The Babel Conspiracy

by Sylvia Bambola

  Since their setup, he had not taken a chance on visiting her. Kamal or one of his men could already have her under surveillance. He was glad he had made his brother leave the country. At least he didn’t have to worry about him, too.

  “Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream,” Cassy sang in a squeaky, off-key voice. Though she couldn’t hear him, he could hear her. But at times like this, he wished it weren’t so.

  For the past forty-eight hours he had learned a lot about her. She was an early riser, worked long hours on her new assignment for DHS—which involved hacking into various Russian and Chinese systems—kept a neat apartment, ate terribly, mostly chips and soda and little frozen hamburgers that she nuked in her microwave.

  His cameras covered every inch of her apartment except the bathroom, and he had even argued for that because it had a window. But reluctantly, he conceded the inappropriateness of the thing. He had no wish to be inappropriate. He just wanted to keep her safe.

  If anything happened to her . . . .

  “A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go,” Cassy croaked.

  “Oh, zip it!” Joshua mumbled as she continued singing. He was relieved to see her stand in front of the large picture window, throw up her arms in a stretching motion, then settle down at the computer desk beneath it. She never sang while working. That at least was a consolation.

  He was about to go to the kitchen for coffee when he noticed a shadow moving across her wall. At first he thought it was the slant of the sun until it stopped, lingered in one spot, then moved again. And it came from the direction of the bathroom.

  He studied the monitors covering the kitchen and bedroom. Nothing seemed amiss. When he leaned closer to the one panning the living room his heart stopped. No mistaking it—the shadow was that of a man.

  He pulled the Beretta from his belt, grabbed Cassy’s key and headed out the door. Within seconds he was standing by the overturned desk chair and staring into the dark, maniacal eyes of Kamal the Blade. Cassy stood motionless. One of Kamal’s arms was locked around her ribcage; the hand of the other pressed a large, curved knife against her throat.

  “Put the gun down!” Kamal shrieked. “Or I’ll kill her right now, in front of you.”

  “Nothing doing. Then you’ll kill us both.” Joshua pointed his gun at Kamal’s forehead. “And which do you think will be faster? My gun firing a bullet into your head or your knife across Cassy’s throat?”

  “If you drop it, I give you my word I will be merciful. I will kill her quickly. If you don’t, I will take my time. You have no out. Any second my men will come through that door and disarm you. And you’ll die with the knowledge that Cassy will live long after you, and suffer greatly.”

  Joshua moved to his right forcing Kamal and Cassy to move closer to the desk. “If you’re talking about the two men in black T-shirts lurking in the hallway, forget it. My friends have already taken care of them. The building is surrounded, Kamal. There’s no escape for you.” He prayed he was convincing. The thought of Kamal carving a crescent into Cassy’s forehead and then . . . .

  “I got in, undetected. I’ll get out the same way. Do you think I didn’t know you had an apartment next door? Or that you had these rooms under surveillance? You didn’t count on that, did you? Me knowing. And I saw only two of your men outside while I have at least four others you know nothing about. If I don’t leave soon, they will kill your men and come for me.”

  Joshua cupped his extended hand, the one holding the Berretta. “You’ll never get out alive. Even if more of your men come, I’ll kill you before they get me.” He continued moving slowing to the right, forcing Kamal to move directly in front of the desk. And just when Kamal’s face broke into a cruel smile and Joshua was sure he was going to use his knife on Cassy, a bullet whizzed through the window glass and struck Kamal in the back of his head. Within seconds, he was crumpled on the floor, dead, and Cassy was crumpled against Joshua’s chest.

  “I was beginning to think Iliab was never going to take his shot,” Cassy said, trembling.”

  Joshua held her as he kicked the knife away from Kamal’s hand. “I guess he didn’t count on Iliab being the real triggerman, not me.” He signaled to the apartment window across the street, where he knew Iliab was still positioned with his sniper rifle, telling him he had hit his mark. Then he looked down at Kamal’s lifeless body. “He was a coward to the end, hiding behind a woman. He was brave only when it came to killing the defenseless and unarmed.”

  Cassy continued shaking. “I . . . I . . . I’m glad it’s over.”

  “Come on, sit down.” Joshua led her to the couch. “You were terrific, you know. I’ve never seen anyone braver.”

  “Well, you took your sweet time getting here,” she said through chattering teeth. “I saw the beast coming in from the bathroom and tried warning you with my last song. Boy are you dense!”

  “You mean ‘a hunting we will go’? That one?”

  Cassy nodded.

  “How was I supposed to know? You should’ve told me in advance that this would be your signal.”

  “I was thinking on my feet.”

  “And by the way, you’re a lousy singer.”

  “But you’re crazy about me.”

  “Totally.

  Cassy appeared calmer now and leaned her head on Joshua’s shoulder. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “Why don’t you come with me to Dimona? The Mossad could use someone like you in their cyber warfare department.”

  “Would I have to use a gun? I don’t do guns.”

  “You’d have to learn how to use one—go through rigorous training. But I doubt you’ll ever have to fire it for real.”

  “Well . . . I guess I could do that. But where would I live? I hear rent is a killer; very expensive.”

  “You could always bunk in with your uncle.”

  Cassy’s eyes grew wide. “You mean you have him? He’s safe?”

  Joshua nodded, glad he was finally able to tell her. That was one of the conditions he had set up with headquarters. If Cassy did this, played the decoy, when it was over he’d tell her about her uncle.

  She took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

  “So what do you say? About Dimona and your uncle’s apartment?”

  “Dimona sounds good. But I’m not liking the idea of sharing an apartment with Uncle Phillip. He’s a vegetarian and my burger habit would drive him up a wall.”

  “You could always come live with me.”

  “You mean like your concubine or something?”

  “Concubine? Nobody uses that word anymore.”

  “Well . . . like what then?”

  “Like my wife.”

  Cassy sat upright. “Are you telling me you’re over Rachel?”

  “As much as I’ll ever be, just like you’re over Chad as much as you’ll ever be. I’m not one to fall in love easily, Cassy. In fact, Rachel is the only woman I’ve ever loved . . . until you, and I don’t want to lose you now. I know we can make a future together. Only one thing—no more singing, ever.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Cassy said, kissing Joshua and ignoring the two Mossad agents who had suddenly burst into the room.

  • • •

  CHAPTER 19

  “Come on. Let’s go to the hangar,” Mike said as he opened the door of the Sea Breeze. “Everyone will be arriving soon.” His large, powerful arm extended outward, and Trisha walked towards it. When she was near enough, the arm wrapped around her like a shawl. “They’re going to love her. The P2 will be a huge success.”

  Trisha slipped her arm around Mike’s waist as they walked toward the car. It had been three weeks since the press conference at the hospital; three long and difficult weeks of dodging curiosity seekers and persistent reporters. Much had gone on during her captivity. Mike had driven himself and h
is people almost to the breaking point. The result was that the P2 mock-up was way ahead of schedule.

  During the past three weeks, Trisha had kept in touch by phone, and remained abreast of things through briefs and Mike. This meant more separation for them since he had to be at Gibs Town so often. But both agreed with Peter that Trisha needed to stay in Everman, and while shielded somewhat from the press, be visible enough to keep interest focused on her and away from what was going on in their hangar by the sea.

  Now, that was no longer necessary.

  The P2 mock-up was complete, and another press conference, so different from the one three weeks prior, had been scheduled for this morning.

  “She’s as wonderful as we think, isn’t she, Mike?” Trisha thought of the terrible cost of it all.

  “A stage mother’s jitters? Yes, Trisha, the P2 is as wonderful as we think, and more. All Patterson Aviation should feel proud today. She’s their ‘special child’ and the world will love her. We’ve done the best we could, now it’s time to let go.”

  Trisha’s eyes teared. “Letting go is harder than I thought.”

  Mike drew her closer. “Yes, but we’re going out there now, like proud parents and cut the string.”

  “You mean cord, don’t you,” she said, smiling now. “The expression is, ‘cut the cord,’ as in umbilical cord.”

  “No, I mean string, as in purse string. It’s time for the whelp to go out and make money for us!”

  Rich, throaty laughter cascaded from Trisha’s lips as she gazed at the man next to her. It seemed like ages since she had laughed. She almost forgot how good it felt. “Then, by all means, let’s cut the string.”

  • • •

  Trisha breathed in the fragrance of fresh flowers that obscured the smell of ocean. “How lovely,” she murmured, as she stepped from the car. She scanned the large, white tent set up by the caterers. It shaded several tables holding huge arrangements of cut flowers. Around them were placed copious platters of hors d’oeuvres.

  To one side, and away from the tent, folding chairs were arranged in neat rows. And at the end of each row was an urn of red and white roses, pink and yellow carnations, red and purple gladiolus.

  In front of the chairs stood a bulletin board on which were tacked large sheets of paper.

  The guests had yet to arrive. Those milling around the airstrip were employees belonging to PA or to the catering outfit Mike had hired for the day. And mingled among them were the ever present DHS agents.

  Trisha whistled softly. “Impressive. Very impressive. It proves everyone is expendable. You have managed quite well without me.”

  “You’ll never know how poorly I’ve managed.” Mike’s dark eyes searched hers. “And today you’ll be indispensable.” He pointed to the podium. “I hope you approve of your stage, madam.”

  “Seems a bit elaborate. You do remember that my presentation is short?”

  “That’s all I want. You’re just a hors d’oeuvre, meant to whet the appetite.”

  “Well, thanks. You sure know how to keep a person humble.” She slipped her hand into his. “Come on, let’s say ‘good-bye’ to baby.”

  As soon as she entered the hangar, Trisha felt the charged atmosphere as people scurried to finish their tasks. The excitement on each face was obvious. Now, she brought fresh excitement as the hangar exploded in greetings. Most knew her well. Many had been deeply affected by her abduction. It was with genuine joy and love they greeted her now.

  Trisha responded with her own smiles and waves, with handshakes and hugs. When the commotion died down, she was free to make one last greeting and farewell.

  Impatiently, she dragged Mike closer so she could study the P2. Her eyes settled on the pointed beak-like forward fuselage. “She’s beautiful, Mike! More beautiful than I ever imagined!”

  She walked around the P2, her eyes taking in everything; the graceful, downward slope of the forward-fuselage merging into the mid-fuselage, the expanse of the sculptured wings fanning outward over the wide underbelly, the sleek aft-fuselage and aft-body where the tall, fin-like empennage rose high into the air.

  There were tears of joy she wanted to weep over her. A mother had so few occasions in which to be truly self-indulgent. A child’s “coming out” was one of them. But the time for self-indulgence was cut short, for suddenly someone shouted, “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  “Looks like you’re on,” Mike said, unable to conceal his pleasure.

  Trisha didn’t move. Her eyes kept sweeping over the P2, caressing it here and there with soft, lingering stares.

  “Hey you two, come on! Everyone’s here. What a turnout! They all want to see the plane. I keep sending them to the tables, but it’s like trying to stop a herd of stampeding bulls with a red handkerchief. Trisha, you better give them that presentation before they storm the hangar!”

  Mike nodded at Buck. “We’re coming.” But before he moved, he looked once more at the P2 and then at Trisha. “Yes, she is beautiful,” he said, his eyes melding into hers.

  Outside, parked cars and helicopters dotted the airstrip. Most of the airline executives and PA board members had come by helicopter. The cars belonged to the host of reporters who had all arrived in keen anticipation, made keener by the wave of terrorism that had plagued PA these past several months.

  A cacophony of sounds shattered the air like splintering glass, and Trisha experienced a moment of uneasiness as she realized that most of it was aimed at her. But presently, she relaxed, until she saw him standing by the tent.

  Gunther!

  How did he have the nerve to show his face here? She moved to the podium as Mike quieted the crowd and invited them to take their seats. All the while Trisha’s eyes remained on the thin, pasty-faced man. She prayed silently trying to deflate the rising feeling of bitterness that had become all too familiar, a feeling heightened after Bubba Hanagan’s body was discovered in a garbage dump.

  Hope of bringing the guilty parties to justice was quickly evaporating.

  When everyone was quiet, Trisha began speaking. “Ladies,” she paused to smile at the handful of women, mostly reporters, the others, members of the catering staff, “and gentlemen. You have been invited here today to experience a revolutionary new aircraft, an aircraft of many firsts, the Patterson II or P2—a commercial passenger SST, the first aircraft ever powered by nuclear fusion.”

  A buzz arose from the audience as people talked among themselves. Trisha stood quietly, allowing the initial impact of her words to subside. While she waited, she watched Gunther and noticed a redness creep, like an inch worm, over his face when he discovered he was being observed.

  He turned away.

  “My aim,” she continued, “is to provide you with a brief description of the P2 and its propulsion system. Further details as well as a ‘question and answer’ session will be provided during the tour to follow. Also, those who wish to look at sketches of the P2 may do so.” She pointed to the bulletin board beside her.

  “To begin, the P2 is a wide bodied SST; the only SST in service since the retiring of the Concord. It has a variable sweep wing design with unlimited range, which means, in plain language, it can fly non-stop to any city in the world, at speeds of over 2,000 miles per hour, and at altitudes above 60,000 feet. The propulsion system consists of four mini-reactors or NPR910s; each eight feet in diameter, roughly the size of the Rolls Royce RB211 engine built for Lockheed.”

  She spoke for several minutes, further describing the plane and its propulsion system, along with their use of deuterium and Nolan’s contributions and breakthroughs.

  “I’d like to end this briefing by mentioning that use of new composite materials increased payloads by 10% over other passenger aircrafts of equal size. Some of these materials may already be familiar to you. However, the one most revolutionary is the new composite, titanium X, created by a fo
rmer employee, Audra Shields.” Here Trisha paused to allow the swell of the murmuring voices to shrivel. There was still public furor over Audra’s death, and her name continued to make good copy in the press.

  “Without titanium X, the NPR910 would not be a reality,” Trisha continued. “Because of it, our engines are capable of withstanding the tremendous heat of a repeated thermonuclear explosion. In over 200 simulated flights the NPR’s titanium X casing has not shown the slightest sign of corrosion or breakdown. We have, for your pleasure, prepared the NPR910 for such a simulated flight.

  “Now, our staff awaits your inspection of both the NPR910 and the P2, and will be happy to answer your questions. So, without further fanfare, I’ll close by saying it has been a pleasure to address you today. Thank you for coming.”

  Trisha left the podium to sounds of applause. It was obvious that those who had come were not disappointed. The P2 was years ahead of any aircraft in existence. But the applause and the victory became secondary as Trisha moved toward the thin, nervous-looking man beneath the tent. Already the crowd was shuffling in the opposite direction toward the hangar, making her move against the flow.

  Gunther had not gone with the others but stood in place as though expecting her to seek him out. “Your disclosures were most interesting, Miss Callahan, if not startling.” The pale, pasty face twitched as he forced a smile.

  “They were meant to be. Precautions were taken to ensure they would be.” Trisha felt the familiar anger fill her. She had to make a choice. There was always a choice. She could forgive or not.

  “I had no idea you’d be so successful,” Gunther said, the plastered smile still on his face.

  “I guess we’ve both had a shock.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I know.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We all know: Mike, Pete, all of us.”