by Rachel Lee
"Instead of seeking peaceful solutions, we have used violence." Ahsami shook his head. "Instead of aiding our Palestinian brothers, we chose instead to invade Israel to try to take their land back by force. Instead of attacking legitimate military targets, we slaughtered the innocent."
"So," Renate said, "is there a point to this story, beyond history that we could read for ourselves?"
Ahsami hesitated, clearly thinking. "I am trying to find the words to properly explain the purpose of Saif Alsharaawi."
"Wait. Who is that?" Lawton leaned forward, certain he had never heard the name before.
"The English translation would be 'Sword of the East,'" Ahmed said. "We are determined to gain true independence for all Islamic peoples. The independence of an equal among equals, not of weak peasants begging their feudal lords for crusts of bread. We cannot achieve our goal so long as some among us behave like animals, leading the Western nations to feel the need to occupy us in order to protect themselves. Before Saif can negotiate with the West as an equal, we must first demonstrate to the world that we can police ourselves, that we can clean our own house."
"And that brings you to Prague?" Renate asked. "Pardon me, but this is hardly your house."
"When a man's children destroy another man's property, can he deny responsibility because it did not happen in his own home? The ricin attack was carried out by Muslims. Whether they acted in Muslim lands is beside the point." Now Ahmed turned to face Rotel. "And this man paid them. That means he knows who they are." He returned his attention to Renate and Lawton.
"So," he concluded, "I have explained why I am here. Now, may I ask why you have come? And please don't insult my intelligence by claiming to be from Interpol. Interpol acts through the local authorities, and neither of you is Czech. So…who are you?"
Washington, D.C.
Special Agent in Charge Kevin Willis looked across the desk at Miriam. "Do you know what a political shit storm this will create if you're wrong?" he asked.
"Of course," Miriam said. "I'm not stupid, Kevin."
"We're talking about the National Security Advisor," he continued. "A coconspirator in the shooting of Grant Lawrence? The Rice Administration a puppet of this shadowy cartel of international bankers?"
"Come on, Kevin," she said. "You went with me to Idaho. You were there in Montana when we took down Wes Dixon. You know the story we put out about the Lawrence shooting—yet another crazy lone gunman—was a crock. You can't tell me you're all that surprised."
"How reliable is Katherine Dixon?" he asked.
"As reliable as she needs to be," Miriam said.
Kevin's sigh approached exasperation. "How am I supposed to read that?"
"She has an agenda. It involves nailing her father because she believes he killed her brother and was directly or indirectly responsible for her husband becoming tangled up in the whole mess. She wants revenge."
"That'll sound good on a witness stand."
"It doesn't mean she's lying. She's got names, dates, amounts of money and inside information. What's more, she's getting papers from her husband's files for me."
Kevin's brows lifted at that. "Paper I can use."
"We'll have it in a couple of hours. But we don't have time to waste, Kevin. You know that. Once Rice launches that attack…"
"Nobody knows for certain that he's going to do it," Kevin said. "So far it's all been saber rattling."
Miriam half smiled. "Katherine told me. She overheard her father discussing it on the phone with someone. She's not sure, but she thinks it was Bentley."
Horror spread across Kevin's face. "Jesus H. Christ!" He popped out of his chair as if ejected and started rapidly pacing the confines of his office. "You can't expect me to interfere with a decision made by POTUS and his advisors!"
"Not even if one of those advisors is a mole?"
"Miriam, why the hell would they want this? What good would it possibly do a bank?"
"Banks have and make investments. Banks make money on war, because they own shares in the defense industry. And they make money when an unstable region of the world is…pacified…by financing investment there. For international banking, this is a win-win situation. For international banking, only inaction is a loss."
She leaned forward, tapping her index finger on his desk. "Do you want me to show you? Do you need to see the actual proof that the people who funded the Allies in the Second World War also funded Hitler? Would you like to see how the same banking family funded both Napoleon and the British? How far back do you want to go, Kevin? They have no side but their own. And if they need to own or blackmail a U.S. president in order to get their war…Are you adding this up?"
She could tell by his face that he was, but all he said as he continued to pace was, "This is insane. It's conspiracy horse manure."
"Oh, it's a conspiracy, all right. As near as I can tell, it's been going on for centuries. But the fact that it's a conspiracy doesn't make it insane."
"It sounds insane."
"But you know I'm right about the history. What makes you think it ever stopped?"
He ceased pacing and faced her. "If I'm going to go into the West Wing and arrest the National Security Advisor, then I need proof, Miriam. Not a bunch of theories and bits of history. You'd better hope this Katherine Dixon comes through."
"No, we'd all better hope she does—before those bombs are unleashed."
27
Guatemalan Highlands
The day had turned misty, a thick fog had crept under the dense trees and through the heavy undergrowth. The band, still struggling toward their appointed meeting place with the other two groups, decided finally that they could go no farther lest they have a mishap in the fog.
The mountain had at least stopped rumbling, Steve thought with gratitude as he settled on the ground, his back resting against a thick tree trunk. No more ash. Although even the small amounts that had sifted through the thick leaves above and fallen with the dew and occasional light rain had made parts of their trek unnecessarily miserable. The stuff, unlike the ash from a fire, seemed to turn to concrete when wet. Some of the people were coughing, and he was certain they must have inhaled some ash despite their efforts to cover their faces.
The women started a fire as soon as they could, and soon the pleasant smell of wood smoke filled their campsite, and not long after that the aroma of roasting vegetables and fruit.
As soon as he could, he thought, he was going to have to find a way to buy these people more corn. A way to ensure they could survive until they had rebuilt their lives in some isolated spot.
And why was he suddenly so certain that the time had come for that? Because of a dream? He must be losing his mind. Yet…it felt right. They couldn't run forever.
"Hola, Padre."
Startled, he twisted his head and saw Miguel walking toward him, a Miguel who looked much older than he had a week ago. A Miguel who clearly had barely eaten since he had separated from them.
"Miguel! Praise God, I thought you were dead."
"I almost was." Miguel squatted beside him. "When I doubled back on the stalker, he saw me and hit me on the head. I do not know how long I was unconscious. When I awoke, I started tracking him. I lost him two days ago."
"It's all right. I think he got what he wanted. I believe he's gone."
Miguel nodded, but his face was hard. "I saw Paloma."
Steve reached out tentatively to clasp the young man's shoulder. "I'm sorry. We had to run and didn't have time to bury her. But I don't think she suffered."
Miguel shrugged. "We all suffer, Padre. That is life. But it is good you did not bury her." From around his neck, he lifted a leather pouch that hung by a thick leather cord. "Somehow I know Paloma wanted you to have this. She chose you, didn't she, Padre?"
Steve nodded reluctantly.
"Then take this pouch. I used what I needed when I buried her. The rest is for you."
"What is it?"
Miguel shook his head. "I do
n't know. But I think it gave her power. The power is yours now."
"But…"
Miguel silenced him with a gesture. "Maybe when I understand why an old curandera like Paloma is shot by a hunter in the woods, I can explain that power to you. Right now, I don't understand anything, and I must go find my sister. She must think I am dead."
"I think she alone of us kept faith that you were alive."
Miguel smiled faintly. "I must talk to her. If I turn myself in to the police, the villagers can settle somewhere safely. Perhaps it is time I paid the price of my actions."
"Miguel…"
But the youth was already disappearing into the fog to seek his sister around the fire. Steve looked down at the pouch in his hand and resisted the urge to hurl it away into the fog.
Who was he to replace Paloma? As far as he could see, he had never done anything except fail these people. But he kept gripping the pouch anyway. It was his last link to Paloma, and he couldn't let it go.
He opened the pouch and saw the familiar white powder that she had shown him before. Licking a fingertip, he touched it to the powder, then brought it to his lips. At once the bone-deadening weariness seeped away, leaving him, if not refreshed, at least relaxed. It was what happened a moment later that shocked him.
Once again, he stood in a vast, black emptiness. Once again, eleven figures slowly materialized. Once again, the woman spoke.
"You would call it manna," she said. "But it has many names in many cultures. And though few know that it even exists, and fewer still its potential, it has been both the blessing and the bane of humanity for millennia. Its baser form is the treasure of kings. But this…this is the treasure of the Light himself. It is his gift to us, to nourish and strengthen us, to bring us closer to his infinite perfection. But like every great gift, it carries with it great responsibility. Very few have the grace or wisdom that such a gift demands. Very few have the courage to resist its temptations."
"Paloma has chosen you," the man called Nathan said. "Each of us was chosen by a predecessor. Not all of us were the first choice, however. Beware of temptation, my friend. Guard yourself against it in every moment. For only those who live in the Light can serve the Light. Seek neither power nor glory nor vengeance, nor even justice. Seek only the Light, Steve Lorenzo. Only that can save us. Or we will all perish in the fire to come."
"What fire?" Steve asked. "Who are you? Am I…is this a hallucination?"
"It surely must seem so to you," the woman said. "For it is not the reality that you have been taught. But we are as real as the young man who now stands behind you. Ask him. He will tell you."
Steve turned, and saw Miguel and his sister. But only Miguel seemed to be aware of the others. "Madre de Dios," he whispered softly.
"¿Que es?" his sister asked. "¿Miguel?"
"¿No veces?" he asked. Do you not see?
"No. No veo," she replied. "¿Que es ese?"
"Apparently it is not for you to see, Rita," Steve said. "I cannot say why Miguel can see them, or why you cannot. Your brother and I must talk now, Rita. We will join you shortly."
Rita retreated into the fog, leaving only Miguel and Steve in the infinite blackness. Miguel's face was filled with terror and wonder, in equal measure.
"Do not worry," Steve said. "They are friends."
"Angeles," Miguel asked.
"No," Nathan replied. "We are not angels, Miguel. We are mere servants, as Father Lorenzo is a servant, and you, as well."
"I am not worthy to serve," Miguel said. "I have too much blood on my hands."
"No more than I had," Nathan said. "Less than some of us. No one comes to the Light from the light, Miguel. We all come from the darkness. It can be no other way."
"What must I do?" Miguel asked.
A moment later, the figures vanished, and Steve and Miguel were once again alone in the jungle.
"I must go to Rome," Steve said. "I do not know where the road leads, but only that it begins there."
"Then I will go with you, Father," Miguel said. "Wherever you go, I go also. That is my pledge and my promise."
Steve felt tears forming in his eyes. "Thank you, Miguel. I will not betray your trust. Come. Let us get the others settled. We must find them a place where they can stay and resume their lives."
"I know of a valley," Miguel said. "It is to the west, perhaps three days' journey. When I was with the rebels, we trained there for a brief time. But then the jaguars killed two of…it was…we could not stay. Perhaps that place was reserved for the people of my village. Perhaps the jaguar god was saving it for us."
"Then there we will go," Steve said. "And may the jaguar protect them always."
Prague, Czech Republic
"Who are we?" Renate asked. "I'll give you the very simplest answer. Black Christmas killed my parents."
Ahmed nodded. "Black Christmas killed a lot of parents, I'm sad to say."
"That's true," Renate replied. "But in my case, it wasn't mere chance. The people behind Black Christmas—the money people like Mr. Rotel here—wanted my parents dead. Specifically."
"How can you know that?" Ahmed asked, studying her. "Why would they—"
"They died in Baden-Baden," she said. "In a simple parish church. All the other church bombings were major cathedrals. This wasn't a 'statement.' It was a murder, intended to draw me out into the open, so they could kill me, too. As for why they want me…that I can't tell you. But I think that, at least for the moment, we are on the same side, Mr. Ahsami."
"And that is not good news for you, Mr. Rotel," Lawton said, leveling the pistol at a spot between the man's eyes. "Not good news at all. But you are a banker, not a martyr. You want to live another day. So you're going to tell us what we want to know, right?"
"If I can," Rotel said, his eyes flitting around the room, avoiding the hole in the barrel of the gun. "I don't know anything about Black Christmas."
"Ah," Renate said, taking a piece of paper from her purse. "I didn't expect that you would. But you're in luck, because we didn't come to ask you about that. This is just a routine banking inquiry. We simply want to know who owns this account. I've highlighted it for you."
"I would have to use my computer," he said. "I don't have such things memorized. How could I?"
Renate smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.
"My friend here," she said, "the one with the gun pointed at your head, has some experience with your bank's computer system. He'll be more than happy to take care of that, as soon as you give us your password."
"Marita-zero-five-one-three," Rotel said quickly.
Renate chuckled. "Wife's name?"
"Patron saint," he said. "I am a Christian man. I would not have given money to terrorists if—"
"Save it," Lawton said, as Renate typed in the characters. "I'm sure the Czech police will have more than enough patience to listen to your excuses. But I don't." He glanced at the screen, then at Renate. "Press F-four. Now the account number, then Enter."
Renate followed his instructions, and soon a name and address popped up on the screen. Kasmir Al-Khalil.
"That address is in the Arab Quarter," Ahmed said. "I know because we are staying nearby."
"We?" Lawton asked.
"I brought a team with me," Ahmed said. "For when I received this information."
"Then let's go," Renate said. "The clock is ticking."
Lawton opened Rotel's center desk drawer and began searching through it.
"What do you want now?" Rotel asked.
"A razor blade would be good," Lawton said. "A sharp letter opener might suffice."
"I have a letter opener," Rotel said. "Top right drawer."
Lawton opened it and found the four-inch blade with a mother-of-pearl handle. He laid it on the desk. "Very classy. Probably not sharp enough, but you can try."
"Try what?" Rotel asked.
"Those are nylon flex cuffs," Lawton said. "If you can cut through them, you won't have to stay here all night waiting for
someone to ask embarrassing questions in the morning. On the other hand, you might want to be careful. Wouldn't want to slash your wrists trying to get free."
"But…" Rotel began.
"Have a nice night," Lawton said, following Renate and Ahmed out of the room.
"Why did you give him a way to get free?" Ahmed asked.
"Where I come from," Lawton said, "we have a saying. You can shear a sheep many times, but you can only skin it once. We may need Mr. Rotel again at some point."
"And where do you come from?" Ahmed asked. "Your friend has explained why she is here. You haven't."
"No," he said. "I haven't. She's the boss. I'm the help. That's enough for you to know."
"If we are to work together—" Ahmed began, but Renate cut him off.
"Work together? I said we were on the same side…for the time being. That doesn't make us partners. I don't know that you didn't plan Black Christmas."
"You need me," Ahmed said. "My team can operate in places where yours cannot. My men are not out of place in the Arab quarter. Yours would be. We are a very tightly knit people here in Europe, all the more so with what has happened lately. You would not get within a block of that address without someone alerting Mr. Al-Khalil. He would be gone before you arrived. That is why we created Saif Alsharaawi. Only we can police ourselves."
"We go with your team," Renate said.
"Renate—" Lawton began.
"He's right," she said. "His team can do this better than we can. But I don't trust him enough to let them do it alone. We're going with them. Our team will monitor police communications and stand in reserve."
Lawton simply nodded, and Renate felt a surge of relief that he had caught her meaning. She and Lawton had come alone, intending to call in an operations team when they had the information. But she didn't want Ahsami to know that.
"When do we go?" Lawton asked.
"My men can be ready in three hours," Ahsami said.
"Fine," Renate said. "We go tonight. I will go with Mr. Ahsami. Lawton, you go back and brief the others."
"But…" Lawton said.
"She knows us better than you do," Ahmed said, smiling. "Even if we were Jihadists, there is no glory in killing a woman. To do so would bring shame on an entire family. She knows she will be safe."