“Yeah?”
“Wanna come along? I wanna take a different path on my research on this symbol we keep finding on the wrists of the victims…see if it turned up during any other time in history. If it did, maybe it’ll give us a clue to why it’s being used today.”
“Really?”
“Well, it’s a hunch. I’m all ‘hunchie’ today,” Stevens quipped, with a grin on his face.
Etelson chuckled then said, “Ok. Sounds like fun. I’m there, Hunchie Boy. What time do we leave?”
He answered, “Let’s make it about an hour.”
* * * * * * *
Later that night, Stevens remained in the FBI building.
Their visit with the Antiquities Director hadn’t given them much, other than a promising lead to the Ghetri Museum, in Los Angeles.
Stevens remembered their afternoon:
At the San Diego Museum of Man, the Director of Antiquities responded to Stevens’ question. “I seem to remember coming across this symbol some time ago back when I was reacquainting myself with ancient Babylonian history,” the aged and learned director said. “We had just had some artifacts arrive into the museum. The symbol you’re looking for was an obscure marking on one or two of the stone facades.” He paused to think and recall.
“What else can you tell us about it?” Stevens asked.
“Well, I remember discussing it with a colleague of mine, the Director of Antiquities at the Ghetri, in Los Angeles. She has more expertise on the subject and,” he smiled while casually pointing at Stevens, “you may be happy to hear, she has more artifacts from other centuries as well.”
Etelson responded, “Oh, that’s wonderful. Could you please give us the director’s name?”
Stevens offered his notepad, and the kind man wrote a name and a contact number.
That notepad now rested open at the side of Stevens’ laptop.
He sat at the desk, which he shared with Etelson. With one hand over the mouse, he leaned his chin on the other. There were several windows open on the screen and he was intently reading an article.
Just after Etelson had left for the day, he had gotten word of a database hit on the composite of the person they now called Mr. Jarhead.
He learned that Mr. Jarhead had a real name: Samuel Ian Kessian, A.K.A., “Sik”.
As he scoured through federal databases, Stevens’ research into Kessian’s background led him to Sik’s Marine father. He discovered pages and pages of information, and they eventually led him to external sources, on the internet. Finally, he found that the history of the family began in Germany, and it was an honorable history.
For quite a while now, Stevens was the lone person on the third floor; and the lights, coming in from outside the building, were from the streaming lights, just at the nearby small Montgomery Field airport.
Then, he shifted gears into researching the background of the man they were calling Mr. Goatee. The search led him to the state of North Dakota’s web page: North Dakota, where Mr. Goatee was adopted.
Government databases helped him uncover the name of the family who had adopted him and where they used to live. The name of the person, who had put up Mr. Goatee up for adoption, was difficult to track down.
Eventually, he had to call in a favor.
Stevens had opened a VOIP application, on his laptop, and called his contact. “Yeah, you’ll save me a trip to North Dakota if you can help me out with this,” he said. “Hold on, let me type that in.” After hitting the Enter key, he waited a few seconds. “Cool. I’m logged in. Stay on, will ya? I might need you again here.”
The voice of the woman on the phone said, “Sure, no prob.”
Stevens searched for the adoption records and found his target. He wrote down the name on his notepad. Clicking on a previous window he had opened on a federal site, he entered the name on a search form. A record came up: the woman who gave Mr. Goatee up for adoption had lived in France.
“Ok, this woman was from France. How am I gonna get any known records of her there? Got a clue?” Stevens asked.
The woman on the phone responded, “Wait a sec. Let me IM ya this web site. It’s in French, so you’ll need to filter it through a translation site. I’ll give you that too.”
“Wow, brains and beauty, and links and passwords. I’m not worthy,” Stevens said, grinning.
“And you never will be, honey,” the voice quipped.
Stevens copied and pasted the site address onto his browser. When it opened, he entered the French woman’s name. The record appeared. His eyes scanned the page. Finding what he was looking for, he wrote down the name of the woman’s husband.
On another window, on which he performed internet searches, he entered the name of the husband. There were a handful of hits. One looked familiar; so he clicked it.
“No way,” he whispered. “I got some cool stuff here on her husband.” He read a few more lines, and then said to his contact, “Ok, thank you so much. You saved me a trip to France too…not that I wouldn’t enjoy it, but I probably wouldn’t have been very successful. Thanks for helping me out over here.”
“Sure. Knock yourself out! See ya later.” The connection terminated.
Stevens continued reading. He was fascinated.
The lights above him flickered for a brief moment. He looked up, paused, and then started reading once more.
After a few more paragraphs, he glanced at the clock on his mobile phone, next to him, on the desk.
“It’s late - time to retire. Got some good stuff anyway.”
He stood, looked around, and then looked around once again. “I’m really the only one here,” he mumbled.
Picking up his coat from his chair, he put it on.
Before he closed his laptop, he glanced on the title of the article that had him intrigued.
It read, “July 20th Plot.”
* * * * * * *
A few days ago, after Sik had stabbed the longhaired goateed man, he quickly left D.C. Now in Los Angeles, Sik performed the next task given to him. The large tinted windows, of the meeting room he was in, gave him some privacy, but it didn’t completely obscure him from outside observers. Nevertheless, no one paid attention to him.
The meeting room was one among many, on the first floor of the office building. These cubicle-sized rooms that lined the walls were intended to be semi-private areas for impromptu meetings. Sik was in one of the rooms, along the east wall.
Briefly glancing at his reflection from the window, Sik could see the dark pinstriped business suit he wore. As he turned his attention back to the top of the dark wooden table in front of him, he closed the leather briefcase that he had brought in with him. Then, he spun the numbers on its combination lock.
Before performing the last thing he had to do, he paused for a moment.
His hand patted the briefcase, and it gave a quiet, muffled thump.
Placing his hand over the briefcase, he felt the leather. Then, as he took a quick breath, he sampled the scent.
Let me just sit here for a sec, he thought.
The sound of the thump, and the scent of the leather, triggered a memory, of him and his father, from when he was a teenager. He wanted to pause and relive the memory of his father. Moreover, the game strategy within it was one he decided he would employ, at the right time in the future, with his very last captive.
In a park two blocks from their house, young Samuel Ian Kessian ran across the grass to catch the pass his father had just thrown. The pass was off - too far for him to catch the leather football - and it bounced on the grass, a couple strides away from him, with a muffled thump.
His father called out, “Sorry about that, son! That was a bad pass.”
Samuel jogged to the ball and picked it up. Examining it, he saw there was a small patch of a grass stain: the first stain on this new football his father and mother had just given him, for his fourteenth birthday. Over the scent of the grass stain, he could smell the new leather. “It’s ok, Dad,” he cal
led back.
At five-feet and seven-inches tall, his body was in the middle of a growth spurt. Wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans, he cocked back his thin arm, while his lanky body positioned itself to throw back the ball. His dusty blond hair was just beginning to grow out from a short haircut.
Across the distance, ready to catch, his father stood at six-feet and two-inches, wearing dark blue shorts and a gray t-shirt with the word “Marines” in dark blue across the chest.
The small neighborhood park had a handful of old oak trees staggered around its rectangular-shaped area. It was essentially a grass field with a dirt path outlining the grass, creating the edge around the park. A sandbox was at one corner, with two picnic tables standing adjacent to it.
Minutes later, a game started, when other kids, about Samuel’s same age, joined them, in addition to another father and his two sons.
The two teams were split, with four kids each and one father on each team. Before the play began, the two men lined up along the line of scrimmage, as offensive and defensive linemen, but when the play started, they essentially just stood and watched the kids run around the field.
Samuel was the quarterback for his team, and he called the plays.
As the game wore on, his father noticed that on certain third-down plays Samuel called for the same pass pattern; and it always resulted in a missed catch, forcing them to punt on fourth down.
Once again, it was third down, and in the huddle, Samuel called the same play.
Before they broke huddle, his father said, “Sammy, I noticed on this play, you’re missing what the defensive guy is doing in the middle of the field. He’s…”
Samuel interrupted him, “It’s ok, Dad. I got it.”
His father nodded, “Ok, son. You got it.” He smiled and trotted to the line of scrimmage.
Samuel’s other teammates, two boys and a girl, lined up on the line.
The center snapped the ball to Samuel, and the play started.
Samuel’s eyes followed his receiver running up the right sideline. At five yards out, the boy receiver cut a diagonal line across the field. The girl on defense was tight behind him. Samuel let the ball fly. As in the previous plays, another defensive boy, at the center of the field, was able to reach the ball and bat it down.
Once again Samuel’s team was forced to punt on fourth down.
A few possessions later, it was again third down. Samuel’s team huddled, and Samuel called the same play.
His father asked, “Sammy, you’re calling this play again?”
“Yeah, Dad, it’ll work.”
Nodding once again, he said, “Alright, son. Go for it.”
They lined up on the scrimmage line. The ball was hiked, the receivers ran their patterns, Samuel threw the ball, and the pass was batted down once more.
Dejected, Samuel looked at his father who just raised his eyebrows, smiled, and called out, “Ok, let’s go! Next down!
Fourth down. They punted.
Minutes later, both teams decided that it would be the last possession of the game. Samuel’s team had the ball, and they were far from the goal line. Their first and second downs resulted in no yards gained. Now, it was third down, and they stood in their huddle.
Samuel called the same play.
“Same play, Sammy?” his father asked.
Looking down at the ground, he replied, “Yeah, Dad.” But then Samuel looked up at his father and asked, “What did you say that guy in the center of the field is doing?”
His father’s smile beamed, “Ah, well here we go.” He clapped his hands twice and began to explain. “You see. He’s just standing, in the middle of the field, watching your eyes. He knows that whoever your eyes are following is the one you’re gonna throw to. And he’s seen you run this play, on third down, many times. So, he knows it by heart now, right?” He smiled once again.
Samuel listened and nodded his head.
“So that means you’ve become predictable. But don’t worry about it, son. Right now that’s not necessarily a bad thing; you can use it to your advantage. So, what if we run the same play?” He points to one of the boys, saying, “He runs the same pattern, down the right.” He points to the girl, “and she runs the same post pattern on the left, down the field.”
He looked into Samuel’s eyes, “Now, you’re gonna do something different. You watch your man on the right as he cuts across the field. And you pump fake the ball - fake that you’ll throw the pass to him. That’ll make the defense, in the center of the field, run to your man just like he did before. And when he does, you turn your eyes to her running down the left, and toss the ball to her. So to recap, you fake that you’ll do the same thing, but instead, you throw to her.”
Samuel smiled.
“Now, got it?”
“Yeah, Dad, got it.”
His father looked at the other kids, “You guys got it?”
“Got it!”
They broke huddle with a clap of hands, and lined up on the line of scrimmage.
The boy at center hiked the ball. The two receivers ran. Samuel dropped back with the ball, and his eyes closely watched his receiver on the right.
His father stood back watching him execute the play.
Once his receiver cut across the field, Samuel pumped the football, pretending to throw it. The motion drew the defensive boy, at the center of the field, toward that receiver, just as it did many times before.
Immediately, Samuel shifted his eyes and focused on the girl running down the left side of the field. The boy covering her was two yards behind.
Samuel threw a spiral pass, at her direction, and the football cut through the air in a perfect arc.
Down the field, his receiver looked up and found the ball in its trajectory through the air. As she ran in her steady stride, she stretched out her hands. Her eyes fixated on the ball, as it descended. It landed in her hands, and instinctively, she drew the ball into her body.
A few strides later, she crossed the goal line.
Samuel’s team raised their arms, shouted, and cheered.
His smiling father looked at him and clapped, “Good job, Sammy. I knew you could do it. Great pass too!” To the receiver he said, “Hey, just a super catch over there!”
Samuel jogged to his father and hugged him, saying, “Thanks, Dad. Thanks for helping.”
Minutes later, on their walk home, Samuel held the football at his side, with his father next to him. “Dad,” Samuel said, “thanks for not making me do what you wanted. Thanks for waiting until I asked.”
His father looked at him and gave him a hug around his shoulders. “No problem, son.” He gestured for Samuel to hand him the ball.
After Samuel gave it, he began to wipe the dirt from the football and said, “Sammy, sometimes the best thing a father can do is to just stand back and let his son make mistakes.”
Samuel looked up at him, “Why’s that?”
“Well, it’s not easy for me to do that…to just watch you make them. But sometimes, the best lessons you’ll learn in life are the ones you learn when you fail and fall down on your own.” His father handed back the football. “And you learn from it. Don’t be afraid to ask help from others, just like you did today. Then, you pick yourself up, and then do things better the next time.”
Samuel tossed the ball up and caught it. “You’re right, Dad,” he said. “And we did it today. You and me.”
His father hugged his shoulders once again. “You’re a good son, Sammy. Your dad’s proud of you.”
The memory of his father made him smile fondly. Then, Sik patted the leather briefcase once again with his hand, just to hear the muffled thump once more.
After taking in a deep breath, he put his focus back on his task.
Behind him, at the corner of the room, was a short two-door wooden cabinet. He picked up the brief case, pushed his chair out, and turned in his chair to face the cabinet.
After opening a cabinet door, he positioned the briefcase inside,
laying it flat against the back corner. Then, he quietly closed the cabinet door.
Standing, Sik said, “I’m done here,” and he pushed the chair under the table, and put on his sunglasses. Calmly, he walked to the glass door of the room, opened it, exited, and closed the door behind him. With each step, toward the front entrance of the building, his black polished dress shoes quietly echoed, as they stepped over the dark marble floor.
Walking with confidence, he reached the wooden crescent-shaped receptionist desk, at the center of the floor. He said to the receptionist with a smile, “Thank you.”
The receptionist returned the smile and followed him with her eyes, as he walked by.
A few steps later, the automatic glass doors of the building’s lobby entrance opened for him. The warm afternoon air outside rushed in, swirling and mingling with the cool air-conditioned air inside.
As Sik walked out and made a turn onto the sidewalk, he said calmly, “That briefcase is ready.”
* * * * * * *
“I can’t believe this. Boy Scout time is over. This is serious business,” the goateed man said. “And whoa…I think I’m in over my head.”
The mantis had led him to a mountain range in the Parachinar area of northern Pakistan.
Just for the occasion, he made himself some military fatigues and boots.
At the base of a large tree, close to the top of a mountain, he sat with his face in his hands. He had been mumbling for the past five minutes, as the mantis patiently waited on the tree trunk.
He looked up from his hands and said to the mantis, “I saw where you went, and it’s not a fun place. Just give me a minute, dude. Just give me a minute.”
He buried his face in his hands again and said, “I think there’ll be many flying bullets in my future…the kind that kill. And possibly grenade launchers…the kind that can rip ya a new one. Where’s a football helmet when you need one?”
Half a minute later, he lifted his face from his hands, breathed a deep sigh, and then took on a sarcastic tone, “Ahhhh. Now, that makes it all better doesn’t it? Nothing like a deep breath of the dry air, at the mountainside of a terrorist’s cave, to calm your nerves.”
RB 01 Through Flesh & Bone Page 25