“Your words are empty here. Your hope is dead.”
The vile sound of iniquity, the voice on the phone, oozed from the pit of perdition, a slime that coated Mullaney’s skin and polluted his heart.
“And your pleas are useless. Just as you have been useless to those you claim to love.”
A shape emerged from the dark. A man, shorter than Mullaney, dressed in ancient Middle Eastern garments—his enemy, and the enemy of his soul. His hands were tucked inside the flared sleeves of his tunic. Mullaney tried to register more, but his eyes were continually wrenched back to those yellow orbs that probed his being. Fight … he had to fight. Think. Speak! Anything! What was it that Bayard had told him? “The enemy will try to lure you into your own strength … remain within the armor of God.”
Put on the full armor of God … the belt of truth … the breastplate of righteousness … feet shod with the gospel of peace …
Mullaney felt his feet under him, standing firm. Fight!
“Why didn’t your men just kill me and take the box when we left the airport?” he blurted out, his words breaking through the fog that had started to infiltrate his brain. “Why didn’t you just kill me when we got here?”
Mullaney knew the answers as soon as he asked the questions. This man wanted the box, but he wasn’t completely certain if he could touch it and continue to live. And he wasn’t ready to kill …
“I have something much more interesting in mind for you than a quick death,” said his enemy, the man responsible for Tommy’s death … so many others. His voice sounded like a snake swishing through high grass.
A revelation dawned on Mullaney … several in succession.
Before him was a created, immortal being … the Man of Violence … a fallen angel. Like Bayard, neither omniscient, omnipresent, nor omnipotent. He did not know everything, so he had his doubts. He could not be everywhere at once, so his control and influence were constrained and narrow. And he was not all powerful. This being had limits. Perhaps Mullaney could take advantage of those limits to rescue Cleveland.
Doubt flooded his mind. How was he going to get Cleveland out of here? This being had no intention of releasing either of them. Once he had the box in his control … Mullaney knew that would be the end. Neither he nor Cleveland would leave this house alive.
He shook his head, chasing away the tendrils of fear and uncertainty. Stay focused.
Take up the shield of faith … Take the helmet of salvation … And the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.
First, Mullaney needed to find Cleveland. Then he needed time and he needed wisdom. Please, God … No weapon formed against me shall prosper.
“What has all this been about?” Mullaney asked, a rush of spiritual bravado in the face of death loosening his mind and his tongue. “Why have so many died over this box? And who are you?”
The man with the yellow eyes took a step forward. Mullaney could feel the man’s mind trying to force its way beyond Mullaney’s will. He pressed back against the force. The weapons of our warfare are not carnal. He was surprised when it withdrew.
“Hmmm … do not rely on your strength. It’s not enough,” said the being. “I have been called many things over the ages. Your Gaon knew me as the Man of Violence. My disciples now know me as the Turk. What you call me is not important.”
Now that the being had moved closer, Mullaney could see his face more clearly. He was stunned. What he saw before him was not the face of a demented spirit and murderer. The face was like so many Mullaney had seen over the past few days—Middle Eastern in its features, serene, even cultured. It appeared there were wounds on the face. Burns? But it was the face of a businessman or merchant or government official. A face that looked familiar. Only the eyes were those of a madman.
“But what do you want from this box?” Mullaney asked. “It protected the Gaon’s prophecy, but what good will that do you now?”
“I seek what all of you mortals seek. Power. The box has great power. I want it.”
Mullaney didn’t understand. He, others had suffered too much to leave this earth without at least understanding what was the cause of all this violence. “Why? You have the power to move the earth and shake the foundations of just two buildings in a city of thousands. I was there. So increasing your power is not the only reason you made our lives a living hell. What has this really been about from the beginning?”
The being closed his eyes and nodded his head. “Yes, from the beginning … it has always been the same, from the beginning.”
When his eyes opened again, Mullaney could suddenly see their full fury. The yellow eyes had black irises, but in the yellow of the pupils swirled gray clouds of mayhem and anarchy. Of blood lust.
“At first, it was not the box but the messages of the Lithuanian that we sought,” he said. “He had been given insight into the future, insight into our plans. We were determined to destroy those messages before they revealed our plans.”
“Failed at that, didn’t you?”
Not a good idea.
Thunderclouds of fury that seemed to be spewing lethal lightning hurtled across the eyes. A lance of intense heat pierced the cold, striking Mullaney in the chest, and the putrid decay of death filled the atmosphere. Mullaney staggered before the vehement wrath. The lightning struck his legs and they buckled, driving him to his knees.
The ferocious voice was now a whisper. “Mock me again and the ambassador dies. And I will slaughter his daughter.”
Mullaney struggled to find his voice as he stumbled back to his feet, the leather satchel still grasped firmly in his right hand. “Understood.”
Chaos receded into the dark.
“I will tell you, so that you will know why you die,” said the being. “Since that day, when the death of the Nazarene imposter was stolen from us and we discerned his intention to return and seize our sovereignty over the earth … and over you mortals … we have been determined to thwart his intentions, make his return impossible. One of his deranged prophets claims the feet of the Nazarene will land on the Mount of Olives when he returns. Well, what if the Mount of Olives no longer exists?
“You see, all of your book is built on a foundation of prophecies and promises … things to come. If we can prevent one of the prophecies from being fulfilled, cause one of the promises to be stillborn, then the integrity of the book is shattered. There is no more truth. And we can change the end of the book.”
Mullaney saw the logic but rejected its possibility. He punctuated his words with firm resolve. “You are insane. God’s Word is infallible and indelible. You can never change his Word.”
The Man of Violence laughed, and Mullaney felt like all the condemned souls in hell laughed with him. Mullaney’s body convulsed at the sound.
“Never is a long time,” he said. “A length of time that you cannot conceive. But we … we have all the time we need to overcome never. Many of us are assigned to the same task but are taking different avenues to achieve the same end. We have the power and the determination to overthrow never.
“Yes, there will be a climactic battle for all the earth,” said the man with the yellow eyes. “On the plains of that accursed land that he blessed. But annul a prophecy, reverse the chain of promise, and you reverse the outcome of the battle. Particularly if you have nuclear weapons to destroy your enemies.”
It was like a slap across the face. Sudden and painful. Understanding flooded Mullaney’s mind. So that was it. Incirlik. Finally, the pieces fit. Not two enemies, not two crises, but one. One plot—that waited to be fulfilled. And the Man of Violence needed the power of the box? Perhaps Mullaney didn’t comprehend it all. But he believed he grasped enough. Somehow he needed to stop this creature, he needed to abort this plan … lurking tendrils of thievery invaded his mind, once again seeking purchase, clouding his thoughts.
“Do you seriously think you can stop us?” mocked the Man of Violence. “Your efforts to destroy our plans have been useless from the beginning,
just as you have been useless since your youth. Just as you were useless in failing to save your father’s life.”
The sting of past failure, of repressed guilt, bored a hole in Mullaney’s resolve. Useless. Was he?
“Face it … you are defeated. Give me the anointing.”
Wait! The anointing? He believes he needs the anointing? Mullaney’s understanding widened.
“You need me,” he said, almost to himself. He raised the bag in his right hand. “You need me for this. No mortal man can touch the box and live. Is the same true for an immortal man? Do you have immunity from the protection over the box? Is it possible that the power that protected and filled this box could actually kill an immortal? Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”
Mullaney left the question hanging in the gloom. He was beginning to see a way. “Obviously not. So we’re here to make a deal. I want Cleveland. You want … ?”
“Do not overestimate your importance,” said the Man of Violence. “You have caused me a great amount of harm. You have slaughtered my servants. It would give me great pleasure to run this blade”—he withdrew a thin, short, curved scimitar from his sleeve—“across your neck and allow your warm blood to drip through my fingers. But not before I … Well let’s leave that for later.” He pointed at the leather bag. “Bring out the box!”
For the instant the yellow eyes left his face and concentrated on the leather bag, Mullaney felt a surge of strength and clarity, determination. Keep talking. Give Traynor time. And find Cleveland.
“I came here for Cleveland. Cleveland goes free before I hand over this box,” said Mullaney. “I need proof of life.”
The Man of Violence raised his left hand, the scimitar blade still hanging from his right. “Better yet, I’ll give you Cleveland himself.” He snapped his fingers. A shaft of light flooded an area off to Mullaney’s left, revealing walls. They were in some kind of room. But the light also revealed Joseph Atticus Cleveland. At least it revealed his body.
Cleveland, in a sitting position, was strapped into a straight-backed metal chair. His head was hanging forward, his chin resting upon his chest. His arms were bent back, his hands apparently bound behind his back. Mullaney could not tell if Cleveland was breathing.
“Proof of life!” Mullaney emphasized.
The Man of Violence snapped his fingers once more. Out of the darkness a man entered the light, a dripping cloth in his right hand. He stood alongside Cleveland and laid the wet cloth on the ambassador’s neck. Cleveland began to stir, squirm against the restraints. The man stepped behind the chair and released the straps. He took the cloth from Cleveland’s neck, tilted his neck back and laid the cloth on his forehead, one hand resting against the ambassador’s chest to keep him from falling off the chair.
As if he was emerging from a trance, Cleveland slowly regained consciousness. His face was still blank, his eyes unfocused, but Mullaney could see he was alive and apparently physically unharmed. “Mr. Ambassador?”
A slight jolt passed through Cleveland’s body, he sat up straighter, the cloth falling into his lap, his eyes seeking the source of the voice. They reached out to Mullaney.
“Brian?” One word. A lifeline from a drowning man.
“Mr. Ambassador, can you stand?”
Cleveland nodded his head, sucked in a breath, placed his hands on the sides of the seat and struggled to his feet. His stance was wobbly, but the fire in his eyes held conviction.
More light filtered into the space from unseen sources. Mullaney could now see that they were in a large cavern—and he could also see there was another shape, a shadow with a black cowl over its head, motionless and silent against the back wall of the ancient-looking room. Its walls and floors were made of rough-hewn stone blocks, the vaulted ceiling of the same blocks, pillars spaced around the walls to hold up the vault. Though dry, the room still reeked of damp and decay. It contained one door behind Mullaney, where he must have entered. But three archways stood to his right, each with a black maw opening that looked like the entrance to a tunnel passage.
In his quick Google search of the citadel, Mullaney had learned that there were hundreds of caverns and tunnels honeycombed under the thirteen-hundred-year-old castle, many snaking down the hill as routes of escape during a siege. Whether connected to the citadel or not, Mullaney was in the midst of an ancient maze.
As his eyes wandered about the cavernous room, they came once again to the Man of Violence. “I’m not surprised that you dwell underground in ancient caverns,” said Mullaney, hoping that Traynor could still hear him. “Where do those three tunnels run, back up to the castle?”
The man ignored Mullaney’s question. “The box.”
Mullaney returned his attention back to Cleveland. “Sir, I need you to come over here and stand by me.”
The man standing beside Cleveland put a restraining hand on his arm. Mullaney turned his attention back to the Man of Violence.
“Enough delays,” said the man. “Cleveland doesn’t move until I see the Gaon’s box. And I want the covering,” he said, “the protection that is passed down from father to son. The protection that was transferred to you … Guardian.”
He needed to buy time. Perhaps Traynor and his men could find a way to reach them. Searching his mind for options, Mullaney came up blank. What else could he do?
“Now,” demanded the Turk, “or my disciple will cut off Cleveland’s hand.”
44
Alitas Street, Ankara
July 23, 6:27 p.m.
Mullaney turned to his left. He looked more closely at the man who still had a restraining hand on Cleveland’s arm. His left fist held Cleveland’s right arm in a vise grip, straining the powerful muscles in his forearm and biceps. But as he reached down to the floor, in his right fist he picked up a battery powered reciprocal saw … a long, roughly serrated blade made for ripping apart walls. This would be no surgical strike with a lethally sharpened blade. No, the saw would rip and mangle Cleveland’s skin, shatter the bones in his wrist, and shred tendons and sinew as it ground its way through his arm.
“If I ever find you again, I’ll …”
The Turk flicked out his hand and the man squeezed the trigger, bringing the saw blade to life. “Now, Agent Mullaney.”
Useless. It was useless to argue, useless to resist anymore.
Mullaney lowered the satchel to the floor and knelt beside it. He flipped the hasp, bent back the sides to open it wide. Reaching in, he felt the stainless-steel blast container that held the Gaon’s box. It was a heavy lift. Mullaney got his feet under him, in a crouch, and lifted the blast container using his legs.
He looked around. There was no table on which to put the blast container. So he walked over to the chair where Cleveland had been sitting—the man who had a clamp on Cleveland’s arm pulled the ambassador farther away to the left—and placed the container on top of the chair.
Settling the container on the chair, Mullaney pulled the handle on the cover counterclockwise, disengaging the hooks from the steel bars, then released the steel hasp on the side, freeing the cover from the rest of the container. Mullaney swung the cover to the right. Inside was the metal shelf on rollers.
Feeling like he was signing their death warrants, Mullaney drew a deep breath to steady his nerves and reached in to pull out the shelf.
Mullaney felt something large, like an invisible hand, placed over his eyes. The room became an opaque cave. Then a massive, blinding eruption, like the explosion of a supernova star, flooded the cavern with a tidal wave of light so brilliant and intense that it had a sound. The light thrummed. And it scorched.
He felt the heat of the light on his skin. Three voices screamed in unison, the closest one to Mullaney’s left, where the muscular man held Cleveland’s arm in his grip. Then, as quickly as it had come, the reflection of the blazing light dissipated from around the fingers over his eyes.
Before thought could register, the hand was removed from his face. Mullaney’s vision was qu
ickly restored. And he found himself facing the man with the saw. He was screaming, his left hand holding his face, blood seeping through his fingers.
Reflexively, Mullaney took three steps toward the screaming man, reached down with both hands, and grabbed the hand with the saw. He pushed on the trigger as he twisted the man’s hand back upon himself, then plunged the vibrating, ripping saw into the man’s heart.
Ignoring the blood that burst from the man’s chest, Mullaney swung around on Cleveland—who was looking at him strangely.
“Somebody put their hand over my eyes,” said Cleveland.
The box! Mullaney turned back toward the chair. The blast container was open, the shelf pulled out. The box was gone … and so was the Man of Violence. Fists closed, weight on the balls of his feet, Mullaney turned to where he remembered the two men were standing who had picked him up. He saw both men writhing on the floor. Just as all light vanished from the cavern.
He could feel it coming. A disturbance in the presence around him. A warning. He perceived a lance thrust by an enemy.
In the split second before the blinding light invaded the gloom of the cavern, heavy, hooded lids—like those of a serpent—closed over the yellow eyes of the Turk. Through the heavy folds of skin, the Turk’s eyes registered an imprint of the tsunami of light that engulfed the cavern and brought screams of pain from those around him. He reached out with his other senses, his other powers … where was the box? Where was Mullaney?
Like a receding wave, the blast of light withdrew from the cavern. The Turk thrust the lids from his eyes. First, he found the box, still on the shelf in the blast container, then he shifted his gaze to Mullaney. He was attacking the disciple who held Cleveland.
There was little time to fully assess the situation, his options. A heartbeat. His enemies, those winged ones who opposed his purposes, had breached his defenses and pierced the cavern with their light. What else could they do, even here in his lair? He had no time and no desire to find out. He also did not have the covering to protect him from the power of the box. Could he force Mullaney to give it to him? Did he need it? No mortal man could touch the box … and he was no mortal man. And then there was the One. Where was the One?
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