by Trevor Scott
Carlos Gomez had summoned his driver early that morning, a couple of hours before sunrise, and was picked up at the Barcelona marina. Although his current friend, his stewardess, had wanted to go with him. She was not allowed at this pilgrimage. This was an invitation only event, with the public stopped down the winding road on either side and given a bogus excuse why Spain’s most inspiring religious site would be off limits this day. The masses would not get to rub the Black Madonna this day, Gomez thought, as his driver rounded the final turn and pulled over in a bus parking lot. The road from there was closed today even to the invited guests. He would have to walk the final couple hundred meters to the monastery structures ahead.
A hint of sun started to lighten the sky slightly as Gomez got out and gave his driver instructions to hang tight. There was a small restaurant next to the parking lot where all drivers would hang out speculating on what their bosses were doing here.
As Gomez walked along the street toward the monastery, he could see others ahead stopping at an open area with what would be a spectacular view of the valley some 1200 meters below. He had been to this sacred area a number of times over the years, and it never failed to take his breath away.
Dozens lingered and shot photos from their phones as the sun started to rise. Since Gomez had seen this view before, he simply kept walking, his hands in his pockets fending off the cold February breezes. This would be the coldest moment of the day, he knew.
Ahead he found the stairs that cut off the distance to Santa Maria de Montserrat Abbey. Others stood up at the square in front of the monastery taking photos—the view here even more spectacular than below. The mountains were framed by a wall with Roman arches, and those were accented by statues of religious significance.
Now he wandered into the main Catholic basilica, dipped his right hand into a massive basin of holy water and touched his forehead. Then he finished crossing himself and moved into a side corridor that led to a number of smaller chapels. He checked his watch and realized he was right on time. Not for the main meeting, but for his initial one-on-one with an old friend.
Gomez climbed the stairs and entered a tiny room with the Black Madonna. He considered passing right through, but decided to stop and honor the statue by rubbing the globe in her hand. The Madonna had not been built black. She was carved from wood and that wood had turned black over the years from candle smoke.
Next, he went through the other exit and found his way down to a remote chapel behind the main basilica altar. Inside this small room was another altar. Behind that sat a statue of a knight dressed in white with a red cape and a red cross on his chest. Rumor had it that the Holy Grail sat somewhere deep in the mountain behind this chapel, but Gomez guessed this was a marketing ploy by the monks to bring in more pilgrims. Money, he knew, was a necessary evil for these monks. A monastery this big, with only 80 monks, required a lot of funds to maintain. And those who were about to meet, himself included, had been generous benefactors over the years.
Just seconds after reaching this chapel, another figure appeared from the left exit. Despite this man’s great wealth, he wore simple attire—a leather jacket over a gray sweater, blue jeans, and a pair of Nike running shoes.
His friend came to him and gave him a bear hug. Then they simultaneously kissed each other on both cheeks. Graf Johann von Götzen was a descendent of Prussian aristocracy. But now he ran one of the largest internet software companies in the world from his Berlin headquarters.
“How have you been, Johann?” Gomez asked.
Since Gomez spoke only rudimentary German, and the Prussian’s command of Spanish was equally deficient, they always spoke in English.
“You mean with the disturbances we’ve seen in Berlin recently?”
“I’m sorry to hear about the incident at the Brandenburg Gate yesterday.”
“It was not an accident,” Johann said. “This is why our people march, Carlos.”
The two of them had discussed Europe’s Muslim problem many times. Gomez guessed Johann’s ancestors had been equally burdened in the past, even though the Ottoman Empire had never reached as far north as Prussia. They had devastated parts of Germanic Austria. They both knew the reach of the Caliphate would soon spread throughout Europe without proper intervention.
Johann continued, “Tell me about our progress.”
“We continue to hire friends of the cause,” Gomez said.
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“That those barbarians have taken your nephew hostage?”
“How do you know this?”
“A mutual friend. It doesn’t matter. What are you doing to get our people back?”
His friend Johann called all native Europeans ‘his people.’ He was one of the leading advocates of deporting all Muslims back to their home of record, despite their country of birth. Birth rights meant nothing unless they were traditional natives.
“I have a plan in motion,” Gomez assured his friend. He knew that Johann had contacts in nearly every military and intelligence agency in Europe. What they both knew so far had come from Johann’s contacts.
“Good, my friend.” Johann’s disposition went from concern to relieved in just seconds. “What will you bring up to the agenda today?”
That was a good question. This group was made up of everyone from business leaders to royalty. The first known meeting, or at least the first reported meeting, took place at the Bilderberg Hotel in the Netherlands in 1954. Although the agenda had changed many times over the years, this one was expected to center around the growing Muslim problem. Terrorism had gone from large-scale seminal events to coordinated small-scale attacks that disrupted the average citizens. Nobody felt safe in normally sedate cities across Europe. Even their American cousins had felt the wrath of these beasts in recent years.
“I plan on discussing our final crusade,” Gomez said. “A counter Caliphate.”
Johann smiled and shook his head. “I was hoping you would say this. I believe the group is ready to act. Just as we have. We need them.”
Gomez knew this. Their funding could only go so far. The same with their recruiting efforts. As it was they had tapped in to every military organization in Europe, from the French Foreign Legion to the Norwegian Army. Most of their recruits now came from former American special forces—the best in the business. But their recruiting efforts could use more large-scale assets to support these special forces. He had already started to deploy intelligence satellites disguised as communications satellites. Yet, those only went so far. Once they could pinpoint a target, they needed to be able to destroy it with air power.
“I know, Johann,” Gomez said. “A lot of good people have sat on the sidelines. They have been trained as warriors, but pacifistic governments have appeased progressive forces, paralyzed them to inaction.”
“You know I agree, Carlos.”
“Good. Then second my motion. And let’s ramp up our forces in Africa.”
Gomez and his network had built up camps across north Africa, through the Middle East and into the mountains of Kurdistan to counter the efforts of the Islamic Caliphate. Soon they would move and wipe out the threat. Domestically, they would move to force the European governments to deport Muslims back to their ancestral homes. Gomez knew that battle would be harder than the one with bullets. But maybe recent events, with crowds of real citizens rising up, would be the tipping point they needed to make this change a reality.
Johann gave his friend another big hug. Then, as others began to arrive, they separated and sat on opposite sides of the chapel. Nearly seventy-five leaders would soon be here together deciding the fate of nations. Gomez knew that governments in Europe were nothing more than figure-heads. This was the real power. The force of action. If they wouldn’t act, damn it, he would.
11
Tangier, Morocco
Jake and his growing crew had spent most of the day hanging out at Sinclair Tucker’s place in Gibraltar, only leaving once for a la
rge meal down on Main Street. Jake had called the pilot of the billionaire’s Gulfstream, explaining that they would be staying until the next morning.
Now, Jake and Sirena stood at the port rail of the ferry from Gibraltar to Tangier, a cold breeze swooping in through the straits from the Atlantic lifting the waves to white caps. The two-hour ferry ride had been a bit rough, but now they could see the city ahead, the lights starting to come on as early evening darkness set in. Jake guessed it would have been brighter if it were not for the overcast sky and the impending rain.
On the boat ride Sirena and Jake had spent some time speculating on the whereabouts of the medical team taken hostage. But they had also started to discuss mutual friends in the intelligence game.
“I was sorry to hear about the death of Toni Contardo,” Sirena said, her eyes concentrating on the approaching city.
“Thanks,” Jake said. “We were good friends.”
She turned to him. “More than that, from what I heard.”
“At one time.” Now Jake turned away, his arms leaning against the railing. He had tried to put Toni out of his mind for the past couple of years. But Jake wasn’t sure he was ready to forgive her for not telling him about the son they had together. And Jake knew he needed to try to build some sort of relationship with this good, young man. Would he have been there for the boy if Jake had known about him? He would like to think so.
“How do you know Chad Hunter?” she asked.
“We met at a security conference in Europe. I was talking about the soft underbelly of appeasement and pacifistic tendencies by western European governments, and Chad was pitching the new Hypershot rifle to their military leaders.”
“We could use at least one of those rifles on this mission,” she said. “I could make a call.”
Jake turned back to her and he could see that she was getting cold. Her nose was red, her hands in her pockets, and her shoulders tightened. “I think Carlos Gomez can get us just about anything we need,” Jake said.
“Good point.” She hesitated and visibly shivered. “Can we get inside now?”
Looking out to the port of Tangier, Jake saw that they would be pulling in within minutes. He checked his watch. They had less than an hour to meet with Kurt Jenkins’ contact in the Medina.
They wandered inside and found their way to the gangway. The two of them would be the first to get off the ferry. Jake guessed not many people were in a hurry to see the city. From what Sinclair Tucker had said, there wasn’t much to see here. Most people just came across from Spain for the day to get a stamp on their passports, collect another country and continent, and buy cheap rugs and trinkets. Tucker had also informed them that they couldn’t take their guns. Security would be tight—more on the way out than the way in. Which didn’t make Jake happy. He felt like he was naked without his gun.
Sirena wrapped a scarf over her head and around her neck. With her dark hair and complexion, she could easily pass for a local, Jake thought.
Once they disembarked, they walked into town, getting hassled by young and old men trying to sell them cheap crap or to work as a walking guide to the Kasbah and Medina areas. Jake nearly kicked a few asses, but they finally went away when Sirena said something to them in Arabic.
“What did you say?” Jake asked.
“I said I was a resident.”
“I think you said more than that.”
She shrugged and smiled. “I might have told them we didn’t want any of their cheap shit made in China.” She paused. “And then I told them to go fuck a goat.”
Jake laughed. “I knew there was a good reason to bring you along.”
As they left the port area and entered the tight, narrow streets of the old town, or Medina, Jake was glad that he and Sirena had studied a map of the area at Tucker’s place. The Medina was a maze of narrow passages. Almost everywhere Jake went could be broken down through his olfactory glands. In the case of Tangier, he would now associate this place with a blend of kabobs smoking on hibachis with cigarettes and sewage. Not exactly perfect, he thought, but somehow familiar with other places in north Africa and the Middle East.
Young men lingered around every corner, leaning against ancient white walls smoking cigarettes. Again, everyone wanted a piece of them. Jake knew that the only way to deal with folks like this was to physically brush them away. Too many were looking to pick his pockets. But they would never do that to Jake. Everything he had was zipped in and secured.
“Are you ready to rock the Kasbah?” Jake asked Sirena.
“Not really. I wish I had my gun.”
“I hear ya. But I’ve spent some time in a north African prison, and it’s not pretty.”
“I heard about that,” she said. “Tunisia, right?”
“You’re well informed about me. I wish I could say the same of you.”
Sirena stopped suddenly and held Jake’s arm.
“What’s up?”
“I don’t like the looks of those men ahead.”
Jake laughed. “I don’t like the looks of any of them. They’re all hang around guys. You see the one with the phone?”
“Of course.”
“He’s probably calling his friends up ahead to roll us. Or worse.”
Sirena didn’t look scared, but she was concerned. “If they knew I was Jewish. . .or Israeli.”
“No way for them to know that,” Jake said. “How’s your Arabic accent?”
“I’ve been rated a native speaker. But native to Jordan. There are differences in Morocco.”
Jake pulled her close to him and gave her a passionate kiss on the lips. She responded in kind, knowing his intent. Then Jake took her arm in his and pulled her down the narrow street. Based on the map, they would need to keep to the wider passages in the Medina, where more shops were open and with multiple witnesses.
Periodically they would stop and turn, pretending to look at something at the entrance to the shops. Jake would check their six while Sirena would keep an eye on their path ahead.
Finally, just ten minutes after six in the evening, the two of them wandered into the rug shop owned by their contact. Two younger men were with customers, western tourists, trying to show them the difference in the quality of the ornate woven Berber rugs.
An older man sat on a stool behind a pile of rugs, only the top of his head visible. But he saw Jake and must have known he was the contact. Sirena seemed to be throwing him off, though.
Jake rubbed the rug in front of the old man. “I haven’t seen quality like this since my trip to Casablanca,” he said, his introduction phrase.
“These are better than anything you will find in Casablanca,” the old man said with a heavy accent, his coffee and cigarette-stained teeth on prominent display. “But my best rugs are upstairs. Come, please. I will show you.”
The old Moroccan man jumped from his stool and Jake could now see that the guy was perhaps five feet tall on a good day. And he walked with a major limp, favoring his right leg. He matched the description given by Kurt Jenkins, along with the photo.
The two of them followed the old man up the narrow staircase and Jake suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This could be a trap, he thought.
They entered another room full of rugs and continued up the stairs to the third floor. There they found more rugs, but Jake couldn’t discern the difference in quality. He was more concerned that there was no alternate escape from the isolated room.
The old man turned and put out his hand to Jake. The two of them shook, ignoring Sirena in the process. Even though Morocco was not as backwards as other countries in the region, this was still a Muslim country, where women were ignored if not subjugated. Sirena knew the game. She peered out a side window at the city lights and then took up a position out of the way with her back to the wall and a view of the doorway.
“Hesham Mustafa,” Jake said.
“What can I do for you?” the man asked. “And what is your name?”
Jake had consi
dered how much he wanted to divulge. He didn’t want his questions to reveal more than the man gave him. In reality he didn’t trust the man. He could be working both sides.
“Tell me about recent activity in the Atlas Mountains.” There. That was innocuous enough. Ignore the name question entirely.
The man’s eyes shifted from Jake to Sirena. He shook his head. “I have nothing to report.”
Now Jake’s gaze shifted to Sirena for a second. Something wasn’t right. “What’s going on? Are you trying to shake me down for money?”
“The world works on money,” Mustafa said, his hands stretched out toward his rugs. “As you see, I am a businessman.”
Jake stepped closer to the man, an intimidating force next to the much smaller, older man. “Listen, dipshit. I didn’t come all the way to this hellhole you call home to get a damn business lesson. I need something tangible.”
“What do you want me to say?” Then the man switched from English to Arabic, spouting off something that seemed like disturbed cussing.
So Jake looked at Sirena, who knew what the man was saying but the man didn’t know this. She gave Jake a calming nod.
Pointing his finger at the old man, Jake said, “Listen, asshole. I need to know what’s going on in the remote enclaves where the government troops won’t even travel. You understand?”
Now Mustafa’s disposition turned from suspicious to concerned. “If I tell you these things, they will kill me.”
“If you fail to tell me and some shit goes down, we’re gonna come down on you like a camel’s kick to the head.”
“But I’ll still be alive,” Mustafa reasoned.
Jake grabbed the old man’s neck and shoved the guy against a stack of rugs. “I was told you had something to report. Is my information wrong?”
Mustafa struggled against Jake’s grasp. “Yes. No, you are not wrong. But I need more than last time.”