The Snare

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The Snare Page 24

by David A Ogunde


  “As are we all,” Pierre confirmed. “Which is why, if you don’t mind, I’d like to confer with a friend about some of the things you spoke about in your dreams. They sound similar to something I have heard before, mentioned in the…well, in the Bible. I’m not saying this would give us any answers. But it is good to try everything at this point. ”

  John and Kate raised their eyes skeptically but said nothing.

  “Yes.” A genuine smile of relief broke out on Sarah’s face. “That’s what I was thinking, too. I wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, I’m going to do some deeper studying into this myself. Pierre…, do you think my dreams and the tablets could be connected to Bible prophecy?”

  “I can’t say anything just yet. But, perhaps, I’ll take a couple of days and pay a visit to my friend at the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C. We might get a clue or we might not, but it’s good to try everything we can think of, considering the situation we are in.”

  Chapter 68

  A twilight harmony of deep bass blues, tenor full purples, and a smattering of fading pale pink orchestrated itself across the tall glass windows of Maximos’ office. By the clock, it was nearing midnight, but the CEO wasn’t ready to call it a day. Wrapped in a black silk robe embroidered with real gold thread, he sat silent and still at his desk. His computer monitors were off as well as the round ceiling lights high above him. It was only the perpetual vestiges of fading sunlight from his window scene which kept the room from sinking into total darkness.

  His eyes were closed, but he was far from sleep; his mind energized with thoughts of what was, and the transition into what would be. He saw his plan laid out before him, all the pieces that had so far been laid and the work that still remained to be done. It was a burden as heavy as the earth itself. Like Atlas of old, he bore it well; but, unlike the ancient, he wasn’t a slave to his task—he was its master.

  As he smiled to himself in the rich shadows, a small light above turned on and eased a faint, dim beam onto the center of the desk. The arrival of the ray was accompanied by a soft chime. Maximos opened his eyes in expectation.

  “Excuse me, sir,” spoke an unobtrusive voice from the air, “your visitors have arrived. I am leading them to the elevators now.”

  Maximos looked down at the blank face of his watch and stroked it gently with his finger. It awoke immediately and displayed the time. They were unfashionably late, probably a meager attempt at asserting their hierarchy in the state of things. Maximos was amused by the notion. Those with little power often flaunted what they had, but no such performance was required from those who held true power.

  Rising in a manner as stately as a king, he glided toward his hidden room and passed his hand across the insignia to enter. Once inside, he slipped off his robe and pulled on a grey suit jacket before taking an obscure side exit into the outer hallway. The lights from the be-lit city of Brussels flooded in the windows, making it easy for him to find his way. After a few moments he came before a dark-stained wooden door and unhesitatingly opened it.

  *

  The conference room was lit with low tones; yet several beams managed to glimmer off small golden ornaments adorning a pale silk turban worn by the taller of two men already occupying the space. The other man, whose suit was decidedly inferior to his companion’s, stared daggers at Maximos’ entrance. He moved, whether consciously or not, to step forward, but the turbaned man, clearly his elder in both age and authority, held out an arm to block him.

  “You betrayed us,” spoke the elder man to the CEO, his face measured except for the sparks in his eyes. “How could you, after all we've done for you!”

  Maximos retained eye contact with his accuser as he calmly answered. “Forgive me, Sheik Musa, but you are mistaken. You underestimate the complexity of world events. Even a river takes many turns before it reaches its end.”

  “But you promised us a flood,” replied the sheik, his dignified voice sheathed in controlled anger. “Floods need not to follow a path for they make their own!”

  “I have been doing what I promised,” parried Maximos in an equally-controlled silken voice.

  “No.” Sheik Musa shook his head vigorously. “The funding we’re receiving from you, and the wealth you lavish on pressure groups campaigning for your interests—that are supposed to be our interests— in the West have accomplished nothing. Nothing! We are at a critical moment that can only be grasped by an aggressive effort. You must act, now!”

  Maximos’ tone remained steady; and he fought to keep a gleam out of his eye—this was an entertaining game to him. “Some strategies require tactful diplomacy to execute, Sheik. And I can assure you that I am working on it.”

  “How long!” spat out the sheik’s companion, displaying his emotions like a child. “How long do we have to keep waiting for you to finish ‘working on this’? You are not a woman making a garment. You are a commander! Have you lost the nerve to act like one?”

  “Abdul, hold your peace!” remonstrated the elder.

  “But, my liege, the hejirah has already happened. There are men on every level and every place. We are outnumbering the enemies and must strike now or lose all!”

  Sheik Musa raised his hand to reinforce his previous command before addressing their host again. Maximos, at once, detected a slight change in the man’s tone and was momentarily reminded of a snarling jackal hunkering down to its belly in demonstration of an outer obsequiousness not entirely reflected in its heart.

  “Here is another deal, Maximos. Turkey’s president is a …less than progressive man. He prefers to remain docile in the comfort of a well-groomed stable rather than let the noble bloodline of his predecessors boil hot in his veins and urge him to the finish line. A creature like this is useless in a race, and must be removed. I am able to do so, but have not yet found a replacement adequate to our needs.” He paused to look at Maximos meaningfully.

  “I do not trust you fully, sir,” Sheik Musa continued, “as one cannot trust a vigorous stallion. Yet your potential to perform is glaringly obvious. If you were to embrace the beliefs of your father against the beliefs of your mother, it would qualify you for the position I have in mind.”

  “As President of Turkey,” Maximos stated slowly.

  The sheik nodded.

  “Then, what? What do you have in mind?”

  Sheik Musa snapped his fingers and Abdul moved toward the oblong table near the head of the room. He reached into the sleeve of his coat and removed a golden tube as long as his forearm and as thick as a rifle barrel. After unscrewing the top of the tube, Abdul pulled out a roll of paper and laid it flat upon the table, using empty downturned mugs to weight the corners. The sheik gestured invitingly for Maximos to have a look.

  Maximos obliged and couldn’t help but smile amusingly at the image on the rolled-out map. It depicted the Ottoman Empire in fully glory; its ancient borders dominating the areas around the Mediterranean and Black Sea—beginning at the tip of Algiers in North Africa, it snaked into the Middle East, gathering round it like a gorged net before arching up to devour a fifth of Europe.

  “This was our land,” spoke the sheik softly as he caressed the paper beneath his time-worn hands. “We want it back…along with the rest of the world.”

  He looked into Maximos’ face, trying to gauge a reaction, but could get no reading.

  “If you took Turkey,” he continued, “and moved it into the European Union, many brothers and sisters would be free to disperse within the Union and set up communities providing unanimous support. Through them, the Union would become united for our cause. As we gain in strength, we gain the world and can revive our fathers’ glorious empire, starting here.” He pointed to a place on the map, but Maximos didn’t have to look to know that he was referring to Israel, and particularly the Holy City of the revered shrine—the Dome of the Rock. It would be the crowning jewel of this reawakened kingdom.

  “The time to begin,” spoke the sheik as he reached into his jacket, “is now.” Slo
wly he pulled out a bundle of white cloth. Laying it on the table, he pushed it toward Maximos, who unwrapped the thick folds of gauzy fabric. Only his eyes betrayed any emotion as he beheld the polished fragment of an obsidian tablet. His eyes ran over the etched writing and symbols, devouring them with delight and fervor, while he stroked the smooth sides with fascinating wonder.

  “It is confirmed that the excavators are at the British Museum,” Sheik Musa informed him. “There is no doubt that they are still in possession of the others. Our attempts to retrieve them have been so far …less than fruitful.”

  “Leave it to me.” Maximos’ voice was edged with covetous determination. “I’ll get them myself.”

  The sheik lowered his head slightly in acquiescence and motioned for Abdul to take up the map. They would depart now, leaving their ally to his thoughts. The sheik mused to himself as they left the room; there was no reason to think his proposal would be declined. He was, after all, offering this man a chance to rule the world.

  Chapter 69

  A hand which betrayed no age stretched reverently from the folds of a flowing sleeve to meet the surface of the cool stone. Maximos watched silently from his lounge chair as the prophet closed his eyes and probed into a place unseen. After only a moment, the sage uttered a few incoherent syllables before gently pulling his hand away from the tablet fragment and folding it back into the sanctuary of his tunic sleeves. His eyes remained closed, and the room silent until he spoke with solemnity.

  “There is a depth here I cannot reach. A power beyond my ability to fully grasp. It eludes and toys, as if it senses its superiority and knows it needs not heed my inferior faculty.”

  “I would hardly call you inferior, Profeta,” Maximos amended. “Your knowledge and command of the unseen is second to none.”

  “None that you’ve met.” The prophet smiled weakly at his neophyte. “And it serves you ill, Silas, to assume that one may command anything that has not already agreed to be wielded. We serve these powers as much as they serve us. And never forget who is the true master.”

  “Of course, Profeta,” Silas inclined his head slightly. “Forgive my temerity.”

  The Prophet left the oaken podium on which the piece of tablet rested and walked serenely across the study to where his pupil sat. Arranging himself and his garments neatly in an adjacent armchair, he took the goblet of wine Maximos offered him. “It is not for my sake I scold you like a school-child in your own house,” continued he. “In these matters, responsibility without reverence is…unadvisable.”

  Maximos took a sip of his own wine before answering, deciding whether or not to reveal his true thoughts.

  “As if I can’t know them anyway,” responded the prophet grimly. “You feel yourself above all others, even me. This task you are to perform, this role you are to be ascended to rides upon power far beyond that which mortal man has been able to harness. It is an unprecedented power that has been reserved for one since before time began, and you believe that makes you honored above all in the seen and unseen planes.”

  Maximos didn’t answer. The prophet merely nodded his head. Sensing the entry for advice in this matter had been closed, he thought it prudent to move on to other matters.

  “Tell me about the sheik,” he prompted. “His plans you mentioned sound interesting.”

  Silas scoffed and poured himself another glass of blood-red Burgundy. “He wants what everyone wants. Israel first, then the world. He’ll start by sweeping away the Saudis and non-conforming Muslims in his empire and continue till he’s wiped out the Christians, the West, the East.”

  “And he has no idea of the meetings you’ve had with the Israelis and Palestinians. He doesn’t know that the rug of the Middle East has already been ripped out from under him.” The prophet sat in pondering silence. After a moment he said:

  “We know that globalization is imminent. It’s the pathway to get there that’s as of yet unsure. Why not consider killing two birds with one stone by humoring him? If they replace the Turkish President with yourself, your new position in the EU would give you access to the EU Presidency. From here, having gained adoration and popularity, as you so easily do, with the favor of both the EU and Middle East, you have all the more power to enforce the new Peace Treaty reasonably peacefully.”

  “The Israelis, the Palestinians, the Arabs, even the Iranians, have already agreed to adopt and respect my treaty,” Silas stated. “Seems like a long-around way to get what I already have.”

  “But you don’t have it, Silas. Not yet. You are confusing your vision of what is to come with the reality of what is. Our work up to this point has taken us very far indeed. But we must not get complacent in it. I sense this opportunity from the sheik has been laid before us by purpose and provides us a clear sign of the next step.” The prophet looked hard at his pupil, assessing his pliability. It did not escape him that, as of late, the success of Maximos’ corporate endeavors had given him an air of invincibility and power which, the prophet felt, he was not yet entirely entitled to. True, that moment would come, but it was not now.

  “You’re right, of course, Profeta,” conceded Maximos, though the prophet could sense his words lacked the total humility that they implied. “As always, your wisdom excels mine. By leaning on the Islamic background of my Turkish father to gain the Middle East, then playing the devoted son of a Syrian Catholic mother to win Europe, I will have secured the hearts of both worlds.”

  “And all the while,” Profeta continued on stoically, “you can release your ‘mad men’ to create chaos and pandemonium in the West, blaming the United States for the Turkish president’s assassination. Then, when everyone has left America’s side and rallies against it, you can move in to avert a possible third world war. The US will finally be subdued, and you’ll win the Nobel Peace Prize on top of everything else.”

  Silas nodded slowly as the vision unfolded itself in his mind. Then he smiled and said in all sincerity, “So, this would be our path: Gain the world through religion rather than—”

  “Coercion,” Profeta finished for him. “Yes. After all, practically anyone can be forced to do something one way or another, but this creates an environment of loathing, fear, and inner resistance. Winning hearts, however, is the true key to peace.”

  “And yet, I wonder,” Silas spoke out after a moment, “how peaceful things would remain by my flipping ships. To play the Catholic card after proclaiming my Muslim faith would be far more detrimental than just staying a neutral businessman.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. It seems more likely that by the time we get there, true believers, in whatever faith, will have been enlightened enough to realize that religious labels are, in fact, rather superfluous because the true essence behind every one is to practice expressing love, kindness, and peace to all living things. In the end, they are all the same. Even the pope agrees with me on this point. He has been hosting many Imam’s and Muslim leaders at the Vatican, hoping to ‘bridge the gap and unite true faiths as one,’ as he puts it.”

  “And the radicals?”

  The prophet nodded. “Unfortunately there are radicals in every religious group who will not heed words of their wiser leaders. I fear perhaps your Sheik Musa to be one of these. In accepting his plan, we must tread carefully so as to not alert him of our true intentions for the position he is offering.”

  Maximos sighed and rose to his feet. “It all sounds like a pretty tall order.”

  Profeta rose as well and laid a firm hand on his pupil’s shoulder. “You’re right, Silas. For an ordinary man, it would be.”

  Chapter 70

  It was a blustery evening, dull and windy; the unchecked gusts hurtling various debris through the air in a wild fashion. Keeping his chin tucked low into the upturned collar of his overcoat, Commissioner Moreau walked up the five steps to the entrance of the Museum of the Bible. The door was graciously opened for him by a robust figure in a tawny tweed suit. He was ushered in with what he assumed were words of greeting, fo
r he could barely hear a thing as the turbulent wind rushed past him into the building. As soon as Pierre was cleared, the museum attendant pulled the door closed with a great heave, instantly shutting out the effects of the weatherly invasion.

  “Pierre Moreau!” a bell-like voice rang out from across the lobby. With spirited enthusiasm, a shapely woman of polished dress and rosy demeanor strode forward and bestowed a genial handshake on her guest. “It’s a delight to see you! How was your flight?”

  “Dr. Diaz, it’s been too long,” returned Pierre. “Oh, it was just fine, thank you—though I brought my own dinner. Never did trust that airplane food.” He took a moment to appraise his old acquaintance and observed with inner amusement that, like the honorable state of many women before her, she seemed not to have aged a day. Her delicate height, though no match for his, was noble in its own right and exuded a firm presence which was softened only by her ample face featuring bright brown eyes and a welcoming smile. No, she hadn’t changed a jot since he last saw her over a year ago.

  “It’s been too long, indeed, my friend. I was so pleasantly surprised to get your call. Of course, I’ll be happy to give you what information I can. Please, follow me this way.” She indicated with her arm to the hallway shooting off the main foyer, and the two walked toward it side by side. Pierre looked around him and saw several glass display cases holding old Bible manuscripts open to specific passages, around which were dotted several relevant artifacts. He felt a growing sense of fascination as they walked on, and memories of his early days as a theologian began knocking at the door; but he wasn’t ready to answer it just yet. As a source of general, chronological history for the Near and Middle East, the Old Testament could be useful. In fact, it was the desire to explore biblical references that first sparked the wave of interest in Mesopotamian archeology in the late 1800s. But as to the writings concerning the strange exploits of prominent figures, visions, and the unnatural events that made up the rest of the Bible, Pierre had tried but simply couldn’t accept them as indisputable facts. Hence he had turned his focus completely onto “provable” history. And yet, despite his intent, he had noticed, especially recently, that he hadn’t been able to entirely block out the reaches of his past studies; nor, he thought uncomfortably, prevent them from starting to make sense.

 

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