The Great Deception

by davidberko

  "Let's review," he said sternly. "There's Scorpion, a new director, mysterious spaceships floatin' around, and doomsday draws near." He looked in his rearview mirror and observed disconbobulation was in the air. "Don't worry though. We'll have plenty of time to unpack each and every one of those items I just mentioned," he said with a reassuring grin.

  --

  The Israeli prime minister dug into one of his ears with a finger nail for the offending wax that must've been the reason for him not hearing the director of Sentinel right.

  "The Bible?" the secular leader croaked.

  Alfred's face burned with shame. Instant regret struck him in the face like one of his wife's backhands after he had done something terribly foolish.

  "You see sir, our president has been on this Bible kick lately. Hell, he even said we need to go to it during turbulent times such as this. What could it mean?"

  Prime Minister Tuvia Elkin didn't like where the conversation was going at all. He and his very leftward-leaning party held the majority of seats in the Knesset. Their rule represented what the godless Jewish culture had become. The Bible to them was a collection of useless tomes not relevant to modern times and problems.

  When there was deafening silence, Demsky took the opportunity to ask a second question. "Isn't there an antichrist figure in that Bible of yours?"

  This time Tuvia loudly scoffed. "My Bible?" he blubbered. "Far from it!" He needed another smoke right now. The fragrant smell of the burning cigar reminded him it was there for him. Right next to it a shot glass of vodka begged his hand to reach out and grab it.

  Just when Alfred Demsky thought he had reached a dead end, that's when he heard in his ear, "The antichrist is real. We shall both of us witness his rise to power in our lifetimes. Sooner than you think," the eerie voice tacked on.

  The Sentinel director swung from listlessness back to his stoic, confident self in a heartbeat. "You mean a one world government led by this," he searched for the name, "antichrist, is not a figment of some author's whack imagination?"

  After some delay Tuvia said, "Alfred, I'm not a devout Jew, by now you know this if you didn't figure it out already." He took a draw on his custom cigar and exhaled. "But," his voice grew louder, "the Bible hasn't been wrong when it comes to prophecy, to date." Demsky was a man of science. The facts, give me the facts, he would say.

  "Give me an example Prime Minister, if you would."

  "But of course. Your first lesson in eschatology: Israel's rebirth."

  "I beg your pardon? Escha-what?"

  "The study of end times, Director."

  "Okay," Demsky said, now on the same page, "I think we see eye to eye now." "No other nation has been scattered before, the diaspora, and then rejoined as a whole. Thousands of years later, I might add," Tuvia stated.

  "You have a point," Demsky conceded.

  "But what if it's just mere coincidence..." The Sentinel director grew so bold so as to share with the prime minister his hand in that one comment. It was flush with doubt, agnosticism, and cynicism.

  "You're crazy," Tuvia lambasted him. "Look, Director, I don't much care to engage in a polemical diatribe on what I know to be true." "You must understand where I'm coming from though," Alfred argued. "President Toporvsky is..." he chose his words carefully, "letting his grip slip from control of the situation. I can't keep shoveling crap when things go terribly wrong. As it is, we're

  already up to our eyeballs in the stuff."

  The picture Demsky painted didn't sit well with Israel's most powerful man. He grunted, "I don't like the way you talk to me sometimes, Alfred. You want me to enlist in helping your cause? Listen to me. It's that

  simple."

  "You have my attention, sir."

  "There's really nothing on the historical timeline left over before antichrist asserts his claim to rule, worldwide."

  Alfred jumped at the first break in the man's speech. "Where's this guy coming from?"

  Tuvia Elkin took his time to set it up. "Most Jews don't even believe in an afterlife, let alone end time events spoken of in the book of Revelation and elsewhere in the Scriptures. There are those that consider themselves 'reformed.'" He made sure to punctuate his point with quotations marks around reformed by the use of his middle and index fingers bouncing up and down on both hands.

  Demsky most assuredly caught the prime minister's disdain.

  "I don't take sides," he said rather thickly into the receiver. "I'm a pragmatist. I have a Jefferson Bible of my own. I keep the parts I like, and chuck the ones I don't."

  “I see," Demsky said in a faraway voice. He started to like Tuvia a little more the deeper they got into conversation.

  "North America. The revived Roman empire. That's where he's coming from." "Antichrist?" Demsky hastily replied, reeling a bit from the rapidity of the new info. "Who else?"

  The reality began to sink in. Demsky swore.

  "I need your help."

  "Anything for the Free Republic of North

  America."

  Hearing that name coming from Tuvia sounded so strange.

  Alfred stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Where does the Middle East fit in all of this?" "It's at the center of it all."

  "Thought so," he answered quickly. "What we need to dissect is how Scorpion is connected with the United Islamic Caliphate. I guarantee you there's an evil marriage between the two."

  "Perhaps I can shed some light," Prime Minister Elkin offered.

  --

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  At least on the ground he had a sense where he was going. Up in the air, not really. The young passenger in the flying car looked in vain out the window from time to time. He saw a cluster of skyscrapers off in the distance. He couldn't tell though if they were headed for them or not.

  Azriel looked at the beautiful girl that sat to his right. He smiled. But inside he felt like a hitchhiker at the mercy of the driver: grateful for the ride, however uneasy at the same time about the prospect of trusting a stranger at his word (her word).

  "How old are you Azriel?" Esther's mom asked.

  "13, ma'am."

  She laughed and told him to call her Stacy. "You're a little young to be going to high school."

  Esther cast a wistful glance at the Jewish boy before answering her mom.

  "He's smart. He could skip a few grades and still be in good shape." "My, my!" Stacy gasped. "Who are your parents? If you don't mind me

  asking."

  "Seth and..." his voice trailed off, "Jessica Markov."

  His eyes remained on a fixed point on the floor while he said this. Suddenly a warm hand rested on his shoulder which caused him to swivel. Her blue eyes stared into his soul. Esther reached in and tugged on his heart strings. The love in her beryl eyes communicated to him everything would be okay.

  The hurt of uttering his mom's expired name left him.

  He shared her same smile and forgot for a moment how much his personal space bubble had been invaded.

  Esther's mom kept a wary eye on the young people in the back as she stayed vigilant at the helm of the flying shuttle. Something in

  the boy's reaction to asking about his parents told her to not ask any more questions and leave well enough alone.

  Some time went by minus any additional probing questions on her part. She began to bank sharply to the right before speaking up, "You said Park Tzamaret is where you live?" "Yeah," Azriel mumbled.

  Esther inconspicuously glimpsed where they were. Her posture suddenly stiffened a little. The trip was over.

  They weren't at Park Tzamaret.

  --

  Barcelona, Spain

  A rickety steel blade lazily rotated in the AC wall unit. It functioned better as a noise maker than an air conditioner. One lone light chased out the darkness in the cramped interrogation chamber.

  A wood grain table took up the center of the room. Behind it, two metal folding chairs faced the only exit straight across the way. That night two German BfV diplomats w
ere the distinguished guests of honor. Their interrogator would walk into the room at any moment.

  When they were led into the chamber in the first place, they had hoped the cuffs would finally come off. They weren't going anywhere after all--prisoners to their present circumstances. No such luck however. The man that disposed of them in the holding cell thought it best to tie their hands behind their backs. Strong tape kept their mouths sealed shut, too. There would be no need for chitchat: not until the interrogator asked his questions, that is.

  Amalia could only share her worried eyes with her date sitting next to her, who happened to mirror worry right back. How sorry she was to make him endure the same fate she did. She knew it wasn't her fault, that it encompassed something bigger than the both of them, but that didn't make her feel any less responsible.

  She wondered how Wendel must've felt. On the surface he didn't appear to be an overly emotional type of guy. Nor did he come across as withdrawn, indifferent to the world around him. In a word? Balanced.

  Surprisingly intimate for a male, but at the same time nowhere near emasculated.

  A new noise filled the room causing the two prisoners' heads to snap up. A dark, poorlydressed individual with an unimpressive stature and little bulk in the areas where it counted cracked the door open wide enough for only someone his size to slink through. He glanced in the Germans' direction and noticed the wide-eyed surprise in their eyes.

  He got that a lot.

  Agent Marcelo quickly discerned his new surroundings to be a bit warmer than the last time he had the pleasure. Off came his floral button-down, leaving him with only a sweatstained wife beater on--one size too small at that.

  Amalia caught herself in a deadpan stare at the inked arms of whom she presumed to be the interrogator. Something seemed to be missing from his ensemble though and it bothered her. She had seen torture scenes from TV shows and usually the inquisitor brought with him the tools of the trade to extract answers from his subjects. This guy looked out of his element. She knew not to make snap judgments on individuals though. Perhaps his appearance was by design she reasoned...get the guard down and hit 'em when they're most vulnerable.

  Wendel sat there wringing his hands in angst. His handcuffs were beginning to cut off circulation to his wrists, too. He used that as an excuse to convince himself he squeezed his hands to get the blood flowing again and not to mitigate the turmoil within. His eyes dwelled on the air bubbles in the painted cinder block wall in front of him. Up until now, dread had successfully penetrated his permeable mind.

  Wendel closed his eyes and silently exhaled through his nose. All the fibers in his being premeditatedly braced for the worst that could happen to him in the hours to come.

  A fourth person had entered into the room undetected. He positioned himself directly behind the detainees' heads. Upon being given the subtle signal from Alfonso, the man with the invisibility cloak sprang into action. Wendel and Amalia suddenly pitched forward so hard that their foreheads smacked against the table in front of them.

  Alfonso didn't wait for them to recover either. He motioned to his incognito helper to continue his work.

  Next, the victims were grabbed by their hair and sharply jerked backwards to an upright sitting position. Amalia yelped, but Wendel barely grunted. By now both victims were seeing through glassy red eyes at their interrogator who seemed ready to ask his first question.

  At the last possible second Wendel noticed a distortion in the space around his mouth. He accurately guessed what would come next. Whatever facial hair he might have had got painfully plucked out by the duck tape that slowly peeled away from his face. The German grimaced.

  Amalia received the same treatment after her partner got his.

  Alfonso smiled like a shark and said rather snarkily, "Now tell me, what's the real reason

  for your visit to lovely Barcelona? The lady first."

  "Uh―" her voice wavered. "―business..."

  "What kind?"

  Wendel shot her a cross look.

  Alfonso didn't wait around before saying, "Don't force my hand. I always get what I want."

  Amalia looked miserable already. How much longer could she play the martyr for Germany? For Scorpion?

  When neither one volunteered an answer to the current inquiry, Alfonso shook his head.

  "Flagellation it is."

  Amalia began to whimper a little.

  "You have something to say?" the Mossad agent extended a little grace.

  In an instant the woman's fragile features went from broken to tough as Teflon.

  Alfonso recognized the stubborn streak and reluctantly nodded to his assistant. The blows came hard and often with hardly any time in between. The resolve the Germans showed didn't surprise Alfonso in the least. He had a whole show lined up for them--and they were still in the opening credits.

  --

  Chapter 10

  Ukraine

  Tyrone's hulking black SUV with fake plates came to a stop on the side of a rural highway. Baruch demanded they pull over after four hours of driving so he could take a leak. No one else had to go but him.

  The mile markers couldn't have gone by fast enough for Seth on the twenty hour road trip.

  A light breeze trickled into the cabin from the cracked windows. He glanced out the passenger side window to check on Baruch's progress. What he saw was a man rather clumsily slide down the embankment and nearly loose his footing at the bottom of the stopgap latrine.

  Baruch tossed out a few curse words as he let the juices flow.

  "Does he normally drink so much?" Tyrone referred to the man taking a piss. Seth, caught off-guard by the question hemmed and hawed a bit. "I--I don't

  remember him ever being a drinker, come to

  think of it."

  "Can we count on him to get it together down the stretch?"

  "Without a doubt. There's not a better man to go with me on this mission than that guy out there."

  Seth grew thoughtful and wondered about the veteran next to him. "You stay single all these years?"

  Tyrone had to think about it before answering. Obviously he had a two-part answer because of how he dawdled. "My track record―almost perfect,” he said while making a hand gesture. “I was on a streak until....I fell hard," his voice grew faint. "Ah!" Seth's eyes shone brighter. "I knew you weren't cut out of that cloth." Tyrone knew his friend to be talking about singlehood by his reference. He balked anyhow. "How you figure that?"

  Seth glanced in the side mirror. Baruch had nearly made it back to the vehicle already.

  Light poured into the backseat. Highway noise commingled with it until the Mossad man put an end to the outside influences by shutting the door behind himself.

  "Ready to go?" he called from the rear.

  "Next potty stop won't be for a while," Tyrone said turning around to address the agent.

  "Yeah, yeah."

  "You don't like me, do ya, son." It was more of a statement than a question. "He's like that with everybody," Seth explained. "Baruch only knows how to get along when lives are on the line. In every other situation he's a complete douche." "Thanks partner."

  "I've got your back."

  More sarcasm. "Yeah you do."

  "Did you forget about my question?" Tyrone reminded Seth.

  "I won't answer until you get us back on the road and are doing a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour."

  Tyrone activated auto pilot with adaptive cruise control. Set and forget driving at its best. He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Better?”

  Seth made a face. "Suffering succotash, I must give it to you straight." He slurred his s's like a pro.

  Baruch howled in laughter. "I've never heard you do that before!"

  "I bring out the best in him," an equallymystified Tyrone muttered.

  …

  Two hundred miles later, after lengthy conversation the three men confined themselves to silence.

  "We couldn't get anything faster than this
?" Seth complained with his face to the window.

  "Hey, my pockets aren't as deep as Mossad's. You're just gonna have to make due."

  "Who's our target?" Baruch asked.

  "Thought you'd never ask," Tyrone smiled. "I've got your mission packets in the center console. You can read all about it."

  Since Seth sat the closest to it he opened up the compartment and found two tablets waiting there for him. He tossed the one back to his partner. Both men were grateful to lose themselves in the digital world and for a moment, get their restless minds off the never-ending road that stretched on before them.

  "Sofia Keller? A woman?" Baruch said after a little while.

  "What's the matter? You have some kind of code that doesn't permit you to target members of the opposite sex?" Tyrone teased.

  "No," Baruch replied. "I was hoping for

  somebody a little higher up in the German hierarchy is all."

  "That goes for me, too," Seth admitted, feeling the same disappointment. "I had really hoped to read Lothar Kirsch's name instead." "Him?" Tyrone crinkled his nose at the mention of the Fourth Reich's corrupt leader. "He's on a short waiting list. He'll get what's coming to him. Don't you worry." "He'll get my bullet," Seth uttered through gritted teeth.