The Great Deception

by davidberko

"It's the dinner hour here in Jerusalem, Mr. Demsky. So no, you're not interrupting anything. I don't have much of an appetite anyway."

  The supreme leader in Israel clipped off the end to a cigar. He ceremoniously sniffed it before sticking it between his teeth and lighting up.

  Demsky apologized anyway despite what the Jewish leader had just said. Then Alfred brought a cold, beading glass of water to his forehead for relief before he spoke on more important subject matter.

  "Prime minister, I have some news here in the West to report of that you may be

  interested in."

  Tuvia Elkin settled into his lounge chair on the stone patio in the courtyard of Beit Aghion (the Jewish residence for prime ministers).

  "Tell me, Alfred. I'm listening." His hazel eyes stared at a sculpture of a lion while he puffed aromatic rings of smoke.

  "Scorpion has a new leader. Damion Westover has been kidnapped. And an op of ours to extricate some valuable possessions of his went terribly bad."

  Tuvia scowled hard and grunted. "This is bad news indeed. What can I do for you Mr. Demsky?"

  The Sentinel director eyed a younger picture of himself on his desk while he twirled an expensive pen between his fingers. "President Toporvsky has asked me to investigate Scorpion to find anything I can to tell us what they're planning. And to get Damion back."

  "The second part will be easy. As to the first item, I am less certain."

  Alfred uncharacteristically smiled. "I only wish I shared your same optimism. Nothing is certain these days, I'm afraid."

  "What you need is the experience and assets of an established intelligence agency." Tuvia's baritone voice resonated with Demsky. "Precisely," he agreed to the point being made. "If anybody could unravel this enigma, it'd be the professionals of Mossad." There was a smile in Tuvia's voice when he said, "Don't underestimate your own strength, director. Between our two countries, I feel a solution is closer than you might think." The flattering speech only went so far to assure Demsky. He had his doubts. A pack of gum resting on the first tier of a desk organizer had his name on it. His fingers made fast work of the shiny wrapper. No sooner had he plopped the sugary stick in between his teeth did he realize he still had the prime minister of Israel on the line. "Was there anything else, Alfred?"

  "I beg your pardon Mr. Prime Minister. My brain has been out to lunch ever since I left the security briefing earlier this morning. Long

  days, you know."

  "Yes, misery loves company."

  Demsky chuckled. "There was one more thing," he said.

  "Yes, anything."

  "What do you know about the end times prophecy in the Bible?"

  He couldn't believe he had just asked that. The president and his opened Bible at the National Security Council had irked him for long enough. It was time he got to the bottom of it. Maybe the leather bound book with the golden letters spelling Holy Bible was a book of secrets after all. He would know soon.

  --

  Chapter 8

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  He had survived his first day back to school. Should it have come as any surprise though? Son of Seth Markov, real-life GI Joe...Jason Bourne.

  Azriel left the empty halls and followed the restless students out the doors. He watched as many filed into the waiting busses curbside. But that wouldn't be him, he hoped. No, for Uncle Ephraim would come to the rescue in his Mercedes.

  Azriel let his book bag fall to the pavement; he sat down beside it. A light breeze blew his dark curly hair here and there. The handsome Jewish boy wistfully stared across the parking lot towards the busy roads, hoping to see the sun glinting off his uncle's sporty car coming to get him.

  Right then his sixth sense tingled as he felt the stare of another person fall across his back. Azriel turned around.

  "Hi!"

  His pensive thoughts and anxiety about getting a ride went out the window. There she was. The girl of his dreams from his economics class, saying hello to him. The sun shone in his eyes so much that he had to cover them--and lose sight of the pretty girl as a result.

  "My name's Azriel," he shyly introduced himself.

  "I know what your name is. The whole school does." Her eyelids scrunched as she giggled.

  "I wonder how? I've only been here a day," he replied a little dully. "Come on, economics class? That little stunt you pulled?" She loomed larger now, presently inviting herself to sit next to him. Drawing her knees up to her chin, she appeared to settle in.

  "You like it here?" Azriel asked, not knowing what else to say. He was more nervous than anything else.

  She smiled, showcasing her beautiful bite. Amazing what braces can do for an individual: it corrected her overbite and made it hard to look away whenever she opened wide.

  "Yeah, you can make good friends here. I'm Esther by the way," she said while examining him when he wasn't looking.

  "Esther? That's a beautiful name."

  "You're just saying that!" she playfully shoved him.

  He blushed and shrugged. "What else do you want me to say?"

  The last buss filled up. The driver gave it another minute before pressing a button to close the doors. A deep rumble of the engine proceeded a belch of exhaust as it rolled off the lot.

  Esther watched all this before turning to Azriel to ask the obvious. "Waiting for your ride?"

  He nodded. "Someone coming to get you?"

  "My mom gets off of work soon. She'll be here no more than ten minutes from now.

  You need a ride?"

  For a moment the offer sounded amazing. But Azriel had no idea if his uncle intended to pick him up or not. He'd sure hate to leave and later have to explain to an upset Uncle Ephraim he had made other arrangements. "It really isn't a problem Azriel," she said softly in a coaxing voice. "This doesn't have to be an everyday thing. A little favor once in a while wouldn't hurt anybody."

  Azriel didn't want to say no to the girl he felt so strongly attracted to. "Oh alright. Just this once," he gave her a wry smile.

  What he felt at that moment? Excited.

  "Great!" Esther played with one of her pigtails briefly. "Did you have a good first day?"

  Azriel didn't have to think very hard to answer.

  Um, yeah?! I'm talking with the girl I've had eyes for...after only one whole day! "Hmmm, considering I didn't even imagine myself back in a school again, yeah, I'd say today turned out great."

  "What do you mean...you were a dropout or something?"

  Azriel kicked a loose piece of gravel. "I don't like talking about it." Esther didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable. Yet she very craftily thought of a way to make him share without appearing eager to do

  so. "If it's nothing you'd care to pass along, it's alright." Silence.

  "I lost my dad when I was two." She looked to him for a reaction. Her face told on her: she knew more about Azriel than she'd ever let on.

  The guard slowly started to come down anyhow. He looked interested now. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said with genuine sympathy. He knew what it felt like to lose a parent. "I never met my mother," he admitted very cautiously. It was easier for him to be cloistered than to come out of the shell. But somehow Esther made him feel safe; he did not know how.

  "That's tragic!" she reached over to gently scratch his back with her long white nails. Azriel's muscles tightened.

  "Does that make you uncomfortable?" she asked surprised.

  He looked chagrinned. "I'm not used to much attention from females. That's

  all."

  "Ah! I know something you could use a little more of then!" she said with a mischievous grin, continuing her strokes on his back.

  Azriel resigned his tortured self to the continuation of the treatment. Off in the distance the sound of an approaching engine growing stronger made him look up to see who was there.

  "Is that your mom?"

  A deep purple aerodynamic van with a white racing stripe down the hood, flared tail lamps and running boards that jutted out
cruised through the parking lot with efficiency until it came to a stop a short distance away from the waiting teenagers.

  Azriel squinted in vain to see through the tinted windows.

  A window rolled down and a very young woman smiled and waved at them.

  Esther rose to go first. "Come on!" she said to the ever reluctant Jewish boy. The butterflies came back again. They had never gone away, really...maybe stopped flapping their wings though. He could feel the fluttering feeling in his stomach ramp up as he approached the sleek ride.

  A giant side door effortlessly popped open and appeared to be suspended in mid-air. No sign of hinges what-so-ever. Twenty-first century engineering.

  "Who's your boyfriend?" Esther's mother teased as the two youths found a seat next to each other.

  "Mom, meet Azriel, he's the new kid at school," she said, all in one breath. The craft vibrated as its ducted fans began to go round and round, gaining momentum for what took place next.

  "Thanks for the ride, miss," Azriel quietly said.

  "Don't mention it. Anything for my daughter," she tossed a needling look Esther's way.

  "Where do you live Azriel?" Esther asked…more for her mom’s benefit than her own.

  The boy gave her the address to an apartment on the west side of town.

  "You live in Park Tzamaret?" She asked in disbelief.

  She must think I come from money or something.

  "It's actually just a small studio apartment way up in the clouds. Not exactly luxurious accommodations like you might expect." He could tell they were still dubious, but none of it mattered.

  Through voice commands Esther’s mom told the car where to go. After that she submitted her ticket to the automated traffic system to gain access to one of the many beltways that the city's air traffic commonly took to get places.

  Thirty seconds later she was cleared to safely join the traffic up in the sky. The purple van did all the pitching and maneuvering--taking all the hassle out of driving.

  --

  Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

  A long, winding spiral staircase climbed to the upper stories of the royal residence of the leader of the United Islamic Caliphate. There were no stairs to traverse, only a sloped incline.

  The well-dressed man put one foot in front of the other while occasionally peering over the edge of the ornate white staircase with its many colorful banners flowing down from it. At the very bottom his eyes gravitated towards a splendid crystal grand piano and its accompanying band with all their wind instruments striking a familiar tune. The melodious musical notes drifted up to his ears. Their intervals varied as greatly as the tempo to the score itself. The overall effect was delightful nonetheless. It almost made him envious of the band members' skill...make him regret his decisions during his youth to put away the instruments in favor of playing sports.

  At last the upper landing to the ascent drew nigh. Below him the snaking staircase went in and out of focus: he now truly felt the height of where he stood. This was all very symbolic and by design. Soon he and his entourage that went with him would be at the very threshold to the throne room belonging to the most powerful man in the Middle East--Rehan Kahlil.

  The gilded doors with the crescent moon embossed into it and the phalanx of body guards in front were signposts that royalty was near. The lead guard came forward and cautiously eyed the group of four strangers. He pulled up his guest list on his wearable computer (like the preceding two checkpoints had dutifully done) to begin the vetting process before letting anyone into the king's chamber.

  Three of the four men stated their names and provided identification. The whole affair proceeded along very unceremoniously until it came time for the king's appointment to identify himself.

  When he spoke a mysterious wind rushed over everyone. The forces of darkness were at work within the members. The unknown man destined to have an audience with King Kahlil appeared on the list under a pseudonym. The name must have checked out though. Upon further examination of the palace records and a thorough check of the database, this man who would see the king held all the rights to do so.

  All guests passing through the king's court had to trouble themselves with yet another full body scan before they could see his royal highness.

  The administering agent asking all the questions and directing the process cast one last doubtful glance at the visitors before he begrudgingly told his fellow men of the watch to get the doors.

  They grabbed for the great door pulls and gave a mighty tug. The doors that were barely a decade old stubbornly yielded on hinges that belied their short life. A room lit by ancient methods with a lack of air circulation took the newcomers by surprise. An empty hall with marble pillars on either side pointed towards the most important chair in the land. On it sat a fellow not fit to be sitting in it--from physical appearances, that is.

  Make no mistake, however. For where Kahlil came up short in terms of a commanding physical presence, he certainly overtook with his rational mind and subtle tongue.

  The men walked in a procession, single file.

  The king spared his roving gaze for the character he most wanted to see. He caught glimpses of the man's face from the light the flickering torches threw. Shadows played across the face of the man in question, distorting his features to a curios King Kahlil. There he precariously sat, half off his chair in an eager posture: his leg muscles, which suddenly were called upon to support the extra weight, coiled with anticipation.

  The three leading Islamic clerics representing the Ummahs (people groups) in the kingdom took their seats before the throne. Before they sat though, each one reverentially greeted the king with the traditional salaam treatment (a low bow with the palm of the right hand on the forehead).

  Kahlil curled his finger twice in a beckoning

  motion. "Come Jabour, you have news to tell."

  Jabour came forward upon hearing his alias surname.

  "Have a seat," the king offered.

  A red pillow with a throw on an expensive rug invited the messenger to recline in comfort while passing along the dispatch. He found the furnishing to his liking. Jabour swept the shiny dark hair off his face to fix a side part. Untold secrets stared at the king behind a set of inscrutable eyes. "Long live the king and may Allah be praised!" he opened it up with, hoping to grease the skids for what came down the pike.

  Kahlil nodded slightly and waited for Jabour to skip to business. A brief bought with thirst was quenched after he delivered a golden goblet to his lips and held it there for quite some time.

  "Something is about to happen all around the world your Excellency," Jabour started off with grim certainty.

  The king's cup quivered a little. He studied his visitor to know even more than what had already been spoken. A ring on the right hand stood out to him.

  He noted the ring seemed to be reversed, hiding a symbol on it from view. Whenever the character would shift his hands a little a flash of blue from the underside of Jabour's hands would show.

  Intriguing, Kahlil thought.

  Jabour continued, pretending not to notice how removed the king was from what was being said.

  "A great evil is afoot. Nations will be supplanted, mountains...moved." "Come now, stop speaking in riddles and get straight to the point," the king snapped. "But there is much to tell your majesty, and I wish to do it all in good time," he paused to thoughtfully interject, "with your permission, of course." The king ignored the petition, instead choosing to speak freely on what he really wondered about.

  "And Muhammad al-Mahdi?"

  "Yes, he has a role in all of this." Jabour appeared eager to get by that name and on to something else he had come to say. For a millisecond he flicked his wrist giving the king a better angle at the pattern on the ring. Rehan Kahlil inconspicuously took a snapshot photo with his mind's eye of what he saw. Somewhere before he had seen a marking just like it.

  "Whatever do you mean, Jabour?" he questioned. The king wouldn't let it drop that easy.<
br />
  The guest twitched at the mouth and straightened his pocket square. "You see o king, a great calamitous event is about to happen."

  "Another asteroid?"

  "No--worse!" Jabour baited him in.

  "Another war? Is that it?"

  "No..."

  "Good! Because I'm afraid my people prefer peace over our blood and fire, war-mongering ancestors."

  This triggered an involuntary smile on Jabour's lips.

  Kahlil dubiously rubbed his jaw. "You said the Mahdi is involved in all this?" "He's our savior, o king. Only he can save humanity from what we're about to face."

  He appeared ready to say more, but not before the king had something to say. "Oh, I don't care about the Jews or the rest of the westerners." The king made a sweeping motion with his arms. The freeflowing fabric with white fluted edging wrinkled under his arm's capricious movements. His nose wrinkled too as if the mere mention of those people groups equated to debauchery and smut. "They can get what's coming to them. May Allah's holy judgment purify the land of the infidels."

  "Absolutely. None of that is in question," Jabour reciprocated, eager to show the king he shared the same level of detest against the unholy enemies of Islam. "But I'm afraid even the United Islamic Caliphate isn't safe, either."