Cyrus Twelve: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #2

by Ted Peters

  “Please inform Mr. Neshat that my answer is: yes. We will meet him shortly downstairs in the giant cask room.” The messenger bowed and departed.

  Graham noticed Leona fidgeting and rumbling under the table. “What’re ya doing?”

  “Removing my heels and putting my Nikes back on.” Leona looked directly at Graham. “Shortly before I go down to the Fass Zimmer, you should disappear. Take my blue leather bag.”

  “Why? So I can escort your heels? I’d rather escort your feet.”

  Leona glared, then continued. “The bag also contains my heat, my Kimber. Please listen. Next to the Great Fass is a set of toilets. They’re in large rooms. Enter the one for Herren, obviously. Find an excuse to remain there until you hear activity in the Fass room next door. Then, come out and cover me. Okay?”

  “Do you want to take Neshat alive?”

  “The bastard doesn’t deserve to live another second.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question: dead or alive?”

  “We have no right to serve as his executioners.”

  “You’re still not answering my question, Lee.”

  “Woman’s prerogative.”

  Chapter 91

  Heidelberg

  As Leona descended the dank walkway to the wine cellar, her Nikes kept a secure grip on the brick. Once in the wine cellar, she was greeted again by the tuxedoed messenger. “Mr. Neshat would like to engage you in conversation, Rev. Foxx. He is waiting for you on the top of the Great Tun.”

  Leona followed the rickety wooden stair case to the right, climbing up the side of the giant wine barrel. Atop this unofficial Wonder of the World, she found the flat wooden dance floor surrounded by a low rail to prevent drunken polka dancers from plummeting over the side.

  “I’d like to offer you a glass of Silver Oak cab,” announced a voice filtering through the dim light from a chair in the shadows. Khalid Neshat was sitting with his back to the barrel’s front edge, a hundred feet above the basement below. Leona was entering the platform from the rear. Neshat continued. “But, with your uncanny refined tastes, I fear you might discern a slight change in viticulture recipe. This recipe is one I like to offer my guests, especially my beautiful guests. But it does not pass your discriminating taste test, does it Reverend Foxx?”

  “It’s a lethal recipe, isn’t it, Dr. Neshat? Like euthanizing cattle, you serve your girlfriends a Mickey Finn and then finish them off with a knife to their throats. Mickey Finn mixed with cabernet sauvignon plus murder as a chaser is a cocktail taste I prefer to do without.”

  “But you ran away before we could get to know one another. My heart was broken, Madame Pastor.”

  “I’d rather your heart get broken than my throat get slit. Why do you do such things? Kelly was such a dear friend. Miss Detroit did nothing to harm you. And, I bet that poor young assistant in Taipei, what was her name?…”

  “Yang. Lilly Yang. I remember my victims. My victims don’t really die if they live on in my memory. It’s a kind of objective immortality, so to speak. What the Transhumanists want, of course is different. They want subjective immortality. They want to enjoy consciously their everlasting life.”

  “What is it that you want, Khalid?”

  “I want Iranian immortality. I want Cyrus to live forever in the memories of the history books. Well, we no longer read books, do we. I want Cyrus of Persia to live on in the cloud. I want the emperor to rule space. And he will when consciousness emanates from Earth to fill the universe. Cosmic consciousness will someday be Persian consciousness.”

  “Khalid, you’re a physicist. What is all this consciousness nonsense? Don’t tell me you believe in the Singularity? Intelligence Amplification? Post-biological consciousness? Do you?”

  “John Blair has established the theory. It makes good sense to me.”

  “While Hans-Georg Welker disputes that theory. Who’s right?”

  “If we eliminate Professor Welker, then there will be only one theory remaining, right?”

  “No, just one less theoretician. Ideas live on even when their inventors don’t. They live on in the world of ideas.”

  “See, Leona, you have just proved my point. I believe in the Cloud. So do you.”

  Chapter 92

  Heidelberg

  “As you can see, Reverend Foxx, I simply cannot proceed with all my ambitious plans if you’re alive to obstruct them. But I find you damned hard to kill. You don’t like to die. And when you appear to die you don’t stay dead.

  Leona cocked her head and emitted a victorious smile.

  “I’m puzzled about a matter, Pastor Foxx. I know you have a chip implant. I know you receive my satellite transmissions. But, I receive no response. I cannot track you. Why?”

  “Because the reverse transmission feature has been disconnected. Simple as that,” said Leona, again triumphantly.

  “Why don’t you just do what I tell you?” he asked.

  “Oh? You’ve not heard of free will?” she asked sarcastically.

  Neshat looked bewildered. He paused to process what he had just heard. “Be that as it may, I still need to kill you and Graham. But, I’m finding it more difficult than it should be. Now, just what am I to do?”

  “Why do you ask me to solve your problem? I’ve got a problem with you. You’ve developed the addictive habit of seducing and murdering members of the fairer sex. You kidnap and kill to get your way. You can kick the habit, you know. You could free yourself from all the evil you plan. As I see it, you’ve got two options: repent or die. I’m here to hear your confession. I might even offer to help you mend your ways, Dr. Neshat. Or, if you’d prefer, I could help you with the other option.”

  “Do you mind if I smile, or even laugh. You have no weapon. I’ve got you surrounded with my men, my Mongolian Guards. As soon as I snap my fingers, you drop from existence into non-existence. That’s the power I have, and the power you lack.”

  “Have you noticed any shaking on my side of this conversation? No, I don’t think so. I’m not anxious. You’ve been trying to harness the hurricane winds of non-existence for quite some time now with your murders and rumors of murders. The non-existence of others has been your gift to so many in our world. But, I think this is a gift that should stop its giving. Tonight! Tonight, your soul will be required of you.”

  “May I laugh even louder, Reverend Foxx. Perhaps you don’t get it. I’m the one here with the power of life and death, not you. It’s you who’s been given a death sentence.” He snapped his fingers and two of the imposing Mongolian Guards stood up on their feet.

  “Okay. I’ll snap my fingers.” She snapped. Nothing appeared to happen.

  “Ha. Ha.” Neshat was laughing. “The lady pastor doth bluff.”

  “No bluff. I now have a gun cocked and aimed right at your excessively large head. It’s time to repent, Dr. Neshat. Or else…”

  Neshat turned to his right. Then down .

  “Look to your left,” said Leona.

  Neshat turned cautiously around on his chair to look over the rail at a wooden landing only a few feet below the giant cask top. There he saw Graham, standing erect, holding a gun with two hands, sighted directly at him. A momentary expression of terror took over Neshat’s face.

  “Should I simply say the word, ‘fire’?” quizzed Leona.

  “How did he get there? My men? I had guards? Where are they?”

  “I’m sure Graham has made them comfortable,” quipped Leona. The two Mongolian Guards rose and walked to the opposite side of the platform. When they saw Graham in command, they inched their way backwards.

  “Now, I’m the one with power, Dr. Neshat. But, I don’t covet power the way you do.” She hollered. “Graham, drop the gun to your side. But, keep it handy, just in case.”

  A look of puzzlement overtook Neshat’s face.

  Leona walked in a small circle with her eyes staring into those of Neshat. She then took control of the conversation. “You like power, don’t you, Khalid?” She’d sw
itched to using his first name. “You wallow in power. You bathe in power. You lie awake at night dreaming and conniving and planning to get more power. Am I right, Khalid?”

  “Yes, you’re right, Leona. When I flirt with a beautiful woman and I perceive that she’s beginning to give her heart to me, I get a head rush. Then, once she’s given herself totally to me, I assume the role of a god. She worships me through sexual surrender; and I decide whether she lives or dies. And this is exactly what I plan for Europe and Europe’s descendants in North America. I will seduce Europe through its lust for technological innovation by offering the promise of the most radical innovation, human transformation. Then, it will be my turn to decide whether Europe lives and thrives, or whether it dies the death of a thermonuclear holocaust. All of Europe if not all of our planet will want to pay me tribute. Then, once again, Cyrus of Persia will rule the known world. It won’t be my power alone, Leona; it will be the power of a rising Iran.”

  Chapter 93

  “Actually, Khalid, you are a religious man. As it turns out, power is not something we own. We don’t have power. Rather, we channel it. We become the vessel for power to flow through us. This is what makes the lust for power so religious: we want to become the vessel through which something greater can flow. For you, Khalid, Iran is your actual religion, not Islam.”

  “I find it uncanny, Leona, that you think of me as a religious man. Do you think of me as holy?”

  “By no means, my Persian friend. You are demonic. You have chosen to worship an idol, Iran. And through this idol you plan to establish yourself as a god with the power to grant or withhold existence to innocent young women, and even to all of Europe. You’ve sold your eternal soul to Satan for an ephemeral moment of triumph in Earth’s paltry history. This is self-destructive. And somewhere in that consciousness of yours is an awareness of just how evil it is.”

  “So, you never stop being a preacher, do you, Leona. I do believe that right now you’re trying to save my eternal soul.”

  “That’s right, Khalid.”

  “Well, if as you say, I’ve already sold my soul to Satan, then it’s too late, isn’t it? No one is going to buy it back.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  “Oh, yes it is.”

  Suddenly, all lights went out. Graham’s gun sounded and flashed in the darkness. But it hit nothing. It lodged in the room’s ceiling.

  Leona raced to her right and down a short flight of wooden stairs. In seconds she had arrived at the landing where Graham stood. They touched and then ran together downward toward the cask room’s bottom floor. Ambient light from distant sources made it possible to see the shadow of someone scaling down the front of the Grosses Fass, first gripping the wooden baroque emblem of Carl Theodor, then falling to the basement floor. The figure leapt up and out of the Fass Zimmer. Graham, scrambling down stairs, could not get off an accurate shot.

  No doubt the two Mongolian guards are either still atop the barrel or en route down the wooden stairway on the far side, speculated Leona. She and Graham ran in the direction they believed Khalid Neshat had gone: into the courtyard fronting the façade of the Frederick IV building. While on the run Graham passed the Kimber to Leona’s hand.

  The two turned left and ran through the archway onto the terrace overlooking the old city and the Neckar River. The shadow they were following led them up a castle wall to the so-called Fat Tower, der dicker Turm. Built first to withstand the assault of attacking armies, the Fat Tower was re-constructed in 1619 to hold a theater—similar to Shakespeare’s Globe Theater—when the German Prince Frederick V brought an English bride, Elizabeth Stuart, home to the Palatinate. The French later dynamited the dicker Turm, leaving room for today’s rocky lawn across which Khalid Neshat was now running. All this ran through Leona’s mind, uninvited.

  Neshat reached the outer edge and then stopped to catch his breath. A Glock 17 dangled at his side. Had he been in the mood for sightseeing, he could have appreciated the orange glow of the lighted Alte Brücke spanning the Neckar River hundreds of feet below. But, this was not a time for appreciating beauty.

  Leona would not allow such recreational time, as she announced in a loud voice: “Khalid, I suggest you drop that weapon!”

  The cornered Neshat froze. He allowed time to pass. Leona’s mouth had begun to open to repeat of her command, when Neshat spun toward her and raised his Glock. He did not have time to pull the trigger. From the darkness on the opposite arc of the round tower’s interior, a flash of light was accompanied by the loud crack of another Glock. Graham was firing. Three dime sized red spots suddenly appeared on the left side of Khalid’s skull. Each grew and the blood oozed out. The already dead body of the would be Cyrus of the twenty-first century turned slightly as the legs gave way. He fell torso first over the Fat Tower’s edge and into the night breeze filling the otherwise empty void below. By the time Leona and Graham had reached the tower’s precipice, they saw Neshat’s body slam into the unforgiving red bricks on the pavement.

  Chapter 94

  The Cloud

  Leona left Graham to engage the onrushing Heidelberg Police Department. She ran against the crowd to the dining hall, to the seat she recalled Neshat had occupied at the banquet’s head table. She found what she was looking for. She grabbed the laptop, still in its case, and ran for the Schlangerweg. Down she ran, with gravity helping her to take giant leaps. After some minutes she arrived at the Hotel am Schloss.

  Once in the privacy of her hotel room, Leona hastily opened Neshtat’s computer. It did not take her long to find the controls for satellite reception and transmission. She found the list of implants in place. Choong Lo’s name with two others in parentheses, Helmut Klein and Charles Worthington, appeared first. Her own name was missing from the list, but she noted an independent icon with the initials, L.F. Whew.

  When she came across Moshe Bisk and Tsvi Sechbach, she said to herself, must be Mossad’s men. With a few clicks, Leona found herself ready to transmit updates to their respective implants. Mmmmm. What shall I say? Leona set to thinking, thinking without calling to mind the library of knowledge awaiting her access in her own implant.

  Once she had finished sending the final transmission to both Bisk and Sechbach, Leona turned to the satellite program itself. In minutes, she had changed the password to something only she would know. The new password consisted of sixteen nonsense symbols with no ordered sequence. She deliberately decided not to reread it. Not to memorize it. Then, she logged out. The satellite surveillance and transmission system turned off. Leona closed the laptop lid.

  “I’m in Heidelberg,” Leona told Noel over her cell phone. “I’ll be coming home in a few days. Do you think you could remove that chip we placed in my brain?”

  “Of course, dearie. I’ll have my appointments nurse call you and set it up. I think we could just do it in my office. I’ll give you a mild sedative, so you might want to ask Graham to drive you home. Easy peasy.”

  “Thanks, Noel.”

  Chapter 95

  Jerusalem

  Moshe Bisk thought he heard his alarm clock buzz. After opening his eyes, he realized that was a mistake. What had awakened him was in fact a satellite transmission received by his implant.

  In his mind’s eye Bisk could envision a man dressed in clerical vestments. He was an Armenian Apostolic Priest dressed in a full black robe, black phiro on his head, and a silver Armenian cross draped on his chest. What was distinctive was that the priest was also wearing a wide green belt. The image was accompanied by a message. According to the message, this would be the disguise of an Iranian spy in the Armenian Quarter of Old Jerusalem. It would be Bisk’s task to assassinate the masquerader.

  Bisk quizzed the satellite sender, “has the disinformation problem been rectified?”

  “Yes,” was the reassuring answer. The satellite transmission followed with a logistical plan. He, Bisk, should dress in exactly this set of vestments. So dressed, the true Iranian spy would mistake h
im for another Iranian spy. This would allow Bisk to get close before pulling the assassin’s trigger. The assassination was scheduled for midday, three days hence.

  It was nearing noon on August 27 when Bisk began to stroll the Armenian Quarter in the Old City of Jerusalem. He paused to visit a silver smith shop, examining the craftsmanship. He picked up a Jerusalem Cross with four equal sides. Each quarter of the cross represented one of the four Gospel writers: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. In the middle of the cross was mounted a tiny lamb, the lamb of God whose blood was shed for the salvation of the world. Bisk had no idea what he was looking at. He was concentrating on movement he’d caught with his left eye.

  When Bisk turned he found himself face to face with the spy he had been looking for: black alb, phiro, cross, and green belt. He put his right hand under his robe and withdrew his Glock 17, invisible because hidden by the robe. He fired through his robe at the Armenian Cross on the chest of that Iranian spy.

  At precisely the same moment, Tsvi Sechbach fired his pistol in the opposite direction.

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