“So what?”
“So... Dieter Friedricks didn’t start work until five-thirty,” he said. “There were forty-nine bags already loaded inside AVC 4119 TA when he arrived and he only loaded five more. But the bomb exploded ten inches from the floor at the back of the container. As far as the NTSB are concerned that fact is beyond dispute.” He shook his head, a conclusion taking shape. “Jesus Christ, MaryBeth, I don’t think he loaded it.”
“So he unloaded some of the others and then replaced them afterwards? It’s not impossible, you know.” She shook her head at him. “Christ, Jack. I reckon this Simon guy’s got you looking for things that aren’t there.”
“Why would he do that? Remove bags I mean? They’d completed all the security checks and he had no need to hide an innocent looking bag. All he had to do was get it on board. He’d achieve no positional advantage from spending what....” he looked to the container again, “...five or ten minutes unloading other bags only to have to replace them again on top of the Samsonite. If he did that it could have delayed the plane and aroused unwanted suspicion. An unnecessary risk.” He shook his head defiantly. “No, Friedricks didn’t load that Samsonite.”
Which was why his arrival time had been highlighted in orange.
MaryBeth drew breath. She didn’t know what to say. Or how to say it.
“So maybe there is something to this crap, after all.” Jack continued. “I mean, if Friedricks didn’t load the bag, then Mil’el might not have built it.”
“But they were up to something?” MaryBeth said. “I mean, they were known for building barometric devices and they had an accomplice working at an airport for Christ’s sake.”
Jack nodded, “Oh yeah, they were up to something alright, but that doesn’t necessarily prove that their target was Flight 320, does it? Mil’el’s target could have been weeks or even months away. In the meantime somebody beat them to it, using all the press clippings about Mil’el to build a device which would then send the blame slap bang in their direction. That’s why the clippings and the technical notes were highlighted in yellow; to show how easily it could be done. If somebody else was already aware that Friedricks was working as a baggage handler at Frankfurt, then that would make everything perfect for shifting the blame...”
MaryBeth nodded. “Except they missed something,” she said; slowly as though grasping at his obscure train of thought.
“Except that they missed something,” Jack agreed. “Friedricks’ shift rota had been changed the week before. His new start time was an hour later than usual and that delay placed the bag in a part of the container he wouldn’t have had time to have gained access to.”
MaryBeth looked out across the lights of the tarmac and took a deep breath as she thought seriously about what he was saying. What he was implying.
“Jesus, Jack, it hardly makes for a convincing argument.”
“You’re right it doesn’t, but I still don’t like it. His start time was highlighted and it’s his start time that’s now the only flaw in the F.B.I.’s case. I hate to admit it but this Simon character scared the crap out of me. Since I met him it’s bugged me that he seemed to know everything but gave me what seemed like nothing. He said he was giving me clues, not evidence. I don’t get evidence unless I agree to see him again.”
“So what are you thinking?” MaryBeth asked.
“I don’t know yet, I really don’t, but at the same time I really don’t think Dieter Friedricks loaded that bag. I don’t know where Lara went or who she was with, but I recall the movie files she sent and her last was weird to say the least so I’m back to the same question as before: what if? If Mil’el didn’t do it, then who did? What if it was the freaks that Lara seemed to have hooked up with? What if they added an extra case to her luggage?”
He took a deep breath then let it out with desperate contemplation. He thought it, but he didn’t say it.
What if she had a child?
“Do you know what I think?” MaryBeth asked, shaking her head in comforting disagreement. “I think you’re looking to justify a false promise. Too many ‘what ifs’ and not enough ‘I knows’.”
“I know,” Jack said, oblivious to the irony. “But I think this guy’s offering me the beginning of a chain, and by letting me solve the clues I think he’s testing me. If Lara did have a child then you and I both know that my choice is already made, and I won’t know that until I’ve got an answer from Germany. But yes, the first thing I need you to do is get Dave looking into those postcards for me. Preferably within the hour. If solving the clues to Friedricks’ arrival time was level one, then I get the feeling that what’s on those cards is going to be level two.”
Once more Jack seemed frightened by more truths he was yet to learn. More so this time. He bit his lip until it was a harsh white and stared into a volcano of possibilities ready to erupt.
“You’re right, MaryBeth.” He looked back across the tarmac. “They weren’t included in that file for nothing.”
righteous acts
1 Samuel 12:7
In a brightly-lit fifteenth floor office overlooking the rich green-blue of the Nile tributary at Alexandria, Zebulun ran the second of his red envelopes through his roughened fingers and smiled decadently. It creased an emotion into his face that many would recognise as only one thing: pure evil.
Like each of the other envelopes, printed on its face was a date and a time. Today was the date and soon was the time. As was the case with the four others still waiting untouched in his case, this second envelope was much sturdier and heavier than any of the instructions he had received in the past, including the previous one whose lengthy series of instructions had been set underway already.
The tasks contained within envelope number one could not be completed by Zebulun alone, and he had needed to utilise a dozen trusted operatives who had then passed the instructions down through a complex cell structure to twenty-eight field agents. It was they who would be charged with planting the devices.
Zebulun was not a man who appreciated a dilution of responsibility. It was always dangerous having so many uncontrollable mouths which might scream ‘witness protection’ at the slightest threat of arrest and imprisonment, but The Abraham’s instructions must be followed to the letter, even if Zebulun did not know - or have the understanding - as to where they might lead him. What he did know with some degree of certainty was that everyone involved was aware of the consequences of failure and/or betrayal. It invariably involved the ultimate in demotion: death, and one that was rarely either painless or swift. Besides which, the cell structure had performed well in the past and Zebulun must trust it now to keep the upper echelons of Eternity, himself included, free from unwanted attention.
The stainless steel flight case in which he kept the envelopes was secured again, the detonator in its base reset. Having removed the case from his personal safe it had taken him a full fifteen minutes to disarm the device before opening it up. Only Zebulun knew precisely how this could be achieved because only Zebulun was even aware that the device was in place. If there was one thing of which he wanted to be completely assured it was that should the case fall into the wrong hands, whether petty thief or investigating official, then it would take a great deal less than fifteen minutes for the device to be triggered. When that happened, all traces of the remaining envelopes, the person who opened the case and most of the building in which they were standing at the time would be lost to the world forever.
Either Zebulun had the envelopes or they no longer existed; such was their importance.
Alexandria was the perfect city for RKI, or Red Knight Industries to offer its full title, to locate their head office. As Eternity’s armaments and weapons holdings company, such an organisation required a legitimate front to what were, for the most part, desperately covert buying and selling operations. As well as arms, they also purchased protection at the highest level and sold information at the lowest. It was an inherent necessity that every transaction led ult
imately to a healthy profit and that every government inspection led to another sparklingly-clean trading licence.
It was well known in military circles that RKI legitimately supplied companies in the ‘civilised world’; rocket launchers to the United States Army and Navy, mortars to a large percentage of European armed forces and guidance systems to Britain’s Naval and Royal Air Force, but they were merely drops in an ever expanding ocean compared to the ‘under the counter’ sales on which the company’s success had actually been constructed. Rwanda, Libya, Uganda, Serbia and Croatia, the IRA, the PLO, ETA, the desperate remnants of the Red Army Faction and Mossad all stocked their arsenals from RKI’s extensive catalogue.
India. Iraq. Pakistan. North Korea. Taliban.
All had their accounts, although all were distinctly un-accountable.
RKI irrigated the world at war. By pumping weapons along the more covert routes they breathed death into those countries who needed it least, and Alexandria was the perfect city in which to site such a seemingly inexhaustible well. The port supported a healthy ‘no questions asked’ policy for the right price and was well situated for deliveries throughout the Mediterranean, the Balkan States, the Middle East and the feuding nations of the African subcontinent. It was the ideal epicentre, the hub of an ammunitions superhighway.
Founded by Alexander the Great in 332 BC, steeped in religious tradition and second only to Rome at one point in its long history, Alexandria was also a beautiful city in which to return when you had killed in the name of God. Sometimes, for reasons he could not explain, Zebulun felt that helped.
He had no idea how long he might be out of the country this time around, not until the moment at which he had finally opened the envelope and discovered his destination. Sometimes the instructions ordered him to observe his targets for a few days before the kills and write a report on victims’ movements, sometimes he was in and out within the hour. If he was to be away for days, however, then there were things he needed to be sure about before he left. Most importantly, whether or not the instructions dictated by the first envelope were still being followed to the letter. As the steady one-two-one knock of Tamir, his trusted right hand, echoed on the steel-lined door to his office, he placed this second envelope in his top drawer and buzzed the younger man in.
“Kalifa,” the man said, bowing respectfully, “it is good to have you back with us again.”
Zebulun, still operating under the name Kalifa Halil in the world at large, looked inquisitively to his employee and lit a filterless cigarette.
“The devices are all in place?” he asked.
Tamir nodded. “Only six cities remain. Mexico City, Lima, Boston USA, Adelaide, Leeds UK, and St. Petersburg. They have done well I think.”
“They have done what they were instructed. No more, no less,” Zebulun replied disinterestedly. “And we trust them all?”
Tamir nodded again. “They are believers, Kalifa. They will not speak. No matter.” Meaning, no matter what.
Zebulun thought for a moment, his mouth curled in relaxed acceptance. He shrugged. “When the remaining six are in place, send a message to dispose of all field agents.”
Tamir looked puzzled. “Sir?”
“I said... send a message to have them killed.” There was no attempt to disguise his annoyance at having to repeat such a simple instruction. “They have done God’s will and he is expecting them to join him.”
Tamir knew better than to question his superior for a second time. Indeed he should have known better than to question him a first. “And the twelve?” he asked sceptically.
Zebulun shook his head with an almost dictatorial lack of concern. “Responsible only for the deaths of the others. Their God allows them to live for now. He feels that they may be needed again in the months to come. Tell them to be completely certain that the devices are in place before they carry out my orders. If they are in any doubt, they must shoulder that burden of responsibility themselves. I need say no more.”
He waved his hand dismissively and Tamir bowed gently before leaving the room, the heavy door clunking into the strengthened framework behind him. When Zebulun heard that the latches were firmly in place, he removed the heavy red envelope from his drawer one more time and checked his watch.
Time.
To open it.
As was the rule, the instructions were written in code - name, date, time, location and indeed method. Included on this occasion, however, was a marked addition; a metallic plaque. It was undoubtedly this plaque that had made the envelope so much heavier than any of those he had received previously. It was inscribed with a message and was to be left at the scene, the first time such an act had been requested. It also, surprisingly, appeared to be etched in no ordinary metal, but in solid gold. As the remaining four envelopes were similarly weighty, Zebulun could only presume that they contained similar plaques.
God, it seemed, was far from cheap when it came to punishing the sins of the earth.
The envelope’s final contents were a passport, three credit cards, a drivers’ licence, a publisher’s identity card and a ticket for a flight leaving Cairo in exactly four hours. Given the one hundred mile drive from Alexandria and check-in requirements the ticket was, as ever, timed to perfection. He would need no weapon. On this occasion, it seemed, his victim would supply everything he needed, and as such he would have no trouble in passing through customs.
No trouble at all.
The EgyptAir flight would take him directly to Barcelona International Airport where a hire car would already be waiting at the Hertz desk, pre-registered in the name of the passport, the cards and the licence.
Within the time it would take him to drive a further eighty miles from Barcelona, following coded directional instructions, his prey would be in sight.
The Abraham, as ever, had covered every last detail with exceptional precision.
turn away the face
2 Kings 18:24
Dave Clearwater leaned nonchalantly back into his chair and admired the postcards, turning them sideways and upside down for comic effect. “So whaddaya want to know about ’em?” He was chewing gum, tilting his head and deliberately looking as inane as he could possibly manage.
MaryBeth straightened her knee-length navy skirt and took a seat at an empty terminal to his right. With a chastising glance she turned the cards the right way round. “If there’s any connection between them,” she said.
“Well that’s easy,” Dave offered with a smile. “What I reckon you’ve got here, M.B., is nothing more than your average four-three-two-one scenario...” He looked pensive.
MaryBeth leaned closer. “Go on...?”
“Well...” he said, brushing his long black hair away from his eyes and causing the stones on his charm bracelets to rattle. “...all four’ve got Jesus in ’em, three are by the same artist, two are murals and one of ’em...” he held up the card bearing the London mural, “...is decidedly crap.”
He laughed and threw all four among the mass of scribbled papers that already littered his desk. When the laughing stopped he gave MaryBeth a victorious smile. “So, can I get back to some proper work now?”
MaryBeth sneered and slid the cards back in his direction. “Cute, Dave, really cute. Seriously though, I need a link here. I think it’s more likely the paintings themselves, rather than the artists, or at least why those specific artists might have painted such specific images.”
“And what does this have to do with IntelliSoft?”
MaryBeth shook her head gently. “I can’t say. All I can tell you is that it’s for Jack and it’s real hush-hush.” She could see Dave shrugging his acceptance. “I’m told it might have something to do with the fact that in one of them, the mural in London that you affectionately title ‘crap’, the artist painted himself into it and made himself look away from Jesus.”
“I see,” Dave said, nodding at an answer he had already formulated in his head, “like Da Vinci did here, yeah?” He pointed to the card
detailing The Last Supper.
MaryBeth questioningly tipped her head to the side. “How do you mean?” she asked.
“Second from the right,” Dave replied, pointing to the card. “The disciple jabbering to the one on the end. That’s Da Vinci himself.” He noted MaryBeth’s look of surprise. “Christ M.B., didn’t you do Art History at school? This is basic stuff.”
MaryBeth widened her eyes and mouth simultaneously. “So we’ve already got a link between two of them?”
“Tenuous at best, but okay, I’ll check it out for you; see what I find.” He looked over his glasses at her. “It might take some time, though.”
“You’ve got three hours.” MaryBeth said. “Four at most.”
“Christ Almighty,” he sank into his chair and pretended to sulk. Then he looked at the cards and laughed. “Sorry... no pun intended.”
“Pleeeaaase Davy? I mean, you are a Crow. Surely you don’t want to fail your people?”
“I’m Mojave actually,” Dave corrected, “they only call me Crow because, like an idiot, I came to work for you guys.”
Since he had moved from IntelliSoft’s Marketing Division three years ago and been placed in charge of ‘Information Acquisition’, Dave Clearwater had been granted the title among his own people of ‘The Crow’. He was well aware from the start that it belied a crude double-entendre because, like the tribe of the same name had done in the early 1800s, Dave Clearwater had done the unthinkable. He had abandoned his traditions and accepted work as a scout for ‘the white man’.
He sighed at MaryBeth with extra emphasis, looking first to the pictures and then to the six clocks at the top of his computer screen. “Okay M.B., it’s lunchtime in Europe so my cyber-friends over there should be getting out of bed soon. It’s a healthy enough place to start I suppose. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I get.”
“You’re a star, Dave. Two hours, yeah?” She playfully ruffled his hair and walked purposefully from the room.
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