The Major rested the heavy iron rod against his shoulder. In a calm voice, he began to speak, but to no one in particular, “I do so enjoy giving pain. And I jealously keep it from my men. Only when I have had my fill is when I allow them the opportunity to give it themselves. It is because I relish all that my five senses offer me when I am in the act: My touch as I strike a human being. My ears as he screams in agony. My nostrils as I smell the rich red blood spew from his open gash. My eyes as I see him wriggle and cringe and crawl away. My tongue when I taste the thick wafting of his fear. All these senses give me such wonderful, immeasurable delight.”
The jeweler tightened his eyes shut. With short abrupt breaths, he began to quickly pant, already anticipating the pain.
Gradually, the Major’s two arms raised the iron rod above his head. The rod reached its apex. With dispassionate eyes, he quickly swung the rod down like an ax onto the shin of the jeweler’s left leg.
The dry hot air trembled with the jeweler’s agonizing scream. The echoes carried the woeful sound out into the horizon. It seemed almost unending.
The Major lifted the rod and rested it on his shoulder once again. Slowly and with measured steps, he circled around and reached the side of the right leg, adjacent to the already shattered bones. Waving a hand, he motioned his men to step away. They obeyed his silent command.
The jeweler’s terrified eyes saw the Major raise the rod above his head, preparing the solid metal for one more strike. Quickly, he cried out in tears and panic, “Wait! Wait! Stop! Stop!” The force of his yell tore away at the tissues within his lungs.
The Major’s motion froze.
Then, whimpering and crying a deeply mournful and painful cry, the jeweler said, “I will tell you…I will tell you.”
Handing the rod to a soldier, the Major patiently waited for the jeweler to stop his weeping and begin to speak.
Through his tears, the jeweler revealed, “Colonel von Tiechler. Colonel Friedrich von Tiechler. He is the assassin’s friend and confidant. He knows everything.” The jeweler raised his wretched and sorrowful eyes and pleaded, “That is all I know. This is all the truth.”
Once again, the Major reached into his coat and removed the handkerchief from within it. He knelt down on one knee beside the jeweler and began to gently wipe the man’s head and brow. When finished, he put the kerchief away. Then, reaching out his hand once more, he gently placed it onto the bare skin of the jeweler’s head. Slowly, he rubbed his hand over the scalp, feeling its warmth and dampness with the skin of fingers and palm, and smoothing over the stubbed shaven follicles of hair. Looking into the jeweler’s eyes he said softly, “Dear, honorable man, I will show you mercy.”
The Major stood, turned, and began taking steps back to his vehicle. With him, a soldier followed, handing back to the Major his hat and gloves. The Major placed the hat back over his head. As he slid his hands into his black leather gloves, he said calmly, “Treat him like a lame horse.”
The soldier stopped and turned.
Reaching his vehicle, the Major opened the door and entered it. Sitting comfortably in his seat, he closed his eyes. He leaned his head back to recline and to listen.
The warm breeze began to blow once again.
He breathed in deeply.
A single shot trembled through the warm dry air, satisfying the ears of the calm, patient, but calculating Major.
The dream gently faded to black, hiding the Major in its shadows.
Through these dreams, his mind was repairing his memories, memories that were severed five years ago. It retraced and reconstructed the paths of his past. Then, his mind quickly transitioned to another scene and another dream, one he had previously dreamt many nights ago. It was a crucial yet tragic time he needed to experience in order to have him begin to understand his critical role in the world.
He saw himself standing inside a room that could comfortably fit fifty people, but there were no more than twenty in it. A piano was at one corner, and he heard Mozart being played.
He stood in front of a pleasantly smiling couple, maybe in their late forties. Hearing himself speak in German, he asked the couple to excuse him.
Slowly and calmly, he paced in front of a mirror framed in ornate gold and examined his image. He wore a gray military uniform - someone of high rank. He saw his goatee was trimmed close to his skin. An officer’s hat was on his head hiding most of his hair, but he noticed that the hair at the sides of his head was cut close to his scalp. He had a glass of wine in his right hand. Reaching at his side, he felt a revolver holstered at his left hip.
With his eyes scanning the room, he noticed someone casually watching him. Having long, waving, black hair, she was beautiful and wearing a formal, yet shapely, black dress. The young woman raised her glass to him and smiled her greeting.
Not knowing who she was, he responded with a kindly smile.
Then, he turned around and walked slowly to a fellow officer. As he greeted him, he could hear his own thoughts focus on the officer’s gun, sensing and counting the bullets in the magazine, and then turning them into stone. The transformation was perfect and unnoticeable. He drank from his wine, nodded his head at the officer, smiled, and moved on.
He gazed around the lavishly decorated room with its white and gold curtains, ornate crystal chandelier, and polished wooden floor. There were two entrances, but the first was blocked closed by the piano standing against it. The second was a closed door at one side of the room; it almost ensured the captivity of those within.
He walked slowly to the piano and stood by it, enjoying the music. Looking around again, he saw soldiers standing at attention at each wall of the room. He had already transformed their ammunition into stone. He turned to look at the center of the room. Someone very familiar stood there chatting with a small group of people. They smiled and laughed, as they spoke.
The familiar man was unmistakably Hitler.
He started walking again, slowly, around the room. He smiled and nodded, greeting people. His thoughts searched for weapons, and when he found one, he would render them useless.
Soon, he had searched everyone in the room. He was ready.
Calmly, he circled his way three steps from his target, raising his glass of wine to those who greeted him.
As he dreamt, his body tensed and his beating heart quickened its pace.
In his dream, he appeared calm and in control, but his heart raced and the little wine he had drunk began to turn his face flush. Everything in the room began to move slowly. All sounds began to attenuate, and people’s voices started to slow like a recording being intentionally played more slowly. The music of the piano, however, began to intensify.
Then, he reached for the revolver at his hip.
He was the assassin sought by the SS Major.
Unexpectedly, behind him, the door of the room opened.
Abruptly, his dream quickly faded away, and for a long moment, his ears heard nothing but the high-pitched ringing of silence.
Then, a pure white light engulfed him. He raised his forearm in front of his face, in order to shield his eyes from the painful light.
In a moment, his vision adjusted. He glanced above the horizon of his forearm and noticed that a dark object was approaching, like a black dot, far away against the white light. Its form was indistinguishable, but as it came closer, he could tell that it was slowly spinning while floating in the air.
In the distance, the object appeared flat, almost two-dimensional.
As it came closer, he could see that the object spun on a diagonal axis. One side of the object was pure black, and the other side was glistening, reflective.
He lowered his arm, as the object came closer still.
Suddenly, the object shattered into thousands of pieces and began to float apart from each other. Within a second, each piece started to slowly dissolve in the air.
In his dream, he knew this was something he had dreamt before.
Immediately, he commanded in
a soft voice, “Stop.”
The thousands of pieces obeyed his command.
Then, they began to reverse in their paths. Soon, they coalesced piece by piece, reforming into the spinning object once again.
The object came closer.
It was now clear to him what it was. Its shape was elliptical, with jagged edges, due to the missing pieces that had dissolved away.
At an arm’s length from him, the object stopped spinning and its reflective side faced him.
It was a mirror large enough to reflect his face and shoulders.
Slowly, he lifted his left hand to touch his image. As his fingertips touched the fingertips of his image, he noticed the reflection of the symbol on his wrist and focused on it. Then, he looked into his own eyes.
He and his image appeared as two men peering into one another’s eyes, unmistakably knowing each other, and watching one another’s movements.
And a second later, everything vanished.
Immediately, he woke up.
It was morning.
* * * * * * *
The direction of their previous conversation intrigued them. Now, Agents Etelson and Stevens had a different perspective, as they waited for Dr. Skramstad to arrive, the Director of Antiquities in the Los Angeles Ghetri Museum. Etelson was excited about the possibility of the series of kidnapping and murders to be part of a larger scale and global scenario. Stevens wasn’t sold; it was too farfetched. However, they agreed that first they needed to delve further into history.
As a woman paced hurriedly down the spacious hall, her flats clacked rhythmically over the marble floors. Hanging from her neck was an ID badge that showed her name, “S. Skramstad, PhD.” She looked as she did five years ago, when Omar Malshar Gul and Malik Khel made their visit to the Ghetri. When she reached the two she asked, “Agents Etelson and Stevens?”
Stevens answered and shook her hand, “Yes, this is Special Agent Etelson and I’m Special Agent Stevens. Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with us today.”
“I’m sorry,” she smiled sheepishly. “I was already on my way but I remembered that I forgot to bring this book to show you.” In her hand, she briefly raised a book then lowered it. She slumped down and laughed, bobbing her head with each exhale. “So, I had to run back to my office and run along back to meet you.” She continued, “I’ve been so preoccupied with two large exhibits that have been taking most of my time these days. I’m so sorry…”
“That certainly sounds quite important, Dr. Skramstad. We’re sorry we’ve taken you from it and thanks again for taking the time from your schedule,” Etelson said, in her best well-mannered voice.
Dr. Skramstad shook her head and waved her hand, “Oh, I’m glad to take the break. I need a break. These things go on forever it seems.”
Stevens asked, “Did you get the image of the symbol I emailed to you?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I printed it out, and it’s here,” she lifted the book and laughed to herself, “I’m using it as a bookmark.”
Etelson noticed that the good director tended to stress and lengthen the pronunciation of certain words in her sentences.
As the director held the book in both hands, she nodded her head and kept nodding and smiling at them. No one spoke for several seconds.
Finally, the director said, “Oh, yes, on to business!” She laughed, shook her head, and waved her hand again. “This way please, agents.” She led them down the hall, turning at one corner, and then after a long walk, turning at another corner.
As Etelson and Stevens followed behind a few paces, Etelson whispered to him with a smile, “She’s so cute! Reminds me of one of my cute little aunts.”
“I’m taking you to one of the areas in which we’re in preparation to showcase Babylonian art and architecture that we are so fortunate to have on rotation, for the next few months.” The director glanced back at them, after she turned a corner. “I’m happy to be able to show you this. I believe it’s just what you are looking for.”
Stevens eyed the paintings on the wall, as they walked by. Then, while passing a window, he could see, outside, the expanse of the courtyard and the many people milling about.
Opening a door, the director led them into an enormous, rectangular room that was being prepared for the Babylonian exhibition. There were tables with figurines and empty glass enclosures. Against the center of one wall leaned a large artifact: it was a segment from an enormous granite wall about a meter and a half in height and two meters long and ten centimeters thick. On the opposite wall stood another similarly sized wall segment.
Dr. Skramstad led them to one of the granite artifacts. She explained, while smiling and nodding her head, “As I said, we’re in preparation, so there’s really not much here. But I believe you’ll thoroughly enjoy this, agents.”
They stopped in front of the granite wall. The director gestured her hand to introduce the agents to it and said, “Voila!”
Stevens turned. Immediately, he raised his eyebrows, in awe, and said, “Oh, my.”
Etelson exclaimed in quiet amazement, “It’s beautiful…”
Chapter 15
TWELVE YEARS IN THE FUTURE
In the U.S. Midwest, far away from the apathy and frozen stare of the goateed man in his downtown San Diego pub, a jeep stops its descent several meters under the surface of earth.
With a black jacket over his black shirt and wearing worn blue jeans and boots, Omar Malshar Gul steps out of the jeep.
He is greeted by another who shakes his hand and asks, “How did it go? Was it a munitions warehouse?”
“Another successful hit. It was what we thought - the second one in two weeks,” Gul says through his thick beard, with an expressionless face. Turning, he says to his companion inside the jeep, “Get some rest. It’s late. Very nice shooting tonight.” He gives the man a sturdy pat on the shoulder.
Gul is inside a tremendous cavern, carved from underneath the earth. It is an underground maze of tunnels, smaller caverns, narrow pathways, vents to the surface, and secret entrances and exits. It is home to more than a hundred haggard, but strong-spirited insurgents.
He leads this group of men and women fighting for their freedom from the Global Governance and the Global Military that rules over the nations. There are thousands of other teams like his that share a common goal, within the former United States.
At the center of an expansive oval area, a handful of men and women gather around the jeep listening to Gul’s companion recount the evening’s fireworks. Parting from the group, Gul walks across the oval the area, passing the battery-and propane-powered lamps that are staggered along the outer edge of the oval. His boots lightly thud over the floor that is covered with both thin and thick sheets of metal and aluminum. The sound echoes against the similarly covered walls and ceilings.
After a few strides, he walks into a corridor. A short distance in, he takes a right into a small area dug from the earth where the floor is bare, rust-colored dirt. There is one lamp standing against the dirt wall, and beside it is a canteen of water.
Gul sits down beside the lamp, bends his legs up in front of him, and picks up the canteen. With his other hand, he wipes back his unkempt, curly hair from his forehead, and then pensively combs his beard. Then, before opening the top of the canteen, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
The smiling, joyful man he once was has long been worn away. The years of wars, pain, bullet wounds, anguish, hiding, worries, burdens, battle plans, and lost friends have buried that man deep within the cold earth.
But there is one characteristic that has not been lost, and it has been the one thing that has kept him hopeful, strong, fighting, and alive.
He bends his head down and closes his eyes.
Silently, he begins to pray.
Hours later, the sun rises and makes its way across the blue skies of the east coast, passes the Midwest, and stops directly over the western shores of the U.S.
It is about noon, and in
his same downtown San Diego pub, the goateed man sits once again, staring at his reflection on the long mirror directly in front of him. A dark liquid tops the glass mug in his hand. Unknown to him, beyond the threshold of the pub’s entrance, is a dark figure across the street, staring directly at his hunched frame.
It is the hooded man. He has been there for quite some time, just observing. Then, after another moment, he somberly thinks, As I see him now, after these many turbulent years - with his fight extinguished and his spirit dead - I know it is certain that the dark entity traps him in a deception. And what my instincts had told me long ago is also true: except for him, we are all not the same. I am not the same, and my true existence, my true self is elsewhere. But him, the entity’s relentless deception has succeeded in breaking him.
The hooded man breathes in slowly. As he does, he almost feels for the hopelessness of the goateed man. Quietly, he breathes out the words, “He is a shadow of himself…much like the faded shadow both the dark entity and our bargain have made of me.”
He gazes into the sky, and then down back at the goateed man. Continuing in his thoughts, he says, It is only he, the one deceived, who can set this world straight, correct it, and realign it in the universe. But how can he escape? If I were he, how would I escape, if not succumb? For a long moment, he remains silent, pondering. Then, as he watches the two patrolling military men begin to enter the pub, he slowly turns. Preventing himself from feeling for the goateed man, he walks away.
As the two military men walk in to talk to the bartender, the goateed man hears them. If his anger against the GP were not suffocated in apathy, he would do more and act on that anger. But instead, he stands, picks up his mug and music player, walks away from the center of the bar, and positions himself on the very last stool, at the other end.
The eyes of the two men follow his movement, realizing that the goateed man wants to keep his distance from them. Nevertheless, they quickly dismiss him and begin chatting with the bartender.
Now motionless, the goateed man stares at his image from the long mirror on the wall.
Some time later, the two military men leave.
RB 01 Through Flesh & Bone Page 38