by James Barney
6
THURMOND, WEST VIRGINIA
Malachi wasted no time. It was getting darker and colder by the minute, and he knew he was close to something important. He quickly made his way to the railroad tracks and, facing east, aligned himself with the front wall of the Thurmond coal depot. The rain was still picking up, pelting his face and causing cold trickles to run down the back of his neck.
He began walking east between the two rusty rails, counting each step softly to himself as he went. After several steps, he stopped. Something wasn’t right. The horizontal railroad ties were spaced about twenty inches apart, significantly shorter than the distance of his stride. Once again, he used logic as his guide. If ninety-two was intended to convey a particular distance—a map to some particular location along the tracks—then the most logical unit of measure would not be a man’s inconsistent stride but, rather, the uniform spacing of the horizontal railroad ties along the track.
He quickly retreated and began his count again, this time counting each wooden slat as it passed beneath his feet. He reached ninety-two in less than two minutes and stopped abruptly. He looked down at the wooden tie he was standing on and observed a single red paint mark near the center of the tie—the same shade of red he’d seen on the wall.
This was it.
Crouching low and washing the beam of his carbide lantern along the ground, he scrutinized every inch of the weathered railroad tie, but found nothing of particular interest. Other than the red dab of paint about three inches from the transverse center of the beam, this railroad tie looked like all the others.
He stepped off the tracks into the woods and returned a few minutes later with a large, sturdy stick. Using it like a crude shovel, he attempted to gouge through the gravel on either side of the railroad tie where the red dot was. After several minutes, however, he abandoned this effort as futile. Beneath the top layer of coarse gravel was another layer of finely crushed gravel that was packed so tightly it resembled asphalt. He realized he would not be able to excavate farther beneath this tie without metal tools. Which he did not have. Although his pocketknife came to mind, he immediately dismissed the notion of using it as a gouging or digging tool. Digging is not the answer.
As darkness encroached, Malachi stood and puzzled over this situation for several minutes. Someone had gone to the trouble of leading him here, most likely his contacts, whoever they were. And those people would have known he’d be arriving without metal tools. Therefore, requiring him to dig would not be logical.
He looked again at the red dot on the railroad tie, which he illuminated for a long time in the beam of his carbide lamp. What am I missing? The dot was a few inches off center, a bit closer to the north rail than the south. Was that significant? To find out, he trained his lamp northward, using the railroad tie as a directional guide. The light bounced around for a few seconds in the woods before something suddenly caught his eye.
A splash of red.
Using the beam of his lantern to guide his way, Malachi crept into the pine forest that separated the railroad tracks from the New River and slowly made his way to the large granite boulder that he’d spied from the tracks. Up close and shining his light directly upon it, he could now clearly see a bright smudge of red paint on its southern face, the same hue as the other markings. This had to be it.
Working quickly, Malachi swept his light all around the circumference of the boulder. At first, he saw nothing of particular interest. On his second pass, however, he spotted a smaller boulder wedged up against the main boulder in a peculiar manner. It looked . . . movable. Using both hands and all the strength in his back and arms, he managed to slowly tilt the smaller boulder away and push it over. What remained in its place was a relatively soft, dry patch of soil about two feet in diameter. He kicked at it several times with the heel of his shoe until he suddenly heard a hollow thump.
What’s this?
Like a terrier after its prey, Malachi immediately dropped to his hands and knees and began frantically scooping away the loose topsoil until he could get his fingers around the top edges of the hollow object. He could tell right away it was a small metal box of some sort. But it was stuck tightly in the soil. Clearly, it had been there for some time, perhaps years. He kept digging, using his bare fingers to rake away the compact soil all around the edges of the box. As the dirt became denser, his long fingernails began to bend back painfully and break. Eventually, he was forced to cease digging and trim his fingernails again using his small pocketknife. When he was finished, he resumed digging with increased vigor. The box was getting looser. Looser . . .
With a loud grunt, Malachi extracted the mysterious metal box from its burial place. He placed it on the ground next to the overturned boulder that had once concealed it, and he plopped down beside it on both knees, exhausted, wet, and filthy. After wiping away most of the dirt from the top and sides of the box, he carefully inspected its exterior in the beam of his lantern. As far as he could tell, there were no markings on the box at all. It appeared to be a generic, heavy-duty security container, olive drab, with a latch that was obviously meant to hold a lock, although there was none there.
Slowly, he unlatched the lid of the box and tipped it open, illuminating the contents with his lantern. The interior was lined with gray foam, and had a single, rectangular recess in the center into which a cylindrical object had been snuggly fitted. Malachi studied the object for a few seconds before gently prying it loose from its foam housing. It weighed about ten ounces and was wrapped entirely in heavy, opaque plastic wrapping. Slowly, he turned the object over several times in his fingers, observing no markings of any kind on the outside packaging.
Using his knife, Malachi carefully cut away the opaque wrapping, revealing a marine-grade, waterproof canister, like those used to keep personal belongings dry while boating. The canister was constructed of heavy-duty plastic, with a screw-off lid and no apparent markings on the outside. He shook the canister slightly and could hear something soft bouncing around inside. Slowly, he unscrewed and removed the lid and dumped the contents of the canister into his grimy hand.
The sole object was a tri-folded sheet of cream-colored stationery, which Malachi immediately unfolded and read. The following sentences were written in neat, cursive script:
1. Everything has changed.
2. Elijah is a traitor. Don’t trust him.
3. Go to the third church and ask for Qaset:
4. They are tracking your watch.
The last sentence sent a sudden jolt through Malachi’s body. He took off his watch and inspected it suspiciously in the light of his lantern. It looked entirely normal to him and seemed to be functioning properly, other than showing the wrong time. He held it close to his ear and heard only the soft ticking of an ordinary wristwatch. But then he began to hear something else. Something unusual, far in the distance. A thumping, rhythmic sound that seemed to be getting closer.
A helicopter.
Malachi stood up and heaved his watch into the woods as far as he could. The chopper noise was getting louder by the second. Shit. They were coming for him. And he had no idea why. Terrified, he quickly shoved the note into his coat pocket and snatched the security container off the ground, frantically pulling out its foam insert and inspecting every square inch of the interior for any additional clues. There were none. Frustrated, he tossed the container into the woods with a grunt and looked around frantically for a suitable plan.
The rotor noise was still intensifying. A moment later, Malachi spotted a white light in the darkening sky, moving steadily from right to left and growing larger. Then he saw the outline of the approaching helicopter—sleek and black against the moonless sky, and even closer than he’d thought.
A primal instinct jumped instantly into his brain.
Run!
7
ROUTE 25, NEAR THURMOND, WEST VIRGINIA
We’re lost, ain’t we?” said Bethany Tremont to her longtime boyfriend Billy. “I can’t believ
e I let you talk me into this.” They were driving eastbound on Route 25 in Billy’s midnight-blue Chevy Impala. The car’s headlights pierced deep into the rainy darkness, illuminating both sides of the otherwise empty road.
“Shut the fuck up,” Billy responded, as he often did in response to her complaints. Then he reconsidered. “Shit. Sorry, baby. I’m just frustrated here. Did we miss a turn or something?”
Bethany flicked on the passenger-side light and reread the directions to their friends’ party cabin for the fourth time. “East on Route 25 for sixteen miles, right on Beury Mountain Road, eight miles straight, then left into the campsite.”
“Dang. This ain’t right. We shoulda turned at that last big fork. Can’t you find it on your iPhone?”
“I wish.” Bethany held up her iPhone. “No signal.”
“Shit.”
“Just turn around,” Bethany said. “We’re in the middle of . . . Holy shit! Look out!”
Billy slammed on the brakes and held his breath as the Impala skidded and shuddered toward a motionless, silhouetted figure in the middle of the road. “What the fuck!” Billy exclaimed as the Impala’s antilock brakes finally completed their job of bringing the sedan to a stop about five feet from the motionless man. In the headlights, he was a tall, dark figure with a leather coat and long, crazy hair. And now he was coming toward them.
“Is that a cop?” asked Billy nervously.
“He don’t look like no cop.”
“What the f—”
“Billy, let’s get out of here! Back up! Back up!”
But the man was already at Billy’s window. Bethany hit the automatic door locks just as the man attempted to open the driver’s-side door, pulling the latch violently several times.
“Billy, drive!” Bethany screamed. “Drive!”
Billy put the car in drive. But at the same moment, the driver’s-side window smashed into a spiderweb of shards as a steel carbine lantern came flying through it.
“What the f—! Get off me!” screamed Billy as a man’s arm came through the hole in the window and grabbed hold of his shirt, yanking him hard toward the door. The Impala lurched forward and slowly turned left, bumping down a gravel embankment and thwacking through a thick patch of briars before returning to the road.
Bethany screamed louder than she’d ever screamed in her life.
The stranger’s entire upper torso was now through the broken window. Billy grunted and cursed as he struggled with the man. Within seconds, the stranger had Billy in a stranglehold.
“Stop!” Bethany shrieked. “You’re killing him!”
Billy’s head was cranked awkwardly to one side, locked firmly beneath the man’s arm as he walked alongside the slowing car. Billy was making suffocating noises and frantically trying to undo his seat belt to free himself from the deadly choke hold. Seconds later, he succeeded.
The car stopped abruptly as Billy hit the brakes. In an instant, the driver’s-side door was open and Billy was out of the car, thrown viciously to the ground. The next moment, the stranger was in the driver’s seat. He shut the door and looked at Bethany for a second. He was dripping wet and breathing heavily. The car slowly began accelerating forward.
“Please,” Bethany whimpered. “Oh, Jesus Christ, please don’t hurt me.”
The car was still driving forward slowly. Through teary eyes, Bethany looked at the man’s face, which was covered with matted, muddy facial hair. His eyes were expressionless, his long, gray hair wet and tangled. “Please,” she blubbered. “Please don’t . . .” She allowed her eyes to drift downward to his hands, which were filthy, and then to his fingernails, which were like . . . claws. “Oh my God!” she shrieked in terror. Just then, she felt the warm flow of urine in her seat.
The man slammed on the brakes. “Get out,” he said.
Bethany was petrified and could not move.
“Get out!” the man ordered again.
This time, she obeyed. Ten seconds later, she was out of the car, sobbing, on hands and knees in the middle of the rainswept road as the Impala sped off into the darkness.
Billy caught up with her a few seconds later, bloody, bruised, and breathless. “Shit. Baby, you okay? Gimme your phone. I’ll call 911.”
Bethany could barely get the words out of her mouth between sobs: “No . . . signal.”
8
VALKENSWAARD, THE NETHERLANDS
He had been known as Elijah many years ago. It was just a code name, but one that he’d put a great deal of thought into at the time. Elijah, to whom the mantle of God’s power was given.
Benjamin Fulcher reclined in the plush leather chair of his home office and took in the view of the pastoral Dutch countryside outside the window. Rolling fields and pastures extended far into the distance, dotted with sheep and cows and the occasional wind turbine with massive triblades rotating slowly in the breeze. The sky above was an unusual collage of high white wisps and darker, faster storm clouds near the ground. Ah, late autumn. What a splendid season.
The seventy-eight-year-old British expatriate took a long sip of tea from a china cup and thought about his biblical namesake, Elijah, a prophet who had received from God a mantle of awesome power and knowledge. Elijah wielded that power righteously for the good of all mankind and then passed the mantle to his worthy successor, Elisha, before being whisked away to heaven in a whirlwind. Fulcher rubbed his chin and pondered how interesting it was that the very first thing Elisha did with his newly acquired power was part the mighty Jordan River. Just as Joshua had done five hundred years earlier.
Yes, Fulcher concluded. A conspicuous display of strength and power meant to instill fear among Elisha’s enemies and inspire wonder and amazement in his followers. An earthly demonstration of the mysterious powers of the universe.
A brilliant strategy.
Fulcher closed his eyes for a moment and tried to visualize exactly what it must have been like when Joseph and Elisha parted the Jordan River. Was there a flash? How long did the process take? Was there extensive flooding upstream? These thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the intrusive ringing of a telephone. With effort, the man hoisted himself from his chair and, with the aid of his walking cane, made his way slowly across the room to the ringing phone. Curse this broken body.
Finally, he lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” he said in a British accent, slightly out of breath.
“It’s Krupnov,” said a man with a deep Russian accent.
“Yes?”
“There’s been a signal from Thurmond. We think it’s Malachi.”
Fulcher closed his eyes for a moment, and a smile of relief slowly crept across his face. At long last, Malachi has returned. And the timing could not be better.
“But there’s a problem,” said Krupnov.
“Oh?”
“The tracking device . . . he apparently removed it. My men haven’t been able to find him.”
The smile quickly vanished from Fulcher’s face. “Vlad, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of how important it is to find Malachi. He’s critical to our plan.”
“Of course I know that!” snapped Krupnov. “My men are looking for him as we speak. And if they don’t find him soon, I’ll go there myself to finish the job.”
“I’m sure you will.” Fulcher paused and considered what Krupnov probably meant by “finish the job” himself. It would not be pretty. Krupnov’s organization was known for getting things done, but not necessarily peacefully, or humanely for that matter. On the other hand, they had unique resources at their disposal that were absolutely necessary for this plan to work. Si guarda al fine, Fulcher mused. One must consider the final result. “The timing is interesting, don’t you think?” he asked after a long pause.
“You mean because of London?”
“Yes, Vlad. Carl Jung would have called this a splendid example of synchronicity.”
“I don’t know who the hell Carl Jung is. It’s just a coincidence, nothing more.”
Fulcher la
ughed quietly to himself. “Don’t you know what a coincidence is, Vlad?”
Krupnov was silent.
“A coincidence is merely God’s way of remaining anonymous.”
Krupnov sighed heavily. “Look, I don’t have time for philosophy right now. I’ll keep you posted on Malachi. Meanwhile, all the arrangements have been made for the London material to be brought to Severodvinsk. I trust you’ll be accompanying it?”
“Yes,” said Fulcher. “I’ll be there.”
“Good,” said Krupnov. He ended the call without another word.
Fulcher hung up the phone and walked painstakingly back to his chair with the aid of his cane. He sat down and took another sip of his tea, which he was pleased to find was still reasonably warm.
Before long, his thoughts were back with Joshua and Elisha and the parting of the Jordan River . . . and the awesome power of the Joshua Stone.
9
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
How’s it going?” asked Ana Thorne.
Califano swiveled in his chair and watched with interest as Ana walked into the workroom. She’d been in and out of the workroom all night, helping him set up the secure connection to the DOE server, bringing in the patient’s personal effects, and helping parse through more than fifteen hours of video from the examination room. But this was different. Now she was wearing a pair of tight yoga pants and a gray CIA sweatshirt. Califano couldn’t help but stare. “Hitting the gym?” he asked.
“Just wanted to get out of my suit. This was all I had. They brought up a pair of sweats for you if you want them. There’s a bathroom down the hall where you can change.”
“Maybe later.”
Ana stepped forward and pointed at the computer screen. “Any results yet?”
Califano leaned back and stretched his cramped muscles. “Well, one thing’s for sure. This guy does appear to be Franz Holzberg.”
“Yeah, like I told you, we ran a bone-structure analysis based on photographs of him in the late fifties. It’s either him or it’s the best surgical transformation I’ve ever seen.”