by Steve Alten
The National Security Advisor grabbed Ernest Lozano by his left wrist, his icy blue glare causing the former commando to freeze. “Things are in play, my friend. Big things. The world is going to change. So you spend what you need to spend and eliminate anyone who stands in our way. I expect to be in Tehran, pumping crude, in eighteen months. As such, I want Scythe weaponized no later than early spring. That, Mr. Lozano, is your timetable.”
September 11
VA Medical Center
Manhattan, New York
7:13 A.M.
The one armed man with the Jim Morrison looks and faraway eyes tossed ragged in his sleep, his mind caught in a hurricane of recycled memories…
“Where you from, Rook?”
“Brooklyn.” The twenty-three-year-old sporting the fresh crew cut and standard-issue Army tee shirt and briefs avoids the medical officer’s face, his eyes glued to the series of vaccinations the dark-haired physician is preparing.
“Greenwich Village, we’re practically neighbors. Got a name, Brooklyn?”
“Patrick Shepherd.”
“David Kantor. I’m CO of the medical party you’re assigned to. We play a lot of pickup games during downtime. You play hoops?”
“A little.”
“Yeah, you look like an athlete. Got a decent team, but most of my surgeons are ninety-day BOGers. We could use you.”
“BOGers?”
“Boots on the Ground. Surgeons rotate in every ninety days. Okay, this first shot is for anthrax. It’ll hurt a little, and by a little I mean it’ll feel like I injected a golf ball made of lava into your deltoid. Any preferences?”
“Yeah, don’t do it. Wait, Doc, not that arm, do my left shoulder, I’m a righty.”
David Kantor injects the elixir into his deltoid, the fire igniting thirty seconds later.
“Mutha F’er—”
“It’ll cool down, but you’ll feel that knot for about two weeks. This next shot is the bitch: Smallpox. Believe it or not, George Washington was the first one to inoculate his troops against the disease. Forward thinker, the general. Of course, when I say inoculate, I’m talking about sticking a fork into an infected soldier’s pox, then stabbing the person to be vaccinated a few dozen times with the pus. Plenty of Washington’s men died in the process, but the numbers were far better than the disease. The British were the first to use smallpox as a biological. Right arm or left?”
“Left.”
“You sure? I have to jab you fifteen times.”
“Just stick me… ahh!” Patrick winces, counting each injection out loud.
“They teach you some basic Arabic?”
“What’s your name? Drop your weapon. Do you need medical assistance? I’ll never remember it.”
“You’ll pick it up. Of course, they never teach you what the acceptable responses are.” Dr. Kantor finishes bandaging the area. “Okay, Brooklyn, this is important: You need to keep this area covered with a bandage for a month. Screw up, and you’ll get pox pustules that will itch like hell. Plus we may have to vaccinate you again. So don’t screw up. You all packed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure you have extra socks and tee shirts, plus batteries for your flashlights and cleaning kits for your weapons. Buy some Sharpies, too. Anything that doesn’t have a name on it walks away. Get a spool of the five-fifty paracord. It’s light and strong, makes a good clothesline for drying your laundry. And don’t forget duct tape. It fixes damn near everything, plus you’ll need it to tape down the straps on your rucksack. Telltale noises get soldiers shot. How are you handling the Kevlar body armor?”
“Stuff’s heavy.”
“Forty-five pounds with the ceramic rifle plates. Plus your Advanced Combat helmet. Plus your ECWCS — seven layers of tactical pouches, pockets, and vests holding enough equipment to outfit a Boy Scout troop hell-bent on destruction. It’s a lot of gear, but you’ll be glad you have it. Wouldn’t want to get your arm blown off…”
* * *
Leigh Nelson entered Ward 27, the physician heading straight for Master Sergeant Trett. “What happened, Rocky? What spooked him?”
The double-leg amputee sat up in bed. “I don’t know. He had the usual nightmares, then started freaking out about an hour ago.”
“Suicide threats?”
“No, not since that first day. This was different. Don’t forget what day it is.”
“September 11…”
Rocky nodded. “There’s a lot of us who enlisted because of that day. I’m guessing your boy was one of them.”
“Thanks, baby doll.” She left him, heading for the ward bathroom.
There were fist-sized holes in the drywall. One of the three community sinks had been torn from the wall, a mirror shattered. Two male orderlies had wrestled Patrick Shepherd to the ground. A nurse struggled to inject him with a sedative.
“Stick him already!”
“Hold him steady.”
“Wait!” Leigh Nelson positioned herself so that her patient could see her face. “Shep! Shep, open your eyes and look at me.”
Patrick Shepherd opened his eyes. He stopped struggling. “Leigh?”
The nurse jabbed the hypodermic needle into the left cheek of Shepherd’s buttocks. The one-arm amputee’s body went limp.
Dr. Nelson was livid. “Nurse Mennella, I told you to wait.”
“Wait for what? This man is a walking billboard for post-traumatic stress. He shouldn’t be in the VA, he should be in a sanitarium.”
“She’s right, Doc,” added one of the orderlies, palpating a fresh welt over his left eyebrow. “The guy’s a bull. From now on, I’m carrying a Taser.”
“He is still a veteran. Try to remember that.” Leigh Nelson gazed down at her inert patient, the knuckles of his right hand bleeding from punching the walls. “Put him back in his bed and use the restraints. Keep him sedated for the rest of the day. And nurse, the next time you take it upon yourself to ignore my instructions, you’ll find yourself on bedpan duty for a week.”
The nurse capped the hypodermic needle, waiting until Nelson was out of earshot. “Big deal. You want to pay me $45 an hour to clean bedpans, do it.”
The injured orderly helped his associate lift the sedated patient off the floor. “You did the right thing, Veronica. The doc’s just having a bad day.”
“No, that’s not it.” She grabbed Patrick’s right wrist, checking his pulse. “Nelson likes him.”
Columbia University
501 Schermerhorn Hall
Morningside, New York
9:58 A.M.
Founded in 1754 as King's College by the Church of England, Columbia University was a private Ivy League school that occupied six city blocks in Morningside Heights, a neighborhood situated between Manhattan's Upper West Side and Harlem.
Professor Pankaj Patel exited Schermerhorn Hall, accompanied by a female graduate student representing the Columbia Science Review. “I do not have a lot of time. Where do you want to do this?”
“Over here.” She led him to a park bench. Aimed the palm-sized camcorder, framing Patel’s face in her monitor. “This is Lisa Lewis for the CSR, and I’m with Professor Pankaj Patel. Professor, you’ve written a new book, Macrosocial Evil and the Corruption of America. Maybe you can begin by telling our bloggers what macrosocial evil is.”
The balding forty-three-year-old intellectual cleared his throat, unsure of whether to look at the girl or the camera. “Macrosocial evil refers to a branch of psychology which examines the pathological factors that are found among deviant individuals who, through the manipulation of wealth, political affiliations, and other affluent associations, prey on what they consider the moral weakness of society in order to rise to power.”
“In your book, you call these people psychopaths with power.”
“Correct. A psychopath, by definition, is an individual who engages in abnormal activity while lacking all sense of guilt. Imagine living your entire life having no conscience… no feelings of remors
e or shame, no sense of concern for others. When it comes to morality, you’re essentially without a soul, ruled by a sense of entitlement. Are you concerned about being different? Not at all. In fact, you consider it an asset, a strength — you are a wolf among sheep, acting while others hesitate. Sure, as a child, you were punished for microwaving the pet hamster or feeding firecrackers to the local duck population, but being a devious sort, you learned how to blend in, to appear ‘normal,’ all the while using your sociopathic tendencies to charm and manipulate your peers. For you, society’s laws have no meaning, you are governed by the Law of the Jungle… if you want something, you take it. And if you happen to be born into the right family, the right social class, well then, the sky’s the limit.”
“What about political figures? You’ve actually named names on both sides of the political spectrum, including a certain former vice president. Are you worried about being sued?”
“What I worry about is a world run by members of the military-industrial complex who believe they have the right to kill innocent people in order to achieve their objectives.”
“The book is called Macrosocial Evil and the Corruption of America, the author is Columbia’s own Professor Pankaj Patel, and I am Lisa Lewis for CSR online.” The reporter powered off the camera. “Thank you, Professor.”
“That was a good interview. Did you enjoy my book?”
“Actually, I only read the inside flap. But I’m sure it’s a great read.”
He sighed, watching her leave. Crossing Amsterdam Avenue, he headed straight for the blue lunch truck parked along the curb. “Yes, I’d like a turkey sandwich on wheat, lettuce and tomato—”
“—and a bottled water, got it.” The proprietor handed him his usual brown bag lunch, then swiped his debit card.
Making up for lost time, Patel ate as he walked, heading for Low Memorial Library. An hour of research, then an hour at the gym before my last class. I should call Manisha again. September 11 is always a difficult day for her and—
“Professor Patel, a quick question please?”
He turned, expecting to see the reporter, startled to find an Asian beauty in her twenties. Dressed in a black suit and chauffeur’s hat.
“How many letters are there in God’s name?”
The jolt of adrenaline seemed to electrify the pores of his skin. “Forty-two.”
She smiled. “Come with me, please.”
Suddenly feeling numb, he followed her across the street to an awaiting stretch limousine, his legs trembling beneath him. She opened the rear passenger-side door. “Please.”
Unsure, he looked inside.
The car was empty.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace close. You will not miss your next class.”
He hesitated, then climbed in back, feeling like Alice entering the rabbit’s hole.
The limousine turned right on 116th Street, then made another right on Broadway. Heading north, they entered Hamilton Heights, a neighborhood of grad students and ethnic professionals, named after Alexander Hamilton, one of America’s founding fathers.
The driver parked curbside at 135th Street, then exited the vehicle, opening the door for the nervous college professor. She handed Patel a magnetic entry key, then pointed to a seven-story building across the street. “Suite 7-C.”
Unsure, Patel took the key and headed for the apartment building.
The doorman greeted him with a smile, as if he’d been expected. He nodded, crossing the marble-laden lobby to the elevators, using the magnetic card to summon a car.
Suite 7-C was on the top floor. Patel stepped out onto plush gray carpeting, the corridor empty. Locating the doubled oak door of Suite 7-C, he again used the keycard and gained entry.
The condo had an empty elegance hinting at Asian design. Polished bamboo floors led to floor-to-ceiling bay windows and a balcony overlooking the Hudson River. The living room was sparsely decorated — a white leather wraparound sofa, a flat-screen television, and a glass kitchen table. The high-priced apartment appeared to be unlived in.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
Welcome.
The voice resonated in his brain, causing Patel to jump. He looked around, his scalp tingling, the thinning black hairs along the back of his neck standing on end.
Follow my utterance.
Taken aback, yet sensing he was in no danger, Patel walked past the living area to a short alcove and the master bedroom. The door was open, the king-size bed made up but empty. Hesitant, he peeked inside the master bathroom.
The whirlpool tub was rectangular, sized to hold two adults. It was filled with water.
Come closer.
Unnerved, Pankaj stepped forward until he was looming over the tub.
The small Asian man was underwater, lying faceup along the bottom. A white loincloth barely covered his groin, the color nearly blending with his pinkish ivory flesh, as hairless and shiny as the porcelain. The man’s ankles and wrists were held down by Velcro-covered weights, his eyes fixed open, revealing opaque pupils.
The body appeared lifeless. The smile was serene.
Patel fought the urge to flee. As he watched, the left side of the man’s bare chest jumped, the double cardiac beat releasing a ripple of blood that pulsated through his veins.
Incredible. How long has he been underwater?
Just over an hour.
Patel gasped a breath. “How are you—” Closing his eyes, he restated the question, this time saying it only in his thoughts. How are you able to communicate with me telepathically?
Through extensive study and the discipline acquired through time, I have been able to access the full extent of my brain. I sense you are uncomfortable. Please wait for me in the outer room. I shall only be a moment.
Pankaj backed out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He paused a brief second, long enough to hear a bizarre humming sound.
The professor double-timed it into the living room, certain that the Asian man had just levitated out of the tub.
He appeared ten minutes later, dressed in a gray Columbia University sweat suit, white socks, and Adidas sneakers. “Less unnerving?”
“Yes.”
Moving to the refrigerator, the Asian man removed two bottles of water, the green label adorned in a ten-pointed figure, branded pinchas water. He handed one to Patel, then sat across from him on the couch.
Patel stared at the man’s skin, which appeared to be entirely composed of keratin, the fibrous protein substance found—
“—in fingernails. Yes, my skin is slightly different than yours, Professor. Those who have come to know me have endeared me with the name, ‘the Elder.’ I know you have many questions. Before I provide you with the answers, let us begin with a simple deduction. Why are you here?”
“My teacher, Jerrod Mahurin. Before he died, he told me a man of great wisdom would seek me out. Are you that man?”
“Let us hope. What else did he tell you?”
“That I was to replace him in some sort of secret society… nine men hoping to bring balance to the world.”
“Again, let us hope.” The Asian man took a sip of water, then closed his opaque eyes, his face as serene as a pond on a windless day. “Little is known about the Society of the Nine Unknown Men. Our history traces back more than twenty-two centuries, to the year 265 b.c. and our founder, Emperor Asoka, the ruler of India and the grandson of Chandragupta, a warring leader who used violence to unify his nation. Asoka’s first taste of battle came when his army laid siege upon the region of Kalinga, his men slaughtering one hundred thousand foreign combatants. It is said the sight of the massacre mortified the Emperor, the senselessness of the bloodshed causing him to forever renounce war.”
Patel interrupted, excited. “I learned about Asoka when I studied back in India. The Emperor converted to Buddhism, adopting the Conquest of Dharma—principles of a right life. He preached respect toward all religions. The practice of positive virtues.”
“To find these answers, Asoka secretly recruited nine of Asia’s most renowned wise men — the greatest sages, scientists, and thinkers in the land. The Society of the Nine Unknown Men was tasked with seeking the truth about existence. Each member was responsible for recording his assigned body of information in a sacred text so that the acquired knowledge could be passed on to an apprentice worthy of safeguarding the information.
“Emperor Asoka died in 238 b.c., having never obtained the answers he coveted. His leadership would be missed; over the next three centuries India would suffer a series of invasions, falling under the spell of foreign rulers. But the quest of the Nine would go on.
“In a.d. 174, a man named Gelut Panim, a blood descendant of Emperor Asoka and one of the appointed lineage of the Nine, heard a strange tale about a man in the Holy Land who could walk on water and heal the sick. Seeking this man’s wisdom, the Tibetan traveled to the city of Jerusalem, only to learn he had arrived too late, that the holy man, known as Rabbi John ben Joseph, had been tortured to death by the Romans.”
“You are speaking of Jesus.”
“Correct. Panim learned that much of Jesus's teaching came from his study of Kabbalah, an ancient wisdom that had been passed down from God to Abraham the Patriarch, who encoded it in the Book of Formation. Moses acquired the knowledge at Mount Sinai, only the Israelites were not ready for it — its energy remained buried in the original tablets. For the next fourteen centuries the Jewish sages kept the ancient wisdom hidden, encoded in the Torah's original Aramaic.