The Babel Conspiracy

by Sylvia Bambola

  “I like living in Israel and being near Global Icon headquarters, so save your breath big brother.”

  Trisha watched Joshua settle in a nearby chair. There was something off about him. She had thought that for awhile, now. He worked behind a desk all day yet maintained the body and strength of a Spartan. She had mentioned this to Daniel, once, suggesting that his brother might be working for the CIA or Mossad and how his job provided perfect cover. Daniel only laughed.

  “I think there’s another reason you want to stay in Israel,” she said, and was taken back by the startled look on his face. “I think your father has made a zealot out of you. Wasn’t he a member of the Haganah?”

  Joshua nodded. “And proud of it. After Britain’s waning commitment to restoring Israel’s homeland, the Haganah began smuggling Jews into Palestine and . . . .”

  “Don’t get him started. He can go on for hours about this stuff,” Daniel said, frowning at his brother.

  “and Dad fought under Ben-Gurion and helped surviving European Jews enter the Holy Land.”

  Trisha noticed the fire in Joshua’s eyes. A fire she had never seen in Daniel’s when it came to Israel. Joshua’s commitment seemed all-consuming and made her, again, feel there was something about him that didn’t add up.

  “Didn’t your dad take part in the attack on a British concentration camp at Athlit?”

  Joshua smiled. “He did. And helped liberate over two hundred illegal Jews, then later dispersed them into the kibbutzim. When the Haganah made a truce with Britain in ‘46, Dad joined the Yishuv and fought with Menachem Begin. Even after Israel was declared a state in ‘48, Dad remained in the Yishuv. He knew the declaration would enrage the Muslim world and that their armies would immediately cross the Palestine borders in an effort to forcibly nullify the partition resolution.”

  “Yes, but then Dad came to America,” Daniel added, taking a seat beside Trisha. “And he became an American. And that’s what you are, Joshua . . . American. And this is where you should live.”

  “I have dual citizenship, like Dad did, remember? I belong in Israel, too. And even when Dad came here, he continued fighting for Israel by forming Supporters of Israel to lobby congress regarding matters concerning the Jewish state.

  “Israel needs all its men now. Who knows what will happen with Russia’s Marine Brigade 810 fighting alongside Hezbollah Special Forces in Syria? It’s just a matter of time before they go after our oil fields in the Golan. They’ve already begun drone surveillance. They claim it’s confined to Syria, but who knows? And they’ve established a base in the coastal city of Latakia, installing batteries of S-300 anti-aircraft missiles. And why? ISIS doesn’t have an air force. And what about the arrival of four Russian Sukhoi 30SM tactical jets already in Latakia and the half-dozen MiG-31 interceptors on a runway in Damascus?”

  “What’s your new assignment?” Trisha asked, seeing Daniel flush with anger, and regretting she had brought up the subject.

  Joshua raked his hair. “Global Icon has been hired by Senator Philip Merrill’s campaign. Seems their computers were hacked and they want additional security.”

  Trisha’s eyes narrowed. “Why now? The election is in six months, and unless someone discovers that Senator Merrill is an ax murderer or an international drug dealer, he’ll be our next president. He has a double-digit lead in all the polls. So, why spend all that money? Global Icon isn’t exactly cheap.”

  Joshua looked at his watch. “No skin off my nose how they spend their money. And if they want to use it to keep me employed, that’s fine with me.” He yawned then glanced at his watch again. “Nine thirty, guys. I’m bushed. It’s been a long day.”

  When they said their “good-byes” Trisha leaned closer to Joshua. “Be careful,” she whispered, not understanding why she said it.

  “What? Be careful of loose women? Be careful of exploding computers?”

  “Just be careful.”

  • • •

  Joshua made his way to the bridge, the one connecting lower and upper Everman. Below it ran the Wachupa River, a narrow silty body of water that, surprisingly, still contained catfish. He maneuvered down the bank toward the huge, concrete abutment anchoring this side of the beam bridge to lower Everman. His shoes squished in the mud as he walked. He hoped Arie would already be here. He wanted to tell him that the safe house had been prepared and that two Mossad agents were, even now, on their way from Tel Aviv to help get him out of the country.

  In the meantime, Joshua’s mission still held: confirm Arie’s last encrypted message to headquarters stating that U.S. President Thaddeus Baker had connections with ISA, and that Baker had, in fact, given them a directive—disrupt the streets of every major city in America by targeting police and fomenting riots.

  And Joshua was to do it all without the help of the CIA or FBI or DHS, and before Israeli Prime Minister Yossi Behrman entered talks next month with the U.S. concerning Israel’s oil discovery in the Golan Heights. Prime Minister Behrman needed President Baker’s support in the already brewing dispute over who owned the oil rights. Syria, backed by Russia, claimed it was theirs, stolen from them by Israel in the Six-Day War. Without U.S. help, the issue was sure to find its way to the UN, a notoriously anti-Semitic organization; one that had issued sixty-one resolutions condemning Israel for human rights violations while Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Jordan, Lebanon, Qatar and the UAE had never received even one.

  Arie’s accusation seemed fantastic. But he was one of Mossad’s best. Never careless, never sent information he hadn’t corroborated. Still, Joshua needed confirmation.

  The closer Joshua got to the abutment, the deeper he sank into the mud. The sucking noise of his shoes hardly made it stealthy. But even in the dark, he saw no one was here.

  Now, there was nothing for him to do but wait.

  When his legs began to ache and his feet became numb from cold, wet mud seeping into his shoes, he checked his watch. A half-hour gone. Arie was never late . . . unless. Joshua couldn’t afford any more time. His friend must be in trouble. He’d have to chance it and go to the apartment.

  His cover be hanged.

  • • •

  Joshua pulled the hood over his black wig then pushed his night glasses tighter against his nose; glasses that resembled a pair of Carrera readers and enabled him to see in the dark, though everything had a green and silver hue.

  He walked down the street that smelled of smoke and garbage, ignoring the rats scurrying among the debris. The further he walked the more graffiti-covered the buildings became.

  A group of men loitering on one of the corners eyed him as he approached. The biggest, with tattoos covering both arms and a red bandana around his forehead, stepped in front of him.

  “Hey, what’s up man? Whatcha doing here?”

  Joshua slipped his hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt and gripped the handle of his 9 mm Beretta, the outline of which could be seen when he twisted it inside his pocket and pointed the barrel at his adversary.

  The stranger forced a laugh. “Hey, no problem, man. I don’t want no trouble. But if you don’t want trouble, either, then don’t go too far with that.” He gestured with his chin toward Joshua’s bulging pocket. “The pigs are out. Just a block away. About ten squad cars.”

  Joshua eased his finger off the trigger. “What happened?”

  “Someone lost his head.” With that the man stepped aside.

  Behind him the others snickered. “Yeah, someone lost his head,” one of them said.

  Joshua shrugged. “Too bad.” But his heart pounded as he walked away. Arie lived up ahead. He couldn’t move too fast. Couldn’t look too anxious. He sauntered down the street, past the remains of the two buildings burnt down the night before, then spotted flashing lights and a sea of blue uniforms.

  Curious tenants streamed from their apartments and clogged the sidewalk. The clo
ser Joshua got, the thicker the crowd. Young men cursed and waved their fists in threatening gestures toward the police who were busy cordoning the area with yellow tape.

  The tension was palpable.

  It wouldn’t take much to start another riot.

  Joshua pushed through the crowd, stopping a few feet from the tape. He eyed the massive oak door of Arie’s apartment building where his friend lived under the assumed name of Abdul Kabani. Chiseled into the door were the words, “Allahu Akbar” and a crude carving of a crescent.

  “What happened?” he asked a young boy standing next to him, his tone emotionless.

  The boy casually took a drag from his cigarette. “A beheading.”

  “Who was it?”

  When the boy shrugged, Joshua pushed his way to the front just in time to see the medical examiner and his attendants wheeling a covered body toward a waiting van.

  “A John Doe?” one of the officers asked the ME.

  “No, his ID says he’s Abdul Kabani, and they found a bunch of jihadi literature all around the place. Pipe bombs, too. They’re bagging some of it now.”

  “Makes no sense. Have the jihadists started killing their own?”

  The ME frowned. “Could be a sunni-shia turf war. They’re crazy, these people. Beheading the guy wasn’t enough. Someone went and carved a crescent into his forehead.”

  Joshua faded back into the crowd barely under control. He knew of only one person who would carve a forehead. It was Kamal’s calling card; a man who knew how to inflict maximum pain before killing his victims.

  Had Kamal broken Arie?

  If so, what information had Arie given him? Was Joshua compromised? And why had Arie gone back to his apartment when he should have stayed in a public venue where it was safer?

  Arie was a pro. There had to be a reason. Had he gone to retrieve something or leave something . . . something he wanted Joshua to find? He needed to get inside the apartment no matter the risk. He couldn’t let it go, not now. Kamal had raised the stakes.

  He had made it personal.

  Again.

  • • •

  Joshua wore the same hooded sweatshirt and black wig he had worn earlier. He even smudged dirt on his face. It would make him harder to remember should a confrontation arise, though it seemed unnecessary in this darkness.

  The quarter moon was obscured by clouds, and most of the street lights had been vandalized by thugs hoping to hide their activities from patrol cars that roved less and less frequently since the riot.

  He had parked his rental car four blocks away making the last and most dangerous part of the journey on foot. The baseball bat he carried and the gun bulging in his pocket had deterred most aggression so far. He had to pull out his gun only once, and that ended quickly with the assailant fleeing into a nearby alley.

  At Arie’s apartment building dim lights shone through grease-smudged windows and cast an eerie glow around the entrance telling Joshua the stoop was deserted. He covered the four steps in two strides, then opened the heavy wooden door. It was three in the morning and still he heard a TV blasting.

  He made his way to the second floor, to the door marked twenty-eight. Ignoring the yellow police tape, he pulled a lock pick from his pocket and within seconds was inside.

  Placing his bat by the door, he maneuvered to the only two windows in the apartment and pulled the shades. Next, he felt his way to the bathroom, brought out a towel and stuffed it along the bottom of the apartment door. Only then did he turn on the lights. Even so, he was taking a chance that someone would notice a glow from the windows. But how else could he examine the place?

  The room was a shambles with blood everywhere, most of it in the middle where the body had rested, though no chalk markings or tape outlined it.

  The police hadn’t finished processing the crime scene because near the large blood spot was Arie’s phone. No point retrieving it. It was one of Mossad’s new phones that employed fingerprint technology and automatically sent a signal to headquarters, and other agent phones in the group, if an unauthorized person tried using it without first punching in a special code. And if they did, it was remotely wiped.

  He stepped through the littered field. Everything had been picked over by the intruders. Even the couch cushions were slashed. Kamal must have thought Arie was hiding something, too.

  He decided to explore the less disturbed areas and entered the bathroom where he checked the medicine cabinet for hollowed-out shaving cans and false toothpaste tubes. Finding nothing he went to Arie’s closet and checked shoe soles and jacket pockets.

  Next, he inspected the wood furniture and stopped when he saw an “AK” carved into Arie’s nightstand.

  AK for Abdul Kabani and Arie Katz?

  With all the nicks and scratches he had almost overlooked it. He ran his fingers along the sides searching for a crevice where a note could be stashed. Finding none, he turned his attention to the scarred headboard and took his time going over every inch until he saw an “R” scratched on one of the square legs; something Arie knew Joshua would notice since it was the letter Joshua spent the better part of a year scrawling across his files and gym equipment.

  R for Rachel.

  His fingers probed all four sides until, at the back, he felt a piece of loose wood. He pushed the bed away from the wall, then, with his lock-pick, pried away the wood exposing a small carved-out niche containing a piece of white, folded paper. He pulled it out. Instead of words there was a crude drawing of a crane . . . or ladder—it was hard to tell—some barbed wire and the letters TO.

  Obviously, Arie left this message in coded form for fear Kamal or his bunch would find it. But what did it mean? What was Arie trying to tell him? Did TO mean he was to go to a specific place?

  And if so, where?

  He’d run it through his own decoding software as well as send it off to headquarters in Dimona. But now he had to get out of here. He sprang to his feet, flipped off the lights, grabbed his bat, and within seconds exited the building.

  • • •

  CHAPTER 3

  Trisha glanced at the rearview mirror and watched the white van inch closer to her bumper. It looked like the same van from the other day, but she couldn’t be sure. To her, all white vans looked alike. She pressed the accelerator and when she did, the van kept pace. This time she wasn’t going to keep it to herself. With one hand, she fished for the phone in her purse and made a mental note to get a smaller bag.

  She was about to dial Buck, to apprise him of her situation, when the van suddenly changed lanes and sped past her, then exited the highway. She felt foolish as she slipped her phone back into the purse. Her imagination had gotten the better of her.

  She took a deep breath trying to regain her composure. The sun warming her arm through the open car window felt good. So did the swirling breeze playfully rearranging her hair as she sped down the road that felt like a ribbon of glass.

  The highway was open, deserted and well-paved, and led to a small, tight-knit community of Cherokee, one of the Five Civilized Tribes which, her mother said, included the Chickasaw, Creek, Choctaw and Seminole.

  She forgot the van as she sang along with the CD blasting out a favorite tune. “‘Jesus, Jesus. He’s as close as the mention of His name.’”

  God was so good even in the midst of a dangerous and chaotic world. She couldn’t imagine life without Him. Her mother had taught her about Jesus when she was young. And Trisha couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t love Him. He was the center of her life, the very reason for her existence. How could she be anything but joyful?

  And she was.

  But . . . .

  Her joy would be complete if only she could get her boss out of her mind.

  She pulled down a street lined with tidy brick dwellings and manicured lawns, then parked by a house with Kelly green shutters and a thick
crop of azaleas clustered along its front.

  When she got out of the car she headed straight to the back of the house. On a day like this Mom was sure to be working in her vegetable garden. She waved when she saw a tall, trim woman in denim carrying a bag of mulch. At once her mother dropped the bag and extended her arms.

  “How was the ride?” the elder Callahan said as she embraced Trisha.

  “Long.”

  Her mother laughed and brushed aside shiny strands of black hair that had escaped her ponytail. Her complexion was darker than Trisha’s and her features squarer, bolder. But by everyone’s account, she was a fine looking woman.

  “You look great, Mom. As usual.”

  “And you look tired. You’re working too hard.” Mrs. Callahan led her daughter to the back door and into the kitchen, then retrieved a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and poured two glasses.

  “How are you doing, Mom? Really? Still missing Dad?” Trisha pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “One doesn’t spend a lifetime with a person then get over losing him in six months. Yes, I miss Paddy, that wild Irishman, very much.”

  “You could move to the city. Closer to me. That way I could see you more often.”

  “I would never leave my people, Patricia. You know that. And I’m happy here.”

  Trisha nodded. She knew how much her mother loved tribal customs and history. How often had she told Trisha the story of the Trail of Tears, when the Cherokee were forced off their land by the government because the white man found gold on it? Or about the Cherokee’s love for learning and books? Or how many notable people had come from their tribe: artists, musicians, politicians, writers, lawyers?

  Trisha also knew her mother had a deep spiritual connection and often spoke about a spiritual nation inside the political one. “We are of the lost tribe of Israel. A very spiritual people,” her mother often said. And when she did, Trisha would just nod, knowing that only three writers in the seventeen and eighteen hundreds believed the Cherokee were descendants of Jews.