03 The Europa Conspiracy

by Tim LaHaye

  “Yes, I have three. Two daughters and a son. Amber, my oldest, is a senior in college. She’s studying to be an English teacher. Amy is a sophomore and is planning to go into psychology. Adam is in his senior year of high school. I don’t think he has any idea of what he would like to do, other than play football. But when I look back at my own life, I didn’t know what I wanted to do either when I graduated from high school.”

  “It sounds like you have a wonderful family. Do you have any pictures?”

  “This is Arlene, my wife,” Bingman said, smiling and offering Murphy pictures from his wallet.

  “It sounds like and looks like God has blessed you,” Murphy said, examining the pictures.

  “Yes. When all is said and done, it’s your relationship with God and your family that really matters. I don’t like to be away from them, but my wife knows how much I like adventure. This is the trip of a lifetime!” Bingman exclaimed.

  “Well, I think we might have some excitement waiting for us in Baghdad. It might be good for us to get as much rest as we can,” Murphy said.

  Bingman nodded and closed his eyes.

  Murphy closed his eyes but sleep did not come easily. He was filled with a growing sense of apprehension.

  FIFTY-THREE

  THE SOUND OF THE CAPTAIN speaking over the loudspeaker woke Isis. She looked over at Murphy, who was reading his Bible.

  He glanced at her and smiled. “Looks like you got some sleep.”

  “I did but I still feel tired.”

  “Sitting up isn’t the most restful sleep position,” Murphy agreed.

  Isis thought that it didn’t really matter how tired she was because she was with Michael… and it would be for a couple of weeks. Just being close to him made her heart beat fast. I wonder if there’s any hope that he’s feeling the same way.

  As the plane touched down and began to taxi, Isis was jarred back to reality. Out the window, she could see U.S. Air Force jets, helicopters, and military vehicles everywhere.

  ————

  Murphy, Isis, and Bingman were all surprised at how many people were flying in and out of the Baghdad Airport.

  “Well,” said Bingman, “I don’t know what I expected, but this is a busy place. It’s as packed as any airport in the U.S.”

  “Except there are a lot more military on security watch,” Isis replied. “It makes me feel insecure rather than safe. Weird, huh?”

  The words were just out of her mouth when a tall U.S. Marine captain approached. He was dressed in crisp desert fatigues and boots, wearing two shoulder holsters. He was flanked by two younger soldiers carrying rifles.

  “Are you Dr. Murphy?”

  “Yes. And this is Dr. Isis McDonald, and Dr. Wilfred Bingman.”

  The captain shook hands with everyone. “I’m Captain Michael Drake, and I serve under Colonel Davis, who is stationed in Babylon. He asked me to escort you. I’ll assist you through customs and we can then pick up your luggage. Hopefully, it will be a little faster with my help.

  “We have hotel rooms reserved for you in the Green Zone. It’s safe and well protected. Most of the news reporters and other dignitaries stay there. We won’t be leaving for Babylon for a couple of days. We’ll be joining a convoy going that direction. It will be safer that way.”

  “Captain Drake, we were supposed to meet an Egyptian friend in Baghdad, Jassim Amram. He’s supposed to travel with us to Babylon. Will he be able to enter the Green Zone?” Murphy asked. “Otherwise I can meet him outside.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. We’ve recently had a rash of bombings and security has tightened down. If he’s going to travel with us, we’ll have to meet him just outside of the zone.

  “Regarding leaving the Green Zone, you will be permitted in and out, but once you leave, you’ll no longer be under U.S. military protection. Americans do stand out in a crowd, and in some parts of Baghdad it would be extremely dangerous for you to travel alone.”

  “I appreciate that word of advice. We’ll keep it in mind.”

  Murphy, Isis, and Bingman were standing just outside of the Green Zone checkpoint as the sun was going down. It had been a very warm day, and they had been able to swim and relax after the long flight of the day before. It wasn’t long before an older Mercedes drove up and out stepped Jassim Amram.

  “Michael, it is so good to see you!”

  Amram was wearing his usual white suit, which hung loosely on his gangly frame. His rich mellifluous laugh rang out as he gave Murphy a big hug.

  He then turned toward Isis and smiled. “And the lovely Dr. McDonald.” Amram took her hand and gently kissed it.

  Bingman held out his hand. “I’m Wilfred Bingman. Nice to meet you.”

  “Well, come, come. Let’s not stand here. I have a good restaurant selected for tonight, and we can discuss this new adventure.”

  “Jassim, are you sure that it is all right for us to move away from the Green Zone? You know we’ll stick out like sore thumbs. Especially Isis with her red hair,” Murphy asked, worried.

  Amram waved his hand. “Michael, there is no problem. The area that we are going to go to is very safe and the food is excellent.”

  The men were deep in discussion about the Handwriting on the Wall when Isis began to look around the restaurant. She had felt uncomfortable for most of the evening. She knew that many of the men in the restaurant were looking at her. Although she had draped a scarf over her hair and was wearing long sleeves, she still stood out. The few other women there were looking at her and making comments. The experience was a little unnerving.

  I just need to relax, she told herself firmly. Jassim said it was safe.

  As she glanced around the room, she caught the eyes of an Arab eating by himself nearby. He immediately glanced away. As he turned, she thought she saw something on his neck—a tattoo?

  Could it be? He’s got the tattoo of an upside-down crescent on his neck with a star below it!

  Isis reached out and grasped Murphy’s hand under the table. He could tell something was wrong by her firm grip.

  He turned and looked at Isis while Bingman and Amram continued their conversation. Isis was looking in the direction of the man who was standing and leaving his table, and she looked frightened.

  She leaned over and whispered, “Did you see his tattoo? It was an upside-down crescent with a star under it on the side of his neck.”

  “Are you sure? How did one of Talon’s men find us here?” Murphy exclaimed.

  “Well, it is getting late,” Amram was saying. “I should get you back to the Green Zone. The military get very suspicious and have a hair trigger on anyone who approaches the zone after ten P.M.”

  Amram brought up the Handwriting on the Wall as they left the restaurant. Deep in discussion, they didn’t notice a dark vehicle approaching slowly.

  At the first sound of gunfire, Murphy reached out, pushed Isis to the ground, and covered her with his body. Amram and Bingman also hit the ground as bullets sprayed a brick wall and shattered the restaurant window.

  Then Murphy jumped to his feet, pulling Isis with him. “Run!” he shouted, heading for a dark alley next to the restaurant, dragging Isis along with him. Amram and Bingman were also up and running. Good. None of us has been hit.

  Murphy could hear the screech of brakes behind him. Whoever had shot at them had stopped and was backing up.

  As he ran down the alley, Murphy noticed an opening into a courtyard to his left. It was too narrow for a car to follow. The attackers would have to pursue on foot. Murphy turned into the opening, motioning for the others to follow, then ran across a courtyard, into another alley. They began to zigzag through alleys and yards in an attempt to escape. Soon they came to a small street on which there were a number of shops and restaurants.

  “Over there!” Amram shouted.

  They crossed the street and entered a small restaurant, breathing hard. Every head turned their way as they entered. The group tried to walk nonchalantly to a table at the
back, but it was obvious that they were out of place. Pairs of dark eyes followed them, focused on the three white faces. Americans never frequented this local hangout—especially a light-skinned woman with flaming red hair.

  Everyone knew that they were in trouble. Was there anyone in the room they could trust?

  Murphy, Isis, Bingman, and Amram looked up at the faces that were staring at them. Eventually a short stocky man approached and said something to Amram in Arabic. “The man says that we should follow him,” Amram translated.

  The stocky man led them through the kitchen, opened a door that led to the alley, and pointed.

  Obviously the man was giving them an escape route out the back. Maybe the people in the restaurant wouldn’t say anything to those pursuing them. It was worth a chance.

  The group walked quickly through several more alleys until they found a place to rest.

  “I am so sorry for what has happened,” Amram cried. “I can’t understand how we were targeted! I will work my way back to the car and come pick you up. Remain here. I will return as soon as I can.”

  “Be careful, Jassim. Those men are out there somewhere. We’ll keep in the shadows until you return,” Murphy replied.

  After ten minutes, Murphy, Isis, and Bingman heard the sound of people coming up the alley. They froze and waited in the shadows of a doorway. Isis, trembling, grabbed Murphy’s arm and stood close to him.

  Four men approached, slowed, and finally stopped right in front of the doorway where the Americans were hiding. Then one of the men lit a cigarette. In the flickering light, Murphy could see that one of the men carried an automatic weapon, two had knives, and the fourth had some sort of club. But the light also enabled the Arabs to see them.

  The one with the gun yelled and motioned for them to come out of the doorway. Murphy, Isis, and Bingman stepped forward.

  The four Arabs began to argue in Arabic. Quietly Isis began to interpret.

  “The large one with the knife says that they should kill us right here. The one with the gun is saying no. He thinks we should be taken to their leader for him to decide. The heavy one with the other knife says that they should behead us right now. The small one is arguing that they should have fun with me before they kill me.”

  Murphy looked at Bingman. Their eyes briefly met, and Bingman gave a slight nod. Murphy knew it was best to move while the Arabs were arguing. He went for the man with the automatic weapon. As he stepped forward, the man started to bring his gun up. Murphy’s left hand hit the weapon as it started to fire, deflecting the bullet.

  Murphy spun around in one spot, raising his right elbow and driving it into the gunman’s right temple. He was instantly down and out.

  Bingman took on the big man with the knife, who lunged straight forward. Bingman sidestepped, pulled off his jacket, and rolled it over his left arm as protection. The Arab lunged a second time, this time trying to stab Bingman in the face.

  Bingman blocked the knife with his jacket-covered arm. He drove his right fist in an uppercut motion into the Arab’s diaphragm. Then Bingman brought his knee up, breaking the man’s nose and shattering his cheekbone. He was through.

  Isis decided to take on the small man with the club—the one who wanted to have fun with her. As she started to charge him, he raised the club over his head and shouted, “White whore.” Suddenly she dropped down as if she were sliding into home base, raised her left foot, and drove it straight into his groin. The man dropped the club, rolling on the ground and wailing in pain.

  Isis picked up the club and was about to hit the Arab when Bingman grabbed her arm. “Allow me,” he said, driving his fist into the man’s face.

  In the meantime, Murphy had taken on the tall Arab with a knife. Murphy dropped down and did a leg sweep, knocking the man’s feet out from under him. He then jumped up and drove his heel down on the man’s hand that was holding the knife. The Arab screamed as his fingers broke. Then Murphy grabbed the knife, dropped to one knee, and placed the point on the tall man’s throat. He could see an upside-down crescent tattoo on the Arab’s neck.

  “Who sent you after us? Who are you working for?” Murphy cried.

  Isis translated. The man only moaned and clutched his broken fingers.

  Isis repeated the question as Murphy pushed on the knife, breaking the man’s skin and drawing a bead of blood.

  Finally the Arab spoke. “The man with the razor finger wants you dead,” Isis translated. “He says the people he works for need you eliminated.”

  “What do you mean, the people he works for?” Murphy asked, pressing his knee into the Arab’s belly.

  Again Isis translated what was said. “The Seven.”

  “The who? Who are the Seven?” Murphy asked.

  As soon as Isis translated that, a look of absolute terror came over the tall man’s face. Murphy knew that the man would die before he would reveal that secret. He tossed the knife away and drove a reverse punch into the man’s chest, rendering him unconscious.

  Bingman picked up the weapons, took out the automatic’s bullet clip, and tossed everything over a wall. Then he threw the bullet clip as far as he could in the other direction.

  Murphy ran to Isis, who was wild-eyed and breathing hard. Yet she did not look afraid. She looked like a wild tiger waiting for her next victim. He pulled her in his arms. “Are you okay?”

  “I am now,” she whispered, hugging him tight.

  Murphy was trying to process what had been said. The man with the razor finger—obviously Talon—works for a group of people called the Seven … and they want me dead. Why?

  As Jassim Amram drove up, he could see bodies lying in the alley. Three people were standing. They turned and looked into the lights of his Mercedes. He smiled and sighed with relief when he saw his American friends.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  STEPHANIE KOVACS TOOK a deep breath before she opened the door. She was on another, likely futile, job interview. Pull it together girl. Head up. Put on the big smile.

  Maybe this time she’d have more luck. After all, she had known Carlton Morris for years.

  Kovacs grabbed a Newsweek magazine and sat down, waiting for her appointment. Five turndowns this week. I don’t have many more options left, she thought morosely.

  She was halfway through an article on terrorism when the office door opened.

  “Stephanie Kovacs, how have you been?” Morris called out. With his bifocals perched on the tip of his nose, his untidy curly white hair, and his broad smile, he looked like Santa Claus without the beard.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Carlton,” Kovacs said soberly.

  ————

  The typical chitchat did not last long. Morris could see how upset Kovacs was.

  “Carlton, I need some help,” she began. “I’m out of a job right now, and I was wondering if you might have some openings here at Fox News.”

  “Yeah, I heard you were no longer working for Barrington Communications. The grapevine—” he broke off, grinning ruefully, then looking sympathetically into Kovacs’s eyes. “Stephanie, we’ve been friends for how many years?”

  “About thirteen.”

  “As your friend, I’ve got to be completely honest with you. The word is out on the street that Barrington’s got it in for you. Last week the president called me into his office and told me if you showed up looking for a job, I was to tell you that nothing was available. My hands are tied. I have to be honest. You’re been blackballed. You won’t be able to get any job in the East Coast or West Coast markets. You might find a weather reporting job in some small Midwest town, but I doubt it. Shane Barrington is out to ruin you. I’m so sorry.”

  Kovacs sat there silently for a moment. She had feared something like this would happen when she left Barrington. Yet she had to try to find a job in the field that she loved—and in which she was good.

  “I know, Carlton. I don’t hold it against you. It’s just discouraging. The thought of changing careers in midstream isn’t welcome.”<
br />
  “I’m sorry, honey. I wish there was something I could do.”

  ————

  It had not been easy for Kovacs to go to sleep. She had tossed and turned, worrying about her future, for hours. Finally the escape of sleep had come.

  Suddenly her eyes popped open and she held her breath. All of her senses were alert. What was that noise? How long have I been asleep? She listened, taking only shallow breaths. All was quiet. She glanced over at her digital clock: 2:30 A.M.

  She thought she had heard a creak coming from the wooden floor in her living room. But then it was silent. Is someone there? I locked the door and the windows. I must be having a bad dream.

  She lay there for another ten minutes, listening intently, but she heard nothing. I’ve got to check or I’ll never get to sleep. Carefully and quietly, she sat up and slowly opened the drawer of the nightstand next to her bed. She reached in and pulled out a .32 automatic.

  Kovacs crept to her open bedroom door, leaned forward, and looked into the living room. It was empty and quiet. Carefully she crossed the living room to the window that looked out on the city. She opened the blinds and peered out into the night. She could see a few lights in the apartment building across the avenue. There was no traffic down in the street.

  Maybe a cup of hot chocolate would help me go back to sleep.

  She entered the kitchen and looked around. There was nothing out of the ordinary. You’re just being foolish, she told herself.

  Kovacs set the automatic down on the table and walked to the pantry. After a moment’s hesitation, she returned to pick up the gun. Then she opened the door to the pantry. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect: Would the pantry be empty, or would someone be standing there in the dark?

  As she swung the door open, a broom fell out. She almost fired the gun in surprise, then she started laughing. She took the hot chocolate from the shelf, set the gun down on the counter, and started heating water. She then sat down at the table and thought, What am I going to do about work?

  She didn’t hear a sound. All she felt was an iron grip of a glove-covered hand over her mouth and a forearm choking her. His head and mouth were pressing against her right ear.