Stone of Truth

by Adam Hiatt

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The light brown robe flowed through the air like a rippling flag as the sniper hurriedly raced up the stairs. The loose-fitting brown robe concealed the man’s compact, sinewy body, making him look much larger than he really was.

  Only five feet nine inches, the man was a seasoned professional, battle tested. He never walked in the open without a weapon. The Imam had taught him that the infidel was decadent and treacherously unpredictable, worthy to be hewn down at any time in the name of Jihad. He would not miss an opportunity to fight for Allah’s name or for the Imam because he was unprepared.

  Underneath the long cloth, secured to his chest by a nylon harness, was the high-powered sniper rifle. Strapped to both forearms under the long sleeves were two small stilettos. The sniper leaped up the final two steps and stomped to the middle of the upper terrace.

  “They have disappeared,” he said with a soft voice. “Two of my men, Saabir and Hamza, are in police custody, both injured. I will kill the one responsible.” He felt rage begin to swell within abdomen.

  “There will be time for revenge later,” Faulkner said. “I have the code-key and the manuscript. Let them run for now.” Laying the códice on a pew, the wealthy savant pulled out a notepad and pen, dropped to his knees, and began copying down the Hebrew characters. “Lock the doors, Amjad. Nobody gets in the building until we leave,” he said without looking up.

  The sniper, Amjad, twirled around and stealthily disappeared down the stairway, leaving Faulkner alone with the cipher. Having copied all the characters to the notepad, Faulkner scribbled the code-key on the top right-hand corner of the paper. He began deciphering the text, feeling the level of excitement build within his body as he anticipated revealing the ancient message. So many sacrifices he had made, so many people he had betrayed for this moment. He knew it would all be worth it.

  Faulkner stared at the unscrambled letters in disbelief. There must have been a mistake. What he looked at couldn’t possibly be right. He tore off the top sheet of paper and started over, repeating the process even more methodically.

  With only the minimalist of sounds, Amjad arrived at his side. The old man looked bewildered, borderline confused. “Is there a problem?” the terrorist asked.

  “The code is wrong,” Faulkner replied without emotion. He furiously scribbled on the notepad for another minute before angrily hurling the pen over the balcony. “Langford lied!” he boomed, jumping to his feet. “He set me up.”

  Reaching for the notepad, Amjad studied the Hebrew message. There was no meaning to it. The letters were still encrypted. Tossing the pad aside he considered his American contact’s reaction. Had the Ivy League professor really set them up?

  “No,” he stated evenly. “The understudy must have it.”

  “How can you be certain?” asked Faulkner.

  “If your associate Langford was as obsessed as you claim then it is highly inconceivable that he would take the information to the grave. As far as we know, the understudy was the only person, apart from you, that knew of the object. He is the logical candidate to possess the code-key.”

  “Yes, your reasoning is sound. If anybody has it, Jaxon Smith does. However, they do not have the códice. There are no copies. They will surely make an attempt to recover it. Without it the code-key is worthless.”

  Amjad folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. “You may be right,” the terrorist said. “Nonetheless, we have to assume that a copy of some form exists. We must find them.”

  Faulkner jerked back, as if he had just inhaled a foul odor. “How can you accomplish that? They have already disappeared as you stated, and with the skill of the brother, they may never be found before it is too late.”

  “I took the liberty of installing a tracking device in the understudy’s phone. When I activate it, it will allow my men to follow their movements,” said Amjad softly.

  Faulkner grinned shrewdly. “You are surely deserving of a bonus, my friend,” he said. “The recent turn of events may be in our favor. We cannot discount the possibility that the young lads might solve the cipher for us. And if they do, we will be in position to demand it.”

  Amjad nodded solemnly. He tried to suppress his amusement as his eyes bored into Faulkner. He imagined slicing the arrogant billionaire’s throat and prying from his lifeless hand the information that would lead to the inheritance of his people. Originally he had planned to allow the oil thief the privilege of delivering it to the Imam before he was dispatched, but the unjustified butchery of one of his men on his sumptuous jet was inexcusable. Amjad’s man was a loyal soldier of Allah and of the Imam. His life would be avenged.

  Closing the latches on the carrying case, Faulkner brushed passed the sniper, pulling him out of the macabre fantasy. “Hurry,” he said. “We must prepare to depart.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The parking garage was built below street level, underneath the cosmopolitan Gateway Mall. Once a railway yard, the mall was morphed into a vibrant, new age shopping center, offering a variety of stores to accommodate all types of consumers, from the part-time shopper to the overindulgent yuppie. The garage, on the other hand, was a concrete jungle: concrete flooring, concrete ceiling, concrete walls, and concrete pillars. The air was sultry and smelled of gasoline fumes and automobile exhaust.

  The Lincoln was parked in a spot close to the entrance. A set of tires screeched somewhere far off as Reddic slammed shut the rear door and walked away from the vehicle. Backpack slung over his shoulder, he and Jaxon climbed a short inclined ramp, ducking under the aluminum vehicle barrier arm attached to a small tollbooth. At street level they turned right and marched to the corner and waited for a vacant taxi to pass by.

  Conversation was minimal. Both were lost in thought. Finally, Reddic broke the silence.

  “You’ve known the key the entire time and didn’t tell me?” he asked, a hint of annoyance in his tone. “Did I miss something? I mean I was shot trying to save your life.” He took off the suit jacket, exposing a large bloodstain on his sleeve.

  “You were shot? Is it bad?” asked Jaxon.

  “I’ll be okay. I just don’t understand why you would keep this from me.”

  “It’s not what you think. I was unaware until I learned where Faulkner had sent you.” Reddic gave a questioning look.

  “Dr. Langford invited me to his home ten days ago,” explained Jaxon. “We went into his back yard to speak privately. We talked about my dissertation progress, data acquisition, literature reviews, and other things like that for a while. He seemed genuinely concerned. He even apologized for being gone so much and promised to dedicate more time to my work. As we were walking back into the house he started acting a little strange. Out of nowhere he told me to keep my eyes open and that the paper I wrote on Moctezuma was excellent. He told me to remember one thing: the vault misleads, the key is mapped in the city.”

  “What in the world does that mean?”

  “I didn’t know. It was so weird I completely forgot about it. But now it makes sense. I think Langford found the real name of the emperor’s son.”

  “Let’s assume for a moment that you’re right,” said Reddic. “What city was he referring to? There are thousands of cities.”

  “That answer is obvious,” replied Jaxon. “It’s Mexico City. Langford always referred to it as La Ciudad. The City.”

  “Okay, where in the city? There are over twenty million people there. It’s one of the largest in the world. Did he say anything else? Anything to narrow the possibilities?”

  “No, that’s just it. He said it as if I should have known.”

  “Well then, remember. You need to think, Jax. We have to find that code-key,” Reddic voiced.

  Jaxon’s eyes narrowed, locking in on his brother’s. He wore a suspicious look on his face. “Why Reddic?” he asked. His cadence sounded reserved, distant. “What Faulkner said about your obsession, is it true? You need to know that I will not go on if it is. I will
not allow you to become a monster like Faulkner.”

  “I’m nothing like that man,” Reddic countered defensively. His gaze never left Jaxon, contemplating the implication. He was at a crossroads in his relationship with his brother. Under normal circumstances he would distance himself and cultivate his cover story further, but Jaxon had seen and heard too much. He decided that the time had come. The lies had to stop; at least part of them.

  “I work for an ultra-clandestine division of the government,” he said quietly. He moved closer to Jaxon, only a hand’s length away. “It’s totally off the books; maybe ten people know it exists, and of them only one knows who I am. There are very few functioning operatives. Those involved are known public figures living double lives. Everything I’ve told you about my recruitment is true. I went through basic agent training and then quit, in a very open manner I might add. It had to be obvious that I was out, never to return. In reality I never left, but nobody knew.”

  He abruptly curtailed the dialogue. He had revealed enough about his other life. The last thing he wanted was his brother snooping around, trying to dig up more information. His employer, SC-7, was an extremely enigmatic black-ops division. He didn’t even fully comprehend the depth of the organization, and if it weren’t for his remarkable handler, Madison Jenkins, he would know nothing at all. However, she did disclose a few basics elements.

  After 9/11 President Bush realized that the country’s intelligence agencies were handcuffed with too much bureaucracy, too much red tape, and certainly too many incompetent employees. Unbeknownst to Congress, Bush recruited Madison Jenkins, the former director of the CIA’s counterterrorism unit and created his own mini-agency that reported directly to him. Officially Jenkins was on payroll as an advisor. The ambiguity of the title provided the latitude necessary to manage the day-to-day operations of the black-ops agency.

  Thus, SC-7 was formed. The title held much significance. Just as there were seven stars on Charles Messier’s Scorpius, so too are there seven operatives working for SC-7. Yet no agent was familiar with the identity of any of the others, except by hearsay or speculation. The only person that Reddic really knew was Jenkins. She was his conduit for logistics, his liaison to the powers of governments, the director of SC-7. Reddic recalled the first time that Jenkins described the role of his secret life. It took place at night in the center of an overpass in Spokane of all places. The intelligent, yet striking Jenkins stared straight ahead as she spoke, as if she were talking to herself. She explained that like the scorpion, the members of the unit worked alone and were expected to produce results. They were to gather intelligence, and if the opportunity presented itself, they would strike, and strike hard when the enemy least expected.

  That was the last time he spoke with her about the agency. The woman was far too busy. She had told him that when it came to dealing with sensitive information that could compromise the country and its citizens, the Commander in Chief called upon her and her division. The other mainstream intelligence companies were too porous, full of leaks because of their size. SC-7, on the other hand, was tight, self-sustaining, efficient, and invisible.

  “How long have you been involved?” Jaxon asked.

  “Almost three years, starting with my redshirt year.”

  “So this whole visit is a bogus story?”

  “Yes it was. Last week Langford sent an email to Langley. Our division intercepted it before it could reach company headquarters. In it your professor indicated that his partner was collaborating with what he suspected were potential terrorists. He gave a name: Amjad Muhktaar. This man is a ruthless killer. He’s responsible for the deaths of countless innocent Americans. And you’ve already seen what he looks like. The man with Faulkner on the balcony was Muhktaar.”

  Jaxon swallowed hard. Reddic knew that the thought of unknowingly coming face to face with a reprehensible terrorist would cause the hair on Jaxon’s neck stand. Jaxon made no attempt to hide his shock, and fright.

  “With his name it was easy to connect the dots,” Reddic went on. “Amjad Muhktaar is the right-hand man of Khalid Hasaan, one of the world’s most dangerous terrorist cell leaders. This man makes Bin Laden look like a Disney character. He’s deeply connected with the who’s who of evil: Castro, Chavez, Russian Mafiya, you name it. And he’s been a thorn in America’s side since the Reagan administration.”

  “Why have I never heard of him?” Jaxon asked.

  “Because he’s not headline material. He doesn’t stage embassy bombings or hijack planes. He attacks our country where we’re the most sensitive: our economy. Over the past twenty years he has single-handedly disrupted our oil interests in the Middle East. He’s bombed pipelines, destroyed wells and shipments, assassinated CEO’s; anything to inhibit western acquisition of that precious natural resource. Do you remember the young Saudi prince Abdul Mohsin?”

  “Yes, he was a great ally in the eighties before his untimely death. What was it, a heart attack?”

  “Hardly,” scoffed Reddic. “He was about to sell five hundred square miles of desert to an American oil company. From what I’ve heard it wasn’t great land, as far as oil deposits are concerned, but it would have given us a foot in the door. Unfortunately, one of Hasaan’s sources informed him of the pending deal. In Hasaan’s eyes it was an abominable and treacherous act to do any type of business with an infidel, so he had Mohsin killed in a manner that looked like a heart failure.”

  “Then why doesn’t someone just go after him and take him out?”

  “Trust me, many have tried, but the man is a mystery. Nobody knows exactly what he looks like. If anybody has seen him they haven’t lived long enough to tell about it. There have been whispers that even Muhktaar has never seen his face. We have a few inconsistent details, but all we really know for sure is that he operates out of Egypt. However, about three years ago he fell off the radar. Many assumed he had been taken out, but we suspected he went into hiding. With the war on terror the heat was on. He couldn’t afford to expose himself or his entire cell would collapse. That’s about the time when Muhktaar surfaced and assumed leadership responsibilities. But he was only running the cell vicariously.

  “Langford didn’t give any indication why Faulkner was associating with these men. We knew almost nothing about him. His record was free of criminal charges and there was no reason to believe he harbored and supplied terrorists.” Reddic pulled away and stopped talking. He waited for a pack of teenagers to move out of earshot before continuing. “I don’t think he knows that he’s financing a worldwide terrorist movement. I believe that Hasaan and Muhktaar are using him to find the stone. For what purpose I don’t know. I only know that it’s our best chance to find Hasaan.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Jaxon.

  “I couldn’t do that. You never would have gone for it. You would’ve thought I was using you. Not to mention the risk.”

  “That’s not true, I would have understood.” Reddic raised one eyebrow. “All right, I would’ve freaked out, I know. But why send you?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Langford’s top student happens to be my older brother? It was an easy assignment. Listen, Jax, you have to erase this from your memory. If anybody finds out it could compromise your safety.”

  “Trust me, I don’t want to think about it ever again.”

  Jaxon stepped away and inhaled slowly. The dry desert air filled his lungs. A few cars zoomed by on the street as various street lamps flickered to life. He looked up at the dusky sky, wondering if he should go on. The risks were great he understood that. If there was ever a time to run this was that time. But he also knew that it wouldn’t take long for Faulkner to realize he had the wrong code-key. The terrorists would surely come after him. It was a frightening, menacing thought. He determined that it would be in his best interests to stay close to Reddic.

  “The vault misleads,” said Jaxon. “That message is clear. The phrase ‘mapped in the city’ is nebulous. We know what the city is, but why use th
e word map?”

  The word hit Reddic like a ton of bricks. He jammed his hand in his pocket, searching for his phone. Navigating to the picture gallery, he found a photo of Langford’s map, enhancing the zoom around the area of interest.

  “Take a look at this picture,” he said, handing the phone to Jaxon. “Those white and red pins in Mexico, what do you see?”

  Jaxon studied the image. Staring at the photo, he grinned mischievously.

  “Have you ever been to la ciudad?” he asked.

  “No. Never,” said Reddic.

  “Two of the major bus companies there are called estrella blanca and flecha roja, white star and red arrow. I think Dr. Langford was telling me where to go.”

  Reddic snatched the phone out of his hand and examined the photo. Jaxon was on to something. There were five white pins that definitely resembled a star. Another set of pins, four red ones, using the uppermost white pin to complete the shape, unquestionably looked like an arrow. It was ingenious.

  “He’s leading us to the bus terminal,” Jaxon nearly shouted. His face gave away his all but uncontrollable enthusiasm.

  A white City Cab pulled up to the curb and dropped off two passengers. Jaxon and Reddic hurried to the vehicle and slid into the backseat. The driver engaged the meter and looked into the rearview mirror, tacitly asking for directions with his eyes.

  Without hesitation, Jaxon said, “To the airport.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The immense Aeroméxico 767 touched down at Benito Juarez International Airport just after seven in the morning local time. After a brief taxi on the tarmac, the plane docked at the international gate. As soon as the bay doors were opened, it seemed as if every one of the three-hundred passengers made an eager dash for the exit.

  Seated near the front of the plane, Reddic and Jaxon were forced to squeeze into the compressed line of impatient travelers just to disembark. They followed the crowd through the international wing to customs, where they presented their tourist cards and passports. Reddic knew Jaxon would be nervous. He had never used a fake passport before, but Reddic explained the reasoning. Traveling under their real names would attract the kind of attention they were striving to avoid. He had been staring at the falsified document since their two-hour layover in Houston. During that time Reddic walked into one of the bathrooms, entered the third stall from the right, and reached behind the toilet, finding a small sealed box. Inside it were two forged passports and a stack of Mexican pesos.