The Joshua Stone

by James Barney

  Ana flinched, but her instincts quickly kicked in. Three options immediately coursed through her mind, none of them good. Fleeing would not work because she was stuck in the middle of a narrow passageway facing an armed man. Charging forward wouldn’t work, either. The man had a pistol aimed at her chest, and she could tell his finger was resting on the trigger. Her third option wasn’t any better. She could try to draw her weapon, but she knew she wouldn’t be fast enough. Nothing left to do but stall.

  “What do you want?” she asked. “You want money? I’ve got—”

  “Shut up,” said the man through his ski mask. He stiffened his firing arm, then slowly lifted the barrel until it was level with her forehead. “Hands up.”

  Ana blew out a long, frustrated breath. Then she slowly raised her hands.

  The man whose code name was Malachi passed through the church lobby and took a left at the interior stairwell that circumscribed the building’s massive atrium, known as “the sanctuary.” He climbed the steps to an intermediate platform and approached the first door on his right and gently tugged on its handle. Locked. Undeterred, he proceeded several feet down the hallway and checked the next door. It, too, was locked.

  “Can I help you?” called out a woman from behind.

  Malachi spun and observed a thin, silver-haired woman in a white dress and a large beaded necklace draped around her neck. She looked to be in her midseventies or perhaps early eighties.

  Malachi hesitated. “I’m . . . looking for Qaset.”

  The woman approached slowly, her eyes widening with each deliberate step. At a distance of several feet, she stopped and squinted at Malachi’s face. “Daniel?” she said tentatively.

  Daniel. That name eased slowly and comfortably into Malachi’s brain, and he found himself nodding in agreement.

  The woman slowly closed the remaining distance between them. “My God,” she whispered. “You’ve barely changed.” She reached out and gently touched his unshaven face. “Just a few wrinkles.” Then she glanced at his hair. “But your hair . . . it’s gray.”

  Malachi smiled slightly and nodded. “Yours, too.”

  “Oh,” said the woman, shaking her head. “I’m so old, I’m surprised you even recognize me.” There was a long, awkward pause. “You . . . do recognize me, don’t you?”

  Malachi started to say something but stopped short. He still did not trust his memory.

  “Go ahead,” said the woman reassuringly. “Say it.”

  Malachi studied the woman’s face for several more seconds, tilting his head from side to side. Then, in an unsure tone, he said, “Opal?”

  The woman smiled and nodded. “Yes, Daniel. It’s me.”

  Ana Thorne watched in disbelief as the man in the black ski mask approached and put the barrel of his gun just inches from her forehead. With his free hand, he began patting her down for weapons, starting at her shoulders and working his way down. He hadn’t quite made it to her underarm holster when his hand groped crudely across her breasts. For a split second, his eyes darted downward to see what he was grabbing.

  And that was all the time she needed. Ana’s right knee exploded upward into the man’s crotch, landing with a satisfying thud. Simultaneously, she smashed her right forearm into the man’s firing arm, knocking it violently out of place.

  A noise-suppressed round whizzed past Ana’s head and ricocheted off one of the concrete walls of the passageway.

  The man keeled forward, wincing in agony. Ana was tempted to deliver a downward thrust kick to the back of his skull, which, given her martial arts training, probably would have killed him. But protocol required otherwise. She had no idea who this man was, and like it or not, deadly force was not authorized in this situation.

  Not yet anyway.

  Ana quickly pulled her Glock 9 millimeter from its holster beneath her jacket and aimed it at the top of the man’s head. As he arose slowly from his bent-over position, she adjusted her aim until her weapon was trained at the center of his chest. Center of mass, per her CIA training. “Don’t move,” she warned.

  The man locked eyes with her through his ski mask. A tense moment passed, and his eyes began to narrow slightly. Then, in a flash, he raised his weapon to fire.

  Ana beat him to it. She fired twice in rapid succession, placing a noise-suppressed 9-millimeter round in the man’s chest and another in his forehead before he hit the ground. The CIA’s “double tap” technique, just as she’d been trained. Now deadly forced was authorized. She watched as the man collapsed to the ground in a lifeless heap.

  Moments later, the dark outline of another man appeared at the north end of the alleyway, blocking out the light. Ana saw the unmistakable shape of a pistol in his hand. She immediately raised her Glock to fire.

  “Ana!” said a voice.

  Ana’s heart skipped a beat. It was Califano.

  “Shit!” she exclaimed angrily. “Don’t ever do that again. I almost shot you.”

  “You all right?” Califano asked as he jogged toward her and gawked at the dead man on the ground.

  “I’m fine, but we’ve got company. Come on.”

  The crackly voice of Bill McCreary came on the line. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked.

  Ana tapped her microphone as she jogged. “I’ll explain later.” She didn’t have time for Q and A right now.

  Seconds later, Ana and Califano emerged from the passageway and quickly made their way to the church entrance. “Where the hell were you?” Ana whispered angrily as she holstered her weapon. She nodded for Califano to do the same with his pistol.

  Califano looked confused. “What? I was right here. Waiting for you.”

  Ana looked annoyed. “Never mind. Let’s go in.”

  The two of them entered the church and found themselves standing alone in a small, unlit lobby with a polished terra cotta floor. Ana pressed her index finger to her lips and listened carefully for several seconds. The building was eerily silent.

  “Where is everyone?” Califano whispered.

  Ana pointed to a sign on the wall, which read:

  Third Church of Christ, Scientist

  Sanctuary Closed for Repairs

  9:30 A.M. Sunday Services Next Door

  in the Reading Room

  “Ah,” Califano whispered.

  Ana again pressed a finger to her lips and pointed emphatically with her other hand toward the hallway beyond the lobby.

  Califano heard it now, too. The unmistakable sound of high-heeled shoes clicking loudly across a hard floor. Califano reached instinctively for his weapon, but Ana stopped his arm before he could withdraw it. She slowly shook her head no. Protocol.

  A moment later, a petite, middle-aged woman in a bright blue dress rounded the corner and came into the lobby. “Oh,” she said, looking a bit startled. “I thought I heard someone in here. God’s love to both of you.”

  “And to you,” said Ana.

  “Are you visiting us for the first time?” asked the woman in a gentle voice. As she spoke, she dropped her car keys into her purse.

  “Um, yes,” said Ana. “We just moved to the area, and we’re looking around for a new church.”

  An idea suddenly popped into Califano’s mind. “Actually, we’re newlyweds,” he said with a crooked smile. “Just got married last week.” He glanced down at his ring finger. “We’re, uh . . . still waiting for our rings to get sized.”

  Ana shot him a sideways glance.

  “Oh, how wonderful,” said the woman in blue. She gave Ana a big smile. “You must be so happy.”

  Ana forced a smile. “Thrilled.”

  “Well, may God bless your marriage with boundless love.”

  “Amen,” said Califano. At the same time, he wrapped his arm tightly around Ana’s waist and planted a kiss on her cheek. Ana blushed and forced another smile.

  The woman in blue laughed nervously. “Oh, my. Well, I’m sorry our main building is closed due to some storm damage. But we’ll be holding services next
door at nine thirty. I’m heading over there now to set up if you’d like to join me.”

  “Thanks,” said Ana. She wiped her cheek and gave Califano a none-too-subtle jab in the ribs. “But we’d like to look around here a bit, if that’s okay. It looks like such a cool building.”

  “Uh, sure. I guess that’d be okay. Just be careful wherever you see buckets on the floor. We’ve got a very leaky roof.”

  “We will,” said Ana. She thanked the woman and then quickly turned and proceeded toward the wide, angular staircase on the left side of the lobby.

  Califano caught up with her halfway up the stairs.

  “What the hell was that?” Ana whispered over her shoulder as she climbed the steps two at a time. It was an unusual staircase, angling clockwise at even intervals as it hugged the octagonal contours of the building. The stairwell was dark, with just a bit of indirect natural light filtering down from the skylights above.

  “Just playing my part,” Califano replied, still two steps behind her. “Trying to be a little creative.”

  Thorne stopped abruptly on the steps and turned to face him. “Stop trying to be ‘creative.’ It’s going to get us both killed. Just follow protocol, got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.” Califano mumbled these words with something close to sincerity.

  Ana swiveled her head. The sound of low voices could suddenly be heard through a slightly open door at the top of the stairs. She slowly withdrew her weapon and approached the door. Califano followed close behind.

  Ana reached the door first and eased it open a few inches, holding her breath as she did. When it was cracked open just wide enough, she slipped through and found herself standing on a wide balcony, gazing down into a cavernous octagonal sanctuary with no windows and very little light. In the semidarkness she could see dozens of long metal pews arranged in horizontal rows facing the pulpit. About half of them were covered with blue tarps, apparently to protect them from the leaking roof above. Other metal pews were arranged in three long balcony sections, including the one on which she now stood. The pulpit below was situated on a raised stage at the front of the sanctuary, which was dominated by sleek, geometric shapes of cement and metal, all in keeping with the Brutalist design of the church. Behind the pulpit, in large metal letters fastened directly to the naked cement wall, was the following quotation:

  If Science is not God,

  then truth is but an accident.

  Ana suddenly heard the voices again and her eyes were immediately drawn to a dark corner of the sanctuary near the pulpit. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, two figures gradually came into view, a man in a black coat and a shorter, elderly woman in a white dress. Why did that woman look familiar?

  The man and woman were facing each other, speaking in hushed tones. Because of the angular design of the sanctuary, Ana could hear some of what they were saying, although their words were fading in and out in waves.

  “. . . did you see . . . is he alive. . .?” asked the woman.

  “Yes,” said the man. “. . . wounded. I helped him . . . then we got separated . . .”

  “. . . the stone?” asked the woman.

  The man’s response was garbled.

  Ana wanted to hear more, but she knew it was time to move in. They couldn’t take any more chances, especially given what had happened outside. She quickly turned to signal Califano through the open door.

  But he was gone.

  Shit, Ana mouthed. Just then, her earpiece crackled to life and she heard Califano’s voice speaking very softly in her ear. “Look up,” he said.

  36

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Come on, Steve. Find me something.” Bill McCreary was hovering nervously over Steve Goodwin’s shoulder at the computer terminal in the DTAI workroom at CIA headquarters.

  Goodwin mashed furiously on the computer keyboard with his beefy fingers. “I’m working on it, boss.”

  “Damn it, work faster.” McCreary quickly paced away to the other side of the room. “Ana?” he said quietly into his radio transmitter. “Mike?” For the third time in as many minutes, there was no response at all. “Crap,” he whispered. This was quickly becoming a disaster.

  McCreary’s cell phone buzzed. “Yeah?” he answered sharply.

  “Bill, it’s Bob Armstrong. Anything yet?”

  “No, Admiral,” said McCreary in an exasperated tone. “I’ve lost all contact with them. To tell you the truth, I’m about ready to call in the big guns.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “What, you think I want to? Sure, that’s just what we need. Some big clusterfuck two blocks from the White House. You think we’ll be able to keep a lid on this stuff after that?”

  “Then don’t do it. Just give them a little more time. You’ve got to trust your people to get the job done.”

  McCreary exhaled loudly. “Admiral, I’m going to level with you. I don’t trust your guy Califano at all. He’s a loose cannon. He doesn’t follow protocol. Hell, I don’t think he even knows what the word ‘protocol’ means. And honestly . . . he’s just weird.”

  Armstrong laughed dryly. “Bill, you worked at DARPA. Don’t tell me you haven’t worked with some weird people before.”

  “Yeah, some of the folks at DARPA are quirky. Maybe you could even call them weird. But Califano . . . he’s more like criminally insane. I’m telling you, I just don’t trust him.”

  “Well, I do,” said Armstrong firmly. “I’ll stake my career on it.”

  “You may have to,” McCreary muttered.

  “Hey, boss?” said Steve Goodwin over his shoulder.

  “I gotta go,” said McCreary. He abruptly terminated the call with Admiral Armstrong and turned his attention to Goodwin. “Yeah? You got something?”

  “Maybe. Take a listen.” Goodwin clicked his mouse and turned up the volume on his computer. Suddenly, sporadic voices could be heard crackling over the speakers amid a high level of static.

  McCreary stepped closer so he could hear better. The voices were just barely audible over the heavy static.

  “Ty na mista?” said one man’s voice.

  “Tak, vse gotovo,” said another.

  “What the hell language is that?” McCreary asked.

  “Not sure,” said Goodwin. “Sounds like Russian or maybe Polish. It’s hard to tell.”

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  “The Secret Service has scanners that continuously monitor all point-to-point radio transmissions near the White House. I’m picking this up from one of their feeds at 467.6875 megahertz. It’s probably a commercial walkie-talkie, and my guess is it’s being used within about five blocks of the White House.”

  “That would include the church, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Send the feed to our language folks. Let’s find out what language it is and what they’re saying.”

  “Already did that. I’m just waiting—” Goodwin paused and skimmed a message that had just popped onto his screen. “Here it is. The language is Ukrainian. It’s a group of eight to ten men, and they seem to be positioning themselves for some sort of operation. One of them— Hold on. I just got another one.” Goodwin was quiet for a moment as he skimmed a new message.

  “Come on, what is it?” asked McCreary impatiently.

  Goodwin shook his head. “Take a look.”

  McCreary leaned over Goodwin’s shoulder and read the translation that had just been provided by the CIA’s Ukrainian language specialist:

  SPEAKER 1: [Garbled] What about the woman?

  SPEAKER 2: Kill her if you need to. We only need [Garbled, phonetic: mal-uh-kī]. He has the [Garbled, phonetic: Thur-mond] material.

  SPEAKER 1: Understood. Take him alive?

  SPEAKER 2: Yes, alive. We need him to lead us to the [Garbled].

  “Who the hell is Malachi?” McCreary asked.

  “That must be our carjacker from Thurmond.”

  “And what do they think he’s going to lead them to?”


  Goodwin shrugged. “Don’t know, boss.”

  McCreary shook his head slowly and wiped his brow. Christ. This was turning into a disaster. He pressed the transmit button on his microphone. “Ana and Mike, if you can hear me, the church is crawling with foreign operatives. Could be as many as ten of them. And they’re looking for someone named Malachi, who we think is our guy from Thurmond. Be careful.”

  There was still no response.

  Shit.

  37

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  It was too late.

  By the time Ana Thorne saw the man in the ski mask swinging onto her balcony from above, she had no time to react. The man hit her square in the stomach with both feet, and she flew backward into an unforgiving cement wall. The powerful blow knocked the wind out of her and left her momentarily disoriented and gasping for breath. Within seconds the man had regained his footing and was now aiming his pistol directly at her forehead. Ana could tell from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t interested in talking. He was going to kill her.

  A gunshot suddenly exploded, and Ana instinctively closed her eyes. Yet she felt no pain. She opened her eyes a moment later and found, to her amazement, that the man had missed. Without hesitation, she raised her own weapon. But as she did, she noticed something odd about the masked gunman. He was lowering his pistol and stumbling toward her. Then, all at once, he collapsed face-first onto the balcony floor with a loud thud.

  Ana now understood. The man hadn’t missed at all. He’d been shot in the back. Frantically, she scanned the sanctuary for the source of the bullet, fearing that another one might be heading her way. She immediately spotted a man in the balcony across from her, barely visible within the deep shadows of the church. He had a gun.

  A man’s voice suddenly buzzed in her ear. “You’re welcome,” said Mike Califano.

  Ana looked again and saw that the man in the opposite balcony was waving to her. Unbelievable. She shook her head in amazement. Then, as much as she tried to suppress it, she smiled. “That was a damn good shot,” she whispered into her concealed microphone. If Califano responded at all, she never heard it. Because, at that very moment, all hell broke loose in the sanctuary below.