by davidberko
A chill went up and down Seth’s spine. "You didn't say anything about Scorpion before Tyrone."
The other man held a stupefied expression. "I said this had to do with the end of the
world, didn't I?!" "Yes, but--"
"Then why didn't your mind immediately make the connection to Scorpion?"
"I dunno."
"Boy, you've been playing in the sandbox for too many years…doubletapping princes and clerics. It's time you grow an analytical side to that killer brain of yours."
He would be right. As much as the reproof stung, Seth learned to eat crow. That's what made him a good agent and so valuable to Mossad.
Baruch's shoulders rose and fell as he laughed on the inside at Seth. Momentarily he threw his head back and downed some more strong drink. The tough guy scrunched his eyes, swallowing hard. It somehow brought clarity.
"What else do you know about Scorpion and the end of times?" he asked. Tyrone answered, "Their leader has made a deal with the devil. Heck, if I didn't know any better, I'd say he is the devil. What's more, I believe they’re going to invade the earth from the heavens."
Seth gave it his best guess. "Nukes?"
"No, there are no more such things after
World War Three."
Both men sat there dumbfounded.
Tyrone leaned forward and looked from his right to left. "You really had no clue, eh?" Seth managed a head shake.
"What if I were to tell you we're gonna have visitors from space? Made to look like the
real thing."
"Shutup."
Baruch's eyes widened. "No, don't tell him that!"
Another time in the conversation where he failed to make the connection.
Cultural barriers.
Seth ignored him. "You say we have less than five days?"
Tyrone pointed a bony finger at Seth and said excitedly, "So you're in then?"
Seth had to think about this a little while longer. Tyrone Banks’s visit had been one of the strangest things to happen to him lately.
But the message seemed sincere. He didn't have a reason to lie: the man would die for his country a patriot. "Yeah, I'm in."
"If Seth Markov thinks it's a good idea, you can count me in too," said Baruch with a gutlevel sincerity.
Tyrone looked mildly relieved. "Good deal. Alright, we'll need to make preparations before morning."
Seth leaned up against a pillar supporting the covered porch. "Going somewhere?"
"Downrange. You can always back out now. I understand. But once you're in this thing, I
can't guarantee your safety, much less you
making it out alive." --
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
Night had fallen on the crown jewel of the
United Islamic Caliphate. Spotlights lit the sky
from the many construction sites across the city building the towers that reached for the clouds. Downtown in fact was a futurist's fantasy with its tightly compact, dense urban core with few gaps.
The city's residents were very rich: poverty had been expelled decades ago.
The AirTaxi waited at a light, thirty stories above street level. Three other lanes of traffic also caught the same light. All the flying cars were fully autonomous, no driver's input. To the uninitiated, they’d be in for a real jolt after they hailed a taxi. Instead of seeing a smiling local behind the wheel of one of the city’s many cabs, there’d be no driver at all. These autonomous taxis were supremely adept at zeroing in on humans with their hitchhiker’s thumb raised high. In a city where millions needed to get around at a moment’s notice, the absence of the human touch in the taxi industry wasn’t missed at all because of the increased efficiency in servicing passengers that autonomy allowed for.
Each car had its seating configured to face each other, like in a limo. And entertainment options straddled the fence between virtual reality goggles or an old-fashioned tablet.
...
The best dressed passenger in the AirTaxi wore a three-piece suit--brown, with a red pocket square, starched dress shirt and chinos. The other three men were in business casual.
The man worth a bundle normally sported a well-trimmed beard, but today he groomed himself, opting for the clean-shaven look instead. The interior of the car smelled of strong men's aftershave.
"Rehan Kahlil himself has requested to see you?" one of the passengers abruptly inquired of the good-looking man of importance.
"You sound so surprised," he replied with a tinge of annoyance.
"Well, yeah! The king doesn't agree to see just anyone."
That statement rubbed him the wrong way, his pride offended. "I have news for King Kahlil he cannot miss to hear. It's about the Muahammad al-Mahdi."
"What about him?" A different man asked this time, his voice high with excitement. "He has returned."
These words wildly excited the devout Muslims in the car. Now they had more questions for the one who broke the news than he could answer.
"Gentlemen, please," he used his hands to make a motion to calm the thrilled passengers down. "You'll know more in the coming days. I've already said too much." "At least tell us where the promised one is currently."
It was a fair question. Even though the guy knew the answer, he didn't look so willing to cooperate.
"The Mahdi is from Iran of course," he lied. Luckily for him, the royal residence wasn't too far away. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. He did have a choice though—not to tell the men that rode with him the real reason for his visit.
--
Barcelona, Spain
Tonight would take care of itself. Alfonso didn't anticipate anything that might put a wrench in the works on rounding up the two Germans. Then again, if something could go wrong, it would. He wasn't a pessimist. Yet the world he lived in frequently abided by that rule.
The politicians would have their date, go on their own merry way, then be confronted by men who looked like they were hired killers. That's how it would go down. Not too complicated.
...
Storm clouds rolled in from the southwest bringing with them the promise of swells. The air had a certain humidity to it that came before storms. Throughout it all the sun battled for supremacy in a tug-of-war affair with the gray masses. It was fair to say the sun wasn't winning.
A steady stream of red taillights and white headlights going the opposite direction painted a scene of gridlock below. Up above the sky highways were less congested, albeit less traveled, too.
The concrete jungle sparkled in all its majesty. Red lights on tall antennas sitting atop the skyscrapers of the Barcelona skyline blinked intermittently. Then the first drops began to fall at will. Bystanders on the city streets who weren't armed with an umbrella used anything at their disposal to temporarily shield themselves from an impending deluge. But their best bet would be to get to shelter and not fight it.
That's what Amalia Eichmann scurried to: shelter. Which so happened to be where she'd share a drink with her date that night. When she walked into the impressive lobby of a four star hotel located in a very happening neighborhood in the city known as 22@Barcelona, that's when her thoughts turned introspective. She wondered what he might think of her all gussied up for the occasion.
Her destination? The sky deck where a world famous chef played in a gourmet kitchen. But what she really came for other than a plate of some of the prettiest looking food you'll find in Spain served on fine china was the robust bar with a whole bevy of drinks on the menu.
The click-clack of her three inch heels drew the attention of some of the bellhops and other employees in the area. And it wasn't just a glance, more like a lingering stare.
At thirty-five and in the prime of her career, Amalia dressed well and purported herself in such a way that communicated to those around her just how much of a catch she'd be.
The elevators weren't hard to find. They had their own little hall with over twenty doors, all going up. She chose the last one on
the right and stepped into the box. After the doors closed the elevator made little noise as it climbed with gusto. Amalia eyed the panel with all the little circles one could push for different floors. The display that normally conveyed the floor count didn't even register the progress. Which only meant one thing: she was going fast.
After thirty seconds she figured the ride to be almost over.
He better be here already, Amalia hoped as she stepped off.
The entrance to the restaurant grew closer and closer. The doors were already open. Through the opening she could see a man in a white dress shirt with a black bowtie waiting to seat her. The decor of the place looked expensive.
She read the sign please wait to be seated, but her roving gaze caught sight of a handsome gentleman seated at a table for two towards the back of the restaurant near the bar.
It was him.
Amalia felt like a runway model as she walked. She knew the trick of going faster to create her own wind to blow her hair about in a desirable way. Very striking. Even the old men in the establishment noticed--they weren't dead, yet.
Two hours later after painstakingly fighting her lank hair and split ends with a curling iron, a trip to the salon for a manicure, and extensive time with makeup in front of the mirror, Amalia now enjoyed a transformed appearance.
Wendel waited until his date entered the red zone; only then did he get up and smile big at the approaching woman. His first act of chivalry was to pull her chair out for her. A waiter buzzing around at the fringes wasted no time to swoop in and be helpful. His manner bordered pleasant and over the top. "Hello my name is Manfred, I'll be your server tonight. How are you two doing this evening?"
Amalia put down the centerfold with the wine list long enough to acknowledge with a short answer. "I'm fine, danke."
"Can I start you off with drinks, perhaps? Or do you think you'll need another minute...." Wendel ordered a dark lager, a German beer, while Amalia went with a white wine. Manfred told them he'd be back with the drinks soon and some hot bread.
"Have you walked over to the windows yet?" Amalia asked.
"Yes, the view is simply marvelous."
"But it can never beat what I wake up to everyday in the heart of Berlin," she said, believing every word of it.
Wendel smiled kindly. "My apartment sits along the bank of River Spree. There's been a lot of development in the neighborhood lately too. Kind of noisy though." "Ah, that's a shame. The price you have to pay living in an urban environment; you have to share with others."
Wendel selfishly grinned. "I don't like sharing..."
Amalia laughed a good deal at his comment. "Sharing is caring," she joked.
"Do you like storms?" he said while watching nature’s display out the windows.
Forked lightening streaked across the sky. The tall steel skyscrapers made great targets for Zeus, the Greek god of storms. The bright white flashes of light occurred with greater regularity. The thunderous booms that followed were amplified inside the cluster of close buildings in Barcelona.
"They're really soothing," she answered.
"Kinda makes me wanna take a nap." "Not here, I hope," he teased.
A cutting board with scrumptious looking sourdough and pumpernickel bread promptly slid across their table. A very traditional beer stein was offered to Wendel which he gladly accepted. The waiter then placed a fluted glass with white wine at Amalia's place. Manfred took out a notepad with a stubby pencil and asked if they were ready to order. They weren't in Berlin anymore, hence the abundance in Spanish dishes on the menu. Nevertheless, the restaurant didn't forget the fact that Spain belonged to Germany now. The addition of staple German foods underscored that fact.
Wendel looked to Amalia to have the honors and order first, but she deferred it to him.
He stumbled over his Spanish pronunciation, but Manfred understood the man had an appetite for skewered pork marinated in a wine sauce with spicy Spanish rice on the side.
"Tapas, appetizers for you, sir?"
Wendel waived him off, not looking to eat too much on a date.
The waiter nodded and turned his attention to the fair lady. Her astral eyes and long eyelashes made him a bit uncomfortable. "I have a German appetite, through and through. No sense of adventure when it comes to food," she explained after ordering rouladen.
"You can't go wrong with tenderized choice beef tenderloin with bacon and caramelized onions," the waiter affirmed her meal choice.
The evening passed in a blur. When the plates were cleared Manfred eagerly asked if either one desired desert. Both declined.
Wendel hoped dinner would lead to more.
"You wanna go for a walk?" he asked her.
Amalia hastily tossed her cloth napkin on the table and responded, "Where do you wanna take me?" Her eyes shone brightly, hopes high. "No museums though." She had to throw that caveat out there. Wendel looked up at Manfred who reappeared for the last time. The German promptly received the black leather book for his payment. He then slipped a hand into an incognito coat pocket to produce a billfold. Even though DigiCoin prevailed as the most common tender, it made him look good to throw down some bills to pay for dinner. Wendel hurriedly made the handoff to the lingering waiter before answering Amalia, "Museums are out?" he laughed and faked his disappointment.
"Yep!"
"Tell you what, how 'bout a trip to a magical fountain instead?"
Wendel studied her face for a reaction. She didn't give him the idea he had hit a home run with the suggestion, nor did it come as a letdown either. He raised an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile in anticipation of a yes.
She got up from the table and grabbed his hand. "So where is this 'magic' fountain of yours?"
"Follow me!" Wendel excitedly swung her hand. A promising look of adventure dwelled in his eyes.
She trusted him to lead the way.
…
It had stopped raining by now. The steady slosh of tires driving through the puddles filled the night air. And horns. The scenery was colorful to say the least.
The damp, muggy air clung to them like a parasite. But at least the floodgates of heaven had closed.
The couple exited the tower together, Amalia leaning into Wendel in the enchanted moment. Pity the date couldn't go on as planned.
Three agents crouched with their weight resting on the balls of their feet. The targets would come to them. Steam poured out from a sewer like a boiling hot pot of soup, adding to the ominous details of the moment. The temperature had dropped significantly as dusk gave way to the impending blackness. The men lying in wait could see their breath. A rat with a big tail scampered back into a storm drain. Seconds went by before the shadows of two Germans approaching came into view. At the right time, the Mossad men dressed in black suits, their faces obscured by masks, jumped from cover and snatched the unsuspecting lovers off the street without a noise. Any screams or protestation were muffled by gags stuffed into their mouths. The strong men had no problem marching the victims over to their waiting ride that would launch up to the skies.
--
The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii
When the president and his cabinet put the wraps on Operation Switchblade, so began another one: the quest to get Damion Westover. President Toporvksy had asked Director Demsky of Sentinel to work with Mossad to get a better understanding of Scorpion's end-game plans.
…
The director of Sentinel felt like a hamster on the wheel spinning round and round with no stop in sight. Alfred rested his elbows on his desk's ink blotter. His left toe tapped a couple of times. He groaned and clutched his stomach. The drawer slowly opened. His hand blindly felt around for the familiar bottle. He twisted the tamper-proof lid once he found it.
Two tablets dispensed for him. Alfred spotted a nearby water glass he would use to rinse down the antacid meds. He licked his upper lip and loudly exhaled. Twenty seconds later he was in the right frame of mind to make a phone call, albeit reluct
antly. He lifted the black plastic phone from its cradle and stretched the ancient corded device to his left ear while he reached across with his free hand to dial a number. It rang twice before he reached the operator. "This is Alfred Demsky, director of Sentinel, may I speak to the prime minister please?" One moment sir.
A moment later, just as promised, the leader of the Labor party and the current Prime Minister of Israel answered. "Ken?" Yes?
"Erev tov Prime Minister Elkin, ma shlomcha?" Good evening Prime Minister Elkin, how are you?
"I speak English Alfred, and I'm fine, thanks."
"Is it a bad time to talk?" Alfred wondered, staring at his clock on the wall with the hour hand barely past five...in the morning.