free Iraq, as well as a free Syria. My question to you is this: will you join this fight for freedom?”
Ibrahim knew he was already in a war whose scope was well beyond anything that ISIS could even conceive of, but he also realized that his sympathies were aligned with this rebel conspiracy. After a thoughtful moment he replied, “Yes, but I have some serious concerns about the criminal activities of some of the foreign fighters who have joined ISIS; their butchery shames all of Islam.”
“You are right, Ibrahim, but those fighters are mostly in the north, out of touch with what we are doing here, and are carrying out jihad against their own enemies abroad.”
Realizing that joining Hamid’s cause was his only way to Damascus, Ibrahim replied, “I will help in whatever way I can, but realize, I am not a combat soldier. I am an academic. I’m willing to transport my valuable shipment of pistachios to Damascus, and there sell them and give the proceeds to the Caliph, your supreme leader, for his continued fight for freedom.”
“You are a nuclear physicist; can you help us create bombs?”
“I refined weapons-grade uranium and plutonium from reactor by-products. I’m afraid I know nothing about the bombs that this material was to become a part of. I would offer my name in support of the movement, but I am already a marked man and wish to live longer than a few more weeks.”
“I understand,” said Hamid. “You can join our caravan to Damascus and contribute your sales to the cause. When we reach the Syrian market-place, I will put you in contact with two agents for the Caliph. Perhaps you will be able to think of other ways to help the ISIS cause by that time.”
“Agreed. I will remain with my vehicle in this nearby market until I receive instructions from your followers for this evening’s caravan.”
The two men shook hands and the old woman showed Ibrahim out of the building via a different route, one that led through a small carpet shop on the main street. Ibrahim returned to his van and pretended to sell bags of nuts to the remaining local shoppers. The merchant who had led him to Hamid had disappeared, having perhaps sold his produce and returned to his farm. On the other hand, he may have fled because a military vehicle suddenly appeared from a side street, drove quickly across the square scattering the shoppers, and approached I
brahim’s van.
Three uniformed soldiers got out and approached him with their American M-16s in hand. “Why are you here in this market; are you not an Iranian? This place is full of rebels.”
“I am just trying to make enough cash to buy gasoline for my continued trip to Damascus where I expect to find fellow Shias who can afford my produce. I stopped here only out of fear of running out of fuel. I thank you for your warning and will leave as you suggest.”
“How do we know you are not a rebel?” asked one of the soldiers as he began to move the barrel of his weapon toward Ibrahim. “We need to see your papers and inspect your vehicle.”
Ibrahim obliged, showing no hostility, and presented his papers. Again wooden crates were removed from the van and opened, revealing bag-upon-bag of pistachios. And as had happened before, after lifting and opening three of the rear-most crates, the soldiers tired of the inspection and returned to their military vehicle, again warning Ibrahim to move to a safer part of Baghdad.
After these soldiers had left the square, and Ibrahim was in the process of repacking the crates, he was approached by the same merchant who had taken him to Hamid. “You did well, my friend; Hamid has vouched for you, and I will give you instructions for joining us tonight. At 8:00, you must drive to Fallujah, cross the Euphrates, and find a side street in Ramadi from which you can observe the highway. Vehicles will begin to convoy around 11:00 and you can then join us. Here is your letter of conveyance. Hide it from all but fellow ISIS fighters.”
Ibrahim was now a member of ISIS, and whether or not he had intended it, he now shared all of the risks of imbedding himself into a rebel combat unit. This convoy may be carrying goods, but it is in fact a military operation against the Iraqi army. We will most likely enter into some form of combat during the night. Ibrahim was beginning to feel a surge of fear and regret. The only thing more frightening to him than going into this night-time venture unarmed, was going into it armed and expected to fight. He had never even touched a rifle, much less fired one.
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