by D. I. Telbat
But no one said anything, and Titus moved deeper into the room, his piglets restless in his case. They hadn't eaten since they'd been with their sow mother a few hours earlier. As long as they didn't die before he needed them, he knew they'd be just the desired backup, especially in the small room in which he'd been left.
Titus circled the room, then stopped in front of a handcuffed man, a face he knew. It was Rasht Hassad, the very man he and Corban had broken out of the Uzbek prison!
The situation into which he'd stepped suddenly hit Titus full force. He whirled around and studied the bearded man in the chair. Of course! Corban Dowler, though his gaze was averted, was the bearded man in the chair! The giant by the door must've been another of Corban's men, probably a COIL operative who spoke Arabic. He most likely had a weapon under his parka, one of the NL-2 machine pistols Titus had learned to appreciate.
The rest of the gunmen around the room looked to be Hassad's bodyguards. Titus preferred to control the elements of his interactions with clients, but Corban was already on the scene, apparently with a better plan than what Titus had in mind: to loose the pigs and shoot his way to Annette Sheffield, who he guessed had to be close by.
In front of Corban, Titus knelt, as if bowing to a king.
"I did not expect to enter the company of your greatness, my prince of all that is wise." He spoke in Arabic for the sake of Hassad's soldiers. "How may I be of assistance to you this dark night?"
"I am thankful for your presence," Corban replied in Arabic, then switched to German. "Hassad will return any minute. Can you get Rasht and Annette out safely? He and I will take care of Crac." Corban nodded at the bearded giant at the door.
Two men taking on Crac Hassad and all his men? Titus nodded.
"Fine, I'll take Rasht and Annette, whenever you make your move. Where's Annette being held?"
"I believe you know Ahmed Shofar from your factory days."
Titus smiled. His eyes met those of the masked militant—who wasn't a militant at all—standing at Corban's side.
"A masked angel, indeed. Please tell me you have a plan."
"I might now that you're here. What's in your case?"
"Two little pigs that went to Gaza."
"Interesting. Please tell me you haven't laced them with some terrible disease for Hassad."
"Of course not!" Titus sighed. Corban was the only one who could put him in his place. Well, maybe Oleg, too. "Okay, I deserved that. But no, I'm just here for the masked angel."
"I sure wish you were one of God's children, Titus." Corban's voice seemed weaker than normal. "I'd feel better about risking your life for others if I knew you were in His arms rather than a child of wrath in the power of Satan."
"Power of Satan?" Titus almost fell over backward. "How dare you!"
"We are either motivated by Christ or influenced by the power of Satan. Why are you here? Try to appease your conscience by your good deeds, Titus, and you'll only grow further from your Creator. Satan's desire is to keep people from dedicating themselves fully to God, which means yielding to His mercy and life-giving death for your sins."
"Really? You're preaching to me right here? We could die in five minutes!"
"Think about that, Titus. You could be standing before God in five minutes. You've broken every holy command of God's law many times over. Do you have a lighter?"
"Yeah, right here." Titus touched his pocket. "What do you need?"
"Spark a flame and hold your hand in the flame."
"You're crazy, old man." Titus moved his hand away from his pocket. "I'm not going to do that!"
"It's not as hot as the place you'll be sent for refusing your Lord and Savior. He died for you, and now you'll be twice condemned. You came here to be a hero, but you're the one who needs to be rescued. Look at your life, Titus. You can't cleanse your sins away. The harder you try, the more of a mess you make."
"I'm not trying to cleanse them!"
"Because God is a just God, He won't even forgive you to welcome you into His presence until you trust in His payment for your sins. Take His side against sin, Titus. You're lost—unless you trust in the value of the cross of Christ, just as God values His death for you."
"Shut up. Just shut up." Titus, still kneeling, pivoted away, then turned back to glare at the man. On the floor beneath Corban's chair was a drop of blood. From Titus' angle, the fresh blood glistened in the lamp light. As he watched, another drop fell from the back of Corban's chair.
Since childhood in Arkansas, Titus had heard the story of the crucifixion. He'd sat through children's church for years, his sister Wynter sitting between Titus and their older brother, Rudy. She'd often been the peacemaker between the two brothers. They'd always been at odds, but now, Titus would do anything to go home, to see one of Wynter's smiles, or gasp through one of Rudy's bear hugs. It was those simple things he missed most.
And here was a man, clearly bleeding to death, telling him about Christ's blood that could erase away the filthy sins of his past, the sins that had driven him from his family, from his country, from a clear conscience, from God's grace.
"How badly are you wounded?" Titus asked.
"Bad enough to need you to follow through tonight." Corban held out his hand. "Can I count on you?"
Titus gazed at that hand. The mighty Corban Dowler, agent of agents, the Ghost of the Cold War, and now founder of COIL—extending his hand of acceptance and need to him, Titus Caspertein, the Serval. Taking that hand, Titus knew, would mean more than just shaking a man's hand. It was a symbol. It was a decision. He felt his whole life was about to change, and it had everything to do with Corban Dowler, and yet, nothing at all.
This was about Jesus Christ.
Taking Corban's hand, Titus gripped it firmly as he rose to his full height. Corban's own grip was feeble, and Titus knew the man was losing more blood than could be seen. His clothes were probably soaking up the blood, and only now they were beginning to drip from saturation. What terrible thing had happened to him that he'd been so wounded?
Leaving Corban, Titus positioned himself against the wall to the bearded giant's left. From that angle, Titus faced Corban and Annette. Rasht was to his left, and the militants were all around.
There seemed to be no hope, but Titus still felt hope. He believed. For the first time in his life, he believed. God was no longer far away. God was with him. And he was with God. He was on God's side!
#######
Sohayb Hassad entered the room lit by LED lamps. This was his opportunity to speak privately to Muhammad ibn Affal before Uncle Crac returned. He passed the rogue Titus Caspertein, who he knew of, but not as well as Muhammad.
"Sheik Muhammad, please receive your humble servant." Sohayb took the legendary jihadist's hand and kissed it. "My uncle will return in a few minutes. May we speak confidentially?"
"Of course." Muhammad touched Sohayb's head. "Any relative of Crac Hassad may have my ear."
Sohayb leaned closer to the seated man, hoping none of his uncle's men heard their conversation, though he didn't mind Muhammad's masked man who stood close by.
"Sheik, I have felt Allah may be leading me toward other exploits." Sohayb tested his words as he said them. If Muhammad's loyalty to his uncle was strong, Sohayb could be warranting his own strangling or beheading. But if Muhammad was just another arms dealer . . . "Gaza's burdens have not held my attention as of late."
"I see." Muhammad's face was half-covered by the bushy beard that reached his chest, but Sohayb could see the man watching him closely. "Your uncle may have gone in a direction others do not choose to go."
"Yes." Yes! A thousand times, yes! Sohayb could barely contain his relief. This wily man understood the matter perfectly. "Perhaps an apprenticeship under a traveled man of wisdom could teach me much. I was born in Iran, but my whole life, I have lived in Gaza, never leaving."
"There may be a place in my employ for you." Muhammad paused, and Sohayb wanted to shake the man to continue. "I do things much
differently than your uncle. In fact, your uncle and I don't share the same vision as many believe."
Sohayb nodded, though he didn't understand completely. Was Muhammad saying he wasn't really in support of the Palestinian uprising, or was there some deeper Islamic principle?
"I have heard of you since I was a small child. How may I walk in your footsteps after this night?"
"Why wait until after this night?" Muhammad placed a gentle hand on Sohayb's shoulder. "Tell me about your father, Rasht Hassad."
"Did you know him in Iran? I did not know, Sheik Muhammad!"
"We first met due to mutual pursuits, and definitely for a common faith."
"My father died when I was young, martyred by Israeli Mossad agents in Iran. They ambushed him after they killed my whole family. My uncle saved me from their same fate. My father is a hero. He's the reason I have remained fighting the Jews, but the people who actually killed him must be very old by now, perhaps already dead themselves. Revenge has evaded me. The Jewish blood I've shed has not appeased my grief."
"What you speak of are lies you've been told." Muhammad leaned closer. "Your father wasn't killed by Israeli agents. Neither was the rest of your family."
"What?" Sohayb rose quickly to his feet and stepped away from the great sheik of Egypt. No one had ever spoken so plainly to him. Suddenly, he was angry at the sheltered life he'd lived. All he knew of the outside world had been filtered by his uncle. If what he knew about his father's death were lies, then Crac Hassad was the liar! "How do you know this? I need proof."
"Your father is a close friend of mine, even today." Muhammad waved him closer, and Sohayb obliged. "We're closer than blood brothers. I would die for your father, Sohayb."
Sohayb felt the weight of the pistol in his shoulder holster. His father was alive? And this man would die for him? He felt such confusion. He wanted to kill his uncle for lying to him. A sob rose in his chest. His father was alive!
"Sheik, you've broken apart my whole existence. I don't know what to say or think! Where's my father? Does he know I'm here, alive, in Gaza? Is he still in Iran? I don't have papers to travel to Iran."
"Swear to me you will not harm your uncle." Muhammad looked intently into his eyes. "I can't take you to your father if your uncle's blood is on your hands. Leave him to others who wait for their own moment."
"But my uncle raised me to think—"
"Swear it!"
"I agree. I won't kill him. Where is my father? You must tell me, please!"
"You must follow my instructions exactly. Are you prepared? I'll send you to your father before dawn."
A sob escaped Sohayb's lips. He covered his mouth until he was able to speak again. Was this really happening?
"Yes. I'm prepared. Tell me what to do. I'm yours, Sheik Muhammad."
"Your endeavors in Gaza are now over. You'll join me and your father, even if our direction may turn your whole life and belief system upside down. Do you accept?"
"How can I not? If my uncle has taught me what I know, and it's all a lie, then I must choose another way. Tell me what to do."
"I must end your uncle's reign here tonight. Do you have a safe way out of Gaza? You won't need papers. You must only leave Gaza."
Sohayb thought of the drone tunnel. All the work he'd done to set up the attack against Israel—all for his uncle—now seemed inconsequential in light of being reunited with his father again, in the company of this great man. Could it be true?
"Yes. I can be in Israel in twenty minutes."
"Very well. Listen carefully. There's a man over there in handcuffs. Take him now and go to Israel. Are you listening?"
"Yes. I'll take him. What do I do in Israel?"
"Find an IDF man named Colonel Yasof."
"Colonel Yasof? The commander of the invasion?" Sohayb gasped. "Do you want me to kill this colonel?"
"No. He'll keep you safe and under guard until I can reach you."
"But I'm to surrender to the IDF? With this handcuffed man? It's suicide for me! I'm Sohayb Hassad! I've done . . . terrible things against Israel, things this Colonel Yasof surely knows about. He will—"
"Do as I say, Sohayb. Leave now. Don't speak to anyone. Go. Leave this life behind."
"I'll do as you say, but only because of my father."
Sohayb had never been more confused, yet he'd never felt as light as he did this moment. He had not imagined IDF Colonel Yasof would know someone like Muhammad ibn Affal, but if Muhammad said the colonel could be trusted, then so be it!
Crossing the room, Sohayb approached the bearded man in handcuffs and the men he had known since childhood.
"The prisoner is mine now. I'm taking him to the basement. Stay here. My uncle should return any moment."
The men didn't hesitate to turn over the prisoner. Now, Sohayb wanted desperately to leave the room before his uncle really did return. Crac Hassad was upstairs, conferring with his advisors and organizing threats all over Gaza. There were also many political stratagems to consider in the aftermath of the drone attack on the Dome of the Rock. But none of that seemed possible now, not if Muhammad ibn Affal was against his uncle. And if Sohayb was really leaving it all, maybe it didn't matter to him anymore. All that mattered was finding his father.
*~*
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gaza
Rasht Hassad glanced at Corban Dowler as the slender gunman took him by the arm and led him out. For nearly an hour, Rasht had stood amongst his brother's militants and listened to the exchanges in Arabic, a language he didn't know. Corban's Muhammad ibn Affal identity had demanded much respect from the Palestinians, but Rasht knew that respect was based on a thin bluff and failing beard epoxy. And if Rasht's eyesight wasn't deceiving him in the lamp light, Corban was bleeding.
Whoever the slim gunman was who Corban had spoken quietly to, Rasht knew he had to submit to him, rather than ask questions that could raise suspicions. Rasht had to trust Corban, a man who had already gone to great lengths to free him from the Uzbek prison.
Reaching a set of stairs, Rasht and his escort descended into the darkness of a basement. At the lower level, his escort flicked on a flashlight and shined it across a large room that smelled like earth. Instead of using the flashlight to light their way, the gunman turned it off and continued leading him forward. Occasionally, he turned the light on to orient himself, then they returned to darkness. By this, Rasht understood they were in danger, and Corban had placed him in the hands of someone who knew a route to safety.
If Rasht had any reason to resist leaving his captive status with Corban, it was because he hadn't yet been traded for the life of the missing woman, Annette Sheffield. Hadn't he entered Gaza to rescue her life? If only he'd learned Arabic, he would've known what had been said in the room. Raised in Iran, Rasht had spoken Persian and read some Arabic from the Quran. When his family had been murdered and he'd run to Uzbekistan, Rasht had learned Uzbek and some Russian. He'd known English since grade school, when Americans had lived in their Tehran neighborhood.
Suddenly, Rasht guessed what was happening. He was being exchanged for Annette still. They must be on the way to her now. Any minute, they would arrive to where she was being held. All the secrecy and caution must have been because Israel was hunting for tunnels and militants.
It had been frightening to see his older brother, Crac, but his brother hadn't seemed to notice him. This was both a relief and a sorrow. He'd known for years that his brother had been instrumental in exposing Rasht's Christianity to the Iranian secret police. With his family in Iran dead, Rasht hadn't remained in Iran to risk further violence from his brother. Instead, Rasht had forgiven Crac, then moved on with his life to share his faith with the Uzbeks. Now, it seemed only a matter of time before he, like his family, would die at Crac's hands.
A few paces into the tunnel, walking side by side, the young gunman turned on the flashlight and left it on, aimed at the earthen floor. His escort spoke a command in Arabic, but Rasht didn't respond.
If things got violent, he guessed he could always break the handcuff link and escape somehow, but he didn't want to spoil any plans Corban was using him for. Rasht was more than content with death, for the life of another. He guessed those who wanted to kill simply lacked the love of God in them. After all the deaths Rasht had witnessed in Iran and Uzbekistan, Christ's love in him was still a beacon of bright light against the hatred and violence. As Christ had died for him, Rasht understood love, not hatred, was the only true weapon against the wickedness in these men's hearts. He prayed that in his moment of death, he would represent Christ.
The tunnel sloped down, then up again, and after walking for what seemed like a kilometer, Rasht was stopped by his escort. The flashlight was turned off, and slowly, Rasht's eyes focused on a dim artificial light ahead. It was still night.
The young man spoke to him again. The words were not harsh. More like conversation, or simple information. Rasht didn't see how to continue unless they could communicate openly, but it was unlikely the Gazan gunman knew Uzbek or Russian.
"I don't speak Arabic," Rasht said in English. "Do you speak English or Persian?"
The flashlight shined in his eyes. Rasht nearly broke the cuff link as he raised his hands to shield his face.
"Yes, I speak Persian." The young man stepped closer, the flashlight brighter. "Why am I risking my life for a man Sheik Muhammad ibn Affal told me to take to an Israeli colonel? And why is this man wearing handcuffs?"
"I have many questions as well, but perhaps our friend Muhammad would say it best: things are not as they seem." Rasht laced his fingers together. With more strength than he thought it would take, he broke the cuff chain apart, leaving a cuff bracelet on each wrist. "Should we go now, or discover why we may be the only two men in Gaza who speak Persian?"
"Crac Hassad speaks Persian. He was born in Iran."
"Of course. Crac."
"My uncle."
"Your uncle?" Rasht's initial thought was that their father must've sired other children who had families. But he and Crac had been alone as siblings. If this Palestinian gunman was indeed Crac's nephew, then that made him Rasht's son. But how was that possible? His family had been killed in Iran! "Many years ago, there was a wild boy named Sohayb. His father taught him to swim and run and read. The boy loved his three sisters, proven through his many pranks to make them scream and laugh. Then his mother and sisters would retaliate with pillows—pillow fights that raged until their father returned home. The family would sit and listen to their father's stories of the God of heaven, of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, of Samson, David, and Daniel. This boy Sohayb was only five years old, but he learned quickly the truths of God's love, and how God became a Man in the flesh named Jesus, to be the final sacrifice for man. Jesus was resurrected from the dead to prove He was God, triumphant over death, and able to give others eternal life. Are you . . . that boy, Sohayb?"