The Lucifer Genome: A Conspiracy Thriller

by Glen Craney

  The pilot nodded, as if rummaging his memory for images of old flames.

  Cas pulled the cockpit door shut and locked it. “Listen, I felt really bad about this.” He put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder in a conciliatory gesture.

  WEARING WRAPAROUND SUNGLASSES AND AN aviator’s cap, the EgyptAir pilot sauntered off the plane carrying his briefcase and nodded to the beret-crowned Israeli soldiers lined up near the exit. He veered over the officer in charge and, with a confident smile, whispered in fluid Arabic that the man the Israelis were waiting for was still on the plane.

  The Israeli officer shook his head, unable to understand the comment.

  Without a hitch, the pilot switched to English, delivered in a smooth Southern accent. “Your boy’s crouchin’ down like a scared rabbit in seat Fifty-four C. Gotta say, he doesn’t seem all that bright. Give the guy five minutes, and I’ll bet he’ll walk right out into your arms.”

  The Israeli officer nodded his appreciation for the heads-up, now understanding the pilot despite his thick drawl.

  The pilot strode past the passengers lined up and waiting for their Customs interrogations. He spotted the lane reserved for the flight crew and marched briskly toward a blank-faced matron who was handling the expedited exit. Looking at his watch, he shook his head in a plea for commiseration and muttered, “Can they make these turnarounds any tighter?”

  The glum woman glanced half-heartedly at the ID badge on his lapel. With a weary sigh, she waved him through. The pilot tipped his cap in gratitude.

  Finally cleared into the main terminal, Cas tossed aside the stolen aviation sunglasses and cap, sparing a guilty thought for the real pilot, who was probably only now coming back to consciousness in the cockpit from the thumb press to his jugular. No need to worry about the co-pilot, either. He was still locked in the john, with the doorknob wedged up against the expandable handle on his carry-on bag.

  He saw Cohanim retrieve his passport and walk through the First Class customs stall. The Texan was heading fast toward the doors to the taxi stand. Determined not to lose him, he elbowed his way through a throng of families blocking the barricades with their insufferable hugging and kissing. He was aching to sink his talons into that arrogant cowboy and haul him to the nearest bank, where he would force him to transfer two million dollars into an offshore account registered to one C.T. Fielding.

  He ran outside and shoved his fist to his mouth, gagging under the clouds of diesel fumes. The whole damn airport was log-jammed with jostling rental-car buses and cabs. Security cars raced past with their sirens blaring and bubbles flashing. By now, the pilot he had left passed out on the plane with a pinch to his jugular was probably reviving. With little time to lose, he sprinted down the Departures sidewalk and searched the sea of people.

  There he was … across the street, hailing a taxi.

  He dashed across five lanes, dodging several horn-blaring vehicles. He reached his target just as Cohanim was opening the rear passenger side of a cab. He shoved the stout Texan inside and jumped in next to him. “You don’t mind if we share a ride into town, do you, Lone Ranger?” He raised his fist to punch the guy who had caused him all this grief—

  The cabbie turned and aimed a pistol at him.

  “Do you have anything over two hundred dollars in value to declare, Captain Fielding?"

  Cas swallowed hard. The guy in the Stetson sitting next to him wasn’t the man who had boarded the plane ahead of him in Riyadh.

  BRUISED FROM TWENTY-FOUR HOURS OF the best tenderizing the Land of Zion had to offer, Cas blinked against the harsh sunlight when his blindfold was removed. Two Israeli thugs escorted him into a room surrounded by a wall of glass doors that opened to the Mediterranean. The sea breeze told him all he needed to know. His old Mossad friends, he remembered, loved to situate their work houses in the best neighborhoods, and this one, Neve Tsedek, was the oldest and one of the most exclusive parts of town. His eyes adjusted just enough to make out two figures seated on a garish sofa.

  “We’re not usually in the business of matchmaking travel companions,” one of the Israelis said. “But in your case, we’ve made an exception. I think you know our guest here.”

  Cas squinted in an effort to make out another shadowy figure on the couch. He eyes widened in sudden recognition. “What are you doing here?”

  For a fleeting moment, Marly looked concerned about his battered condition. Then, finding him okay, she turned angry enough to light a blowtorch. She raised her handcuffed hands and snapped, “Why don’t you tell me?”

  The man lounging next to her laughed at their bickering.

  Cas groaned, recognizing his old nemesis, Avram Isserle. “If it isn’t the Wandering Jew. What name you going by these days? Josh? Avi? Camel’s Ass?”

  The Mossad agent stood up and pushed Cas into his vacated spot on the sofa. “You two troublemakers just can’t stay away from each other, can you? At least Dr. McKinney here pays for a ticket.”

  Cas rested his scraped hands on his knees, and everything slowly came into focus. After Saudi authorities tipped off the Israelis that the ex-D.I.A. fugitive was on the plane, Isserle must have planted an imposter in Customs, complete with an outsized Stetson and a suit similar to the one Cohanim was wearing. Damn fine spycraft, that. He nodded with grudging admiration. “I gotta know, Isserle. Where do you find a cowboy hat in Israel on such short notice?”

  “We have a vibrant film industry here,” Isserle said in a Brooklyn accent for Marly’s benefit, just to remind her of the old days back at her apartment. “You’d be surprised how accommodating a production wardrobe department can be when we call.”

  Marly glared at Cas, her eyes screaming a question: How could you be so damn stupid? It hadn’t taken her long at all to regret her decision to track Cas down after learning from Paul Brady that he had conned his way onto a flight to Saudi Arabia. And it had taken the Saudi police even less time to flyspeck her on the Customs manifold and decipher what she was up to.

  Isserle walked over to the wet bar and added another ice cube to his Havana Club. “Now, Mr. Fielding, perhaps you’d like to tell us why you attacked an Australian national in Riyadh and stole his ticket, then illegally boarded a flight here and assaulted the pilot?” He flicked his fingers up, as if he were counting. “How many felonies is that?”

  “Hey, you do realize we’re on the same side, right?” Cas said. “I happen to know a big-time thief who was on that flight.”

  “’Zat so?” Isserle said, clinking the ice in his rum.

  “Sonofabitch owes me—”

  “Us,” Marly insisted. “He owes us.”

  Isserle removed her handcuffs. “Owes you what, exactly?”

  “Money, for one thing,” Marly said, rubbing her wrists. She nodded toward Cas. “And for him, there’s the small matter of getting his son back.”

  Isserle turned to Cas. “She doesn’t know?”

  Marly glared at Cas, trying to guess what she had been kept in the dark about now. “Know what?”

  Cas fought back the tears. Finally, he whispered, “Farid’s dead.”

  Marly looked around the room, wondering if they were all playing a sick trick on her. “But I thought they told you—”

  “When the Saudis got their Stone back,” Isserle explained, “the young man became expendable. The Saudis are ruthless bastards.”

  Stunned, Marly sat back against the couch. Forgetting her anger, she stood and came to Cas, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. She glared at Isserle, wondering how he knew of Farid’s death. “How did you happen to come by that piece of information?”

  Isserle smirked at her naiveté. “Lady, by now, even you should realize that a camel doesn’t fart between the Persian Gulf and the Red Sea without our knowing the time and temperature.”

  She turned back to Cas and whispered, “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have raised my voice at you if—”

  “I’m going to get him,” he vowed, choking back the emotion.

 
; Isserle heard the threat. “Get who?”

  “Yeah,” Marly said. “Get who?”

  Cas hadn’t had time to fill her in on his latest theory. “A Texas prick named Cohanim. I think he stole those damn Stone fragments from us. If it weren’t for him, whoever he is, Farid would still be alive. Pick him up and put me in a room with him for ten minutes. I’ll bet you he’s—”

  “Seth Cohanim?” Isserle asked, cutting him off. “We know him very well. He’s president and chief operating officer of Lightgiver Technologies.”

  “And just how would you know the guy?”

  “Unlike you two scofflaws, Mr. Cohanim is here on legitimate business with the Israeli government. He breeds a special strain of cattle for our kibbutzim in the northern part of the country.”

  Feeling Marly’s eyes dig into him, Cas shouted, “Oh, that is such BS!”

  “Well, that comes with the cattle now, doesn’t it?” Isserle smiled and took a sip of the Caribbean’s finest sugar-cane product. “Whatever financial dispute you may have with Cohanim needs to be resolved in an American court.” His smile dropped into a malevolent gaze. “That is, assuming the statute of limitations doesn’t run out while you’re imprisoned here.”

  Marly leapt to her feet. “So it was this Cohanim con man who was running that fly-by-night lab in Dallas?”

  Cas nodded. “I ran the plates on the Beemers those goons were driving after you left me high and dry.”

  Marly had steaming coming out of her ears. “Then he must have been the guy who originally stole the—”

  “The Black Stone of Mecca?” Isserle interjected, amused by their outrage.

  “Yes!” Cas and Marly piped simultaneously.

  Isserle shook his head at their ineptitude. “As usual, you two have your heads firmly up your asses. Cohanim had nothing to do with that theft.”

  Cas staggered to his feet, trying to make his battered posture appear as menacing as possible. “Then why don’t you tell us more about who did?”

  Isserle turned to Marly. “There’s a bathroom around the corner.”

  When Marly shot the Israeli agent a quizzical glance, Cas interpreted the order for her. “That’s Hebrew for, ‘Could you give us a moment alone so that he can share some more brass-knuckle magic on me.’”

  Reluctantly, Marly crept down the dim hall, glancing back at Cas and regretting her harsh words about him.

  Isserle poured himself another three fingers of the crystal-clear hooch. Alone now with Cas, he said, “Do you seriously think that anything happens in Saudi Arabia without us knowing about it? We’ve been monitoring this situation in Mecca ever since the Stone was stolen.” He sat back on the couch, the fresh cubes clinking furiously. “It’s always been in our interest to see Islam’s holiest relic protected. If word of the theft had ever gotten out—”

  “Muslims around the world would have taken to the streets with their rocket launchers,” Cas said. “But yeah, thanks for the freshman world-history lecture.”

  “If this region is going to blow up in a war,” Isserle said, “we want the reward to be worth the cost. Such as the elimination of the Iranian nuclear program. You don’t need to be reminded that we would have learned more than anyone, even your idiotic Congress, ever wanted to know about Tehran’s nuclear ambitions if the Stone hadn’t been …”

  Marly returned to the living room, looking concerned about Cas. Having eavesdropped the entire time, she shouted at Isserle, “None of that explains why you’ve been harassing me!”

  Isserle swirled his drink. “We got a tip early on that your accomplice here was going to be contacting you about meteorites.”

  “A tip?” Cas yelped. “More like an illegal wiretap on a certain Malibu phone!”

  Isserle ignored the interruption. “Taking into consideration his level of intellectual curiosity, we knew he wasn’t coming to see you for adult education credit. And given that he has a rather colorful record of erratic mental—”

  “Hey!” shouted Cas. “I’m standing here, in case you forgot!”

  Isserle nodded to Marly, as if suggesting his point had just been proven. “He has a personal motive for inflicting revenge on the Saudi government. We couldn’t take the chance that he might sabotage the Stone’s return to Kaaba.”

  Marly blinked hard, having failed to consider that possibility. “And all that screwing around with my computer?”

  “Due diligence, I’m afraid,” Isserle said. “Nothing more exotic than that.”

  “Due diligence? You damn near blew my head off!”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a bit overly dramatic, Professor? I’ll admit that from time to time we may get, you can call it, enthusiastic, but we’re passionate about our work—”

  “Murder!” she shouted. “The word you’re looking for is ‘murder.’”

  Isserle smiled. “We knew from the beginning that your boyfriend here—”

  “He’s not my boyfriend!”

  Cas tried to get in on the conversation. “Methinks she doth protest too—”

  “You jackass!” she snapped at him. “Two minutes ago, you tell me your son is dead. And now you’re cracking asinine jokes again? I swore I was rid of—”

  Isserle jangled the ice in his glass to regain their attention. “It didn’t take us long to find out that you two were spending a lot of time together. Rock expert and a former Middle East spook who nearly flunked out of West Point. Wouldn’t take a Mensa member to figure something was up.”

  Marly was now even more outraged. “Yeah, well maybe the U.S. District Attorney for New York will be interested in your work!” She looked to Cas for support, but he had turned his attention toward the half-empty bottle of rum.

  Isserle poured Cas another drink. “Vodka used to be more your calling, if I recall?” He offered a drink to Marly, but she waved it away.

  Cas let the effect of his long, satisfying slurp of rum shimmer through his veins. “Okay, riddle me this, Isserle. If this Cohanim con man didn’t take the Stone back to the Saudis, then who did?”

  Isserle shook his head in mock disappointment. “Come on, Fielding. You’re really losing your edge. Don’t you remember our old stock-in-trade? Don’t trust anyone in this business.”

  “Who the hell have I trusted—” Cas stopped himself, his face blanching.

  Marly waited to be clued in. “What?”

  Cas clenched the glass so hard it threatened to shatter. “That sonofabitch!”

  Isserle grinned. “You bit on Earl Jubal’s hook like a blind carp.”

  Marly turned on Cas. “That militia creep who hired you off the books?”

  Cas paced the room in a rage. “The lying warmonger cut us out of our fee! He used me as a bird dog to find the Stone, then he came swooping down to steal it out from under me.” He drained his drink. “He took the Stone back to the Saudis and saved himself two million bucks.”

  Marly was trying to make sense of it all. “You mean those goons in Dallas were your old boss’s men? And you’ve been chasing this innocent Cohanim man the entire time?”

  Cas sat down and hung his head in dejection. “I screwed up royally.”

  Isserle patted Cas’s slouched back with obvious condescension. “You retire from the business and cauterize a few too many brain cells at the local cabana. Next thing you know, you’ve lost your touch.”

  Defeated, Marly flopped onto the couch. “What do we do now?”

  Cas felt her eyes biting into him. This time, he made himself at home with the rum, pouring himself an outsized shot, too depressed to think.

  Isserle shook his head at the two American screw-ups. “I’m willing to let this one slide, Fielding. Professional courtesy, for old time’s sake. And in condolences for your son. If you two poor excuses for grifters promise to catch the next flight back to the States tomorrow and never return to Israel, I’ll make the stowaway and assault charges go away. The one-way tickets will be my treat.”

  With not even a hundred dollars between
them, Cas and Marly had no choice. They nodded reluctantly.

  “And, believe me,” Isserle warned. “We will be watching your every move.”

  Cas got up from the sofa and walked Marly out. At the door, he turned back. “You said Jubal returned the Stone, but you didn’t tell us who stole it in the first place. Which dissident Saudi sect was it? There must be a dozen of them now.”

  “That’s way above your pay grade, Fielding,” Isserle said. “Just let it go.”

  “I’ve wasted a month and lost my retirement and what was left of my family,” Cas said. “Some closure on this could help … a little.”

  “The thief wasn’t a Saudi,” Isserle smirked. “Not even a Muslim.”

  Cas screwed up his face in disbelief. “Who was it then?

  “Johnny Diarmuid.”

  His jaw dropped. “Johnny D, the Boston Wrangler? I thought he limited his heists to museums and Vegas hotel art galleries.”

  “He stretched his game on this one,” Isserle said. “He used the alias ‘Abdul Baith.’ Apparently Johnny was this close to pulling it off, but he got a little greedy. Sitting in the West Indies while enjoying the good life for all of twenty-four hours, he became dissatisfied with his fee. As best as we can determine, he tried to blackmail the Saudis and Jubal for another million.”

  “Then how did those Stone fragments end up in Dallas?” Marly asked.

  “We think Diarmuid was doing double time for one of the Mexican drug cartels,” Isserle said. “Your neighbors to the South have been branching out into other lucrative forms of contraband. Looks like they got a sniff of the Saudi desperation and decided to up the stakes.”

  Cas connected the dots. “So, Johnny D and the muchachos were using Dallas as a mule stop.”

  Isserle nodded. “Best we can tell, the fragments were being stored in a short-term facility there. The owner of the building probably pitched the rocks into the garbage when Johnny D never came marching home to pay the rent.”