by Rick Jones
Biting softly on his lower lip, that was exactly what McKinley did. He remained quiet.
* * *
Shari Cohen loved the nights in Rome. The lighting, the architecture, its people, everything had a sense of wonderful romanticism. And coupled with a canopy of stars that glimmered and shined, everything appeared perfect.
And then she shuddered as though a cold finger traced downward along her spine. It was that feeling of warning—that sixth sense that something was out of balance, a negative shifting. Cocking her head as if to tune it like a radar dish, she could definitely feel a lingering menace. Slowing her walk, she began to scope her surroundings. Behind her and creeping along was a black sedan with tinted windows. She could see the driver and the passenger through the windshield, two men with hardened features. Then the vehicle passed her at the posted speed and rounded the corner.
Thinking little of it, Shari continued to her apartment that was close to the Tiber River.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The West Bank
2314 Hours
It was late when the Man from Paris was dropped off at a predetermined point inside the West Bank. His contacts were Arab and spoke to the Man from Paris with clipped orders and with pointed gestures, telling him where to sit, where to stand, how long to wait, and for whom. He was not to speak unless demanded to do so, making the journey a long one.
He had ridden in the back of rickety trucks that had bad springs with his backside feeling the effects of these rides across the desert landscape, his muscles growing increasingly tender and sore. As the final truck of his journey stopped with the high-pitched squeal of braking that sounded like fingers running across a blackboard, the driver exited the vehicle and demanded the same from the Man from Paris.
Grabbing the suitcase, the Man from Paris jumped from the truck’s bed and onto solid footing. It was here that the Arab pointed to a certain patch of land and stated something harshly to him in Arabic, as though angry.
“You want me to wait over there?” the Man from Paris, in French, asked the Arab while pointing to the spot.
The Arab driver appeared to go off the rails and started to scream at him. Perhaps speaking was out of line and offensive, the Man from Paris considered. Or perhaps my skin is too white to be respected—the tone the color of infidels.
After the Arab tossed his hand at the direction of the Man from Paris in dismissal, the driver returned to his truck and drove off, leaving the man alone within a desert that was several miles east of Jerusalem. His only companions were snakes and desert scorpions, hardly a kingdom for the Man from Paris to rule over.
Then from a veil of shadows, something that was blacker than black approached. It was the silhouette of a man with no features or contours, just a blackened shape. But its gender was made clear only by the deepness of the person’s voice. “You are the Man from Paris, yes?”
“I am.”
“Sent by whom?”
“The Bangladeshi.”
The shape remained silent as though it was appraising the man who stood within the silver cast of light from a partial moon. And then: “Come.”
When the shape turned and started to walk away, the Man from Paris readjusted the suitcase within his grip, which was becoming heavier and more burdensome to carry with each passing moment.
In the desert brush not too far from the drop-off point was another truck. “You,” said the shape in accented English, “place the article in the cab behind your seat.”
The Man from Paris, who also spoke English, but with a heavy Parisian accent, said, “First, a question.”
Unlike the previous driver, the shape did not ridicule him for speaking out. Instead, he knew that the Man from Paris was simply following the protocols set forth by the Bangladeshi to confirm that he was the man sent by Ahmed Jaziri. “Go ahead,” he said.
“I am not alive, but I grow; I don't have lungs, but I need air; I don't have a mouth, but water kills me. What am I?”
“Fire.” This was the answer to the predetermined question needed to prove his identity.
“And your name?” asked the Man from Paris.
“Saheem Baghdadi.” This was the name that had been given to the Man from Paris by the Bangladeshi, that of Saheem Baghdadi, the man who would take him to his next location.
Then from Baghdadi: “Now, show me the item you carry.”
The Man from Paris set the case down on the sand and took a few steps back. In the dullish light that cascaded from the pickup’s cab, Baghdadi noted the symbols on the suitcase, three sixes, and traced his fingertips over the numerals before saying, “Place the item inside the truck behind you.”
After the Man from Paris placed the suitcase behind his seat, he then had to deal with shooting pain that raced along his spinal column because the drive across the rough terrain was so bumpy and hostile, he could find no comfort until the landscape finally leveled out. In time, they found themselves on a well-lit road towards Jerusalem.
Baghdadi gave the Man from Paris a sidelong glance. “I was told to pick you up because you keep with you something of great value. Something within the suitcase, I assume?”
“You can assume so, yes.”
“An explosive of some kind?”
“How much were you told by your handler?”
“Not enough to know what it is I’m transporting.”
“Then, I assume, that’s for good reason. I’ve been told by the Bangladeshi that you are to take me to my major-target area, meaning that I’m not to provide you with answers to questions for security purposes.”
Baghdadi looked at the suitcase. And then: “You appeared to have struggled with its weight,” he told him.
“That’s because it’s heavy.” The Man from Paris turned to face Baghdadi, and said, “Enough of the questions. We both know the protocols here. We are allowed to know what we need to know and nothing more.”
Baghdadi nibbled on his lower lip. He did not like it when infidels not in tune with his religion or ideology spoke to him in such blistering manner. This man was a mercenary with no religious core and his values no doubt stained by his greed. Nevertheless, he would follow the commands of Ahmed Jaziri.
“Why are you taking me to Jerusalem?” the Man from Paris asked him. “And not to Tel Aviv?”
“How stupid can you be?” Baghdadi admonished harshly. “You don’t just drive into Tel Aviv with an explosive device tucked behind your seat. Certain measures must be taken to assure that the operation succeeds. To do this we must get you and that device through the proper channels that circumvents Israeli authorities.” Then the Arab shook his head in disbelief and added: “Fool.”
The drive for the rest of the way went in silence with neither man speaking to one another, though the tension inside the cab remained thick. What had been established, though not outrightly, was that neither liked each other due to their differences. One performed his duties strictly for profit, whereas the other did so in the name of Allah. But their differences didn’t begin or end there, either. One was clearly Muslim while the other person had Celtic or Gallic ancestry, which was far from Muslim tradition. Even his skin color was testament to his religious beliefs, probably Catholicism, that were not completely welcomed in such a land. And to people like Baghdadi, his deep-rooted hatred was based on age-old intolerances that simply fueled tension between these two men. The Man from Paris cared little about the Islamic faith because money was his apparent god, something he could feel with the tips of his fingers as he peeled away bills from a cash wad with relish.
Baghdadi’s lip nibbling turned to the biting of his inner cheek, the man fighting for calm. Once the mission was complete, he told himself, he would never have to see or deal with this man ever again. He hoped that whatever was in the suitcase would do its job and the operation done with.
One blow in the name of Allah, he thought. A triumph that would make the people throughout the Middle East rejoice.
In silence, the two drove onward towards Jerusalem.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv
What sparked the research into the chatroom was the dialogue of Saheem Baghdadi who, of course, went under an assumed name. And when the Mossad attempted to trace the chatroom’s point of origin, they had been led to several counterfeit IP addresses. But due diligence eventually led them to an indisputable point of origin located in the West Bank. Once discovered and Baghdadi’s identity was confirmed, teams were assembled to maintain an ardent watch over the Arab from foot soldiers to high-flying drones.
Mossad operatives stayed close whenever Baghdadi was outside his base of operations—so close, in fact, that the extremist was at times within arm’s reach of operatives who were willing to abduct, and then mine, the terrorist for valuable intel. But that scheme immediately went to the wayside when the Mossad intercepted three encrypted communications in as many days from a principal under a fictitious name. That principal had turned out to be Ahmed Jaziri, a terrorist financier who outlined Baghdadi’s course of actions to escort a player into Tel Aviv. No name had been given—only that the man was from Paris and that he would be carrying a suitcase. To determine the validity of the operative, however, the suitcase in his possession would have the special markings of three sixes on it.
Baghdadi’s goal: meet this Man from Paris at a particular set of coordinates far from central areas (given in the message), take him to a safe house, then come up with a scheme to circumvent all obstructions and get him inside Tel Aviv. The Man from Paris would do the rest. Then in a postscript, Jaziri added: In the days to come, the Middle East will celebrate in the aftermath of Tel Aviv’s destruction. Allahu Akbar!
That was all Efrayim Leibowitz, who was the manager of the Mossad’s Metsada unit, needed to see. It was also the last of Jaziri’s three messages that had been forwarded over the past few days, and the one that fully urged an immediate mobilization to locate and acquire the target that would be Saheem Baghdadi. The bonus, of course, after learning of the Man from Paris, would be his capture, as well.
Once Baghdadi had been found and tracked, the Mossad continued to monitor Baghdadi’s accounts and chatrooms, with the man foolishly boasting about a victory over Israel and a triumph in the name of Allah. Online views from the Middle East went from the thousands to the tens of thousands, which were monitored by intel agencies across the globe. But the Mossad kept this information close to the vest in fear of misappropriation since Israel liked to handle significant problems on their own.
So, on the day that Baghdadi was to actually meet the Man from Paris, the Mossad had utilized a drone to keep watch of Baghdadi’s truck movement during a nighttime surveillance mission, which followed Baghdadi approximately thirty miles from Jerusalem, and to an obscure desert location. Through infrared means, the drone was able to pick up two heat signatures.
Once Baghdadi was on the move, so was Efrayim Leibowitz and his Metsada unit, who were better known as the shadow group of Kidon, an elite assassination team. Throughout the tracking operation, Leibowitz remained in constant communication with the Comm Center in Tel Aviv who directed Leibowitz’s kill squad as to the course Baghdadi was taking. From a distance of two miles, the Metsada trailed Baghdadi well beyond what the extremist could detect in his rearview mirror.
Then as Baghdadi arrived at a building structure in the middle of nowhere, the Metsada team pulled their convoy of three vehicles to the side and waited for data regarding the site of the presumed safe house, from the directors at the Comm Center.
From the cab and from a distant well beyond the eyeshot of the structure, Efrayim Leibowitz waited with saintly patience. Less than three minutes later, his radio broadcasted white noise before a voice from the Comm Center team relayed the necessary data to press on. Though the building had been abandoned years ago, it appeared fortified with two guard towers. It was further indicated by infrared means that these towers were also manned, presumably by armed gunmen. This was all Leibowitz needed to formulate a plan.
When the contact with Tel Aviv was severed, Leibowitz, who was inside the forward truck, led his elite unit to the safe house that was in the middle of nowhere.
* * *
The safe house smelled like something the Man from Paris had never smelled before. It was the smell of a goat roasting upon a spit, the meat somewhat gamey in its scent. As the Man from Paris walked by the person who operated the handle to turn the goat, he looked upon the face of a boy who was on the cusp of becoming a teen, perhaps twelve or thirteen. The boy gave him a neutral stare, whereas the others in Baghdadi’s squad, a total of twelve men, presented him with looks of measurable disdain, their sneers easily read. Beside each man was an AK-47.
The Man from Paris visibly swallowed with his throat going dry. He could also feel an uncomfortable crawl in his groin, the man succumbing to a gripping fear that he was not going to survive this mission. The hatred he felt was that palpable and the weight upon his shoulders suddenly real. He was in the middle of hostile territory, alone, a mercenary who unknowingly had within his possession the power to crumble a kingdom.
When they reached a room at the far end of the structure, Saheem Baghdadi pointed to a soiled mattress lying close to the wall inside an empty room with the exception of a kerosene lamp.
“Your room,” was all Baghdadi told him. “It’s late. Get some rest. Tomorrow we will go over the plans to get you within range of your target in Tel Aviv.” His voice was stern and clipped, that of a man who sounded marginally upset.
The Man from Paris simply nodded, stepped inside the room, and looked at the glowing lantern. The flame within had cast an odd shadow along the wall, his shadow, something that flickered in a funhouse sort of way. And then the door closed softly behind him with Baghdadi gone.
Exhaling, though the tension remained high, the Man from Paris placed the suitcase on the floor. In the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, the numbers six-six-six appeared to waver at the jump of the dancing flame, giving the numerals life.
Six-six-six, he thought as he traced his fingertips over the numerals. The mark of the Antichrist. Though not a religious man, the Man from Paris knew what the numbers represented in religious lore. They were the numeric symbols that marked the rise of the Beast in the New Testament that was mentioned in Revelation 13:17–18 about an antagonistic creature who appears as the architect for an apocalyptic vision.
In the dim lighting, the Man from Paris patted the suitcase. Though he knew it was an explosive, he was not informed of its capacity for damage. In his mind, he thought it was simply a device powerful enough to take out a few walls—perhaps in a statement that was a precursor to something much larger that was coming down the pipe. And while the dancing flame continued to create eerie shadow shifts along his features, he whispered, “Is that what you are? An architect for the apocalypse?”
Then as fatigue started to take hold, the Man from Paris blew out the flame and laid on the mattress that smelled pungently of mold and mildew.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rome, Italy
It was late in the evening when the woman finally received the phone call. Stamping out her cigarette in an ashtray that overflowed with butts, she picked up the phone and answered it with that infamously gravelly voice of hers. “You’re exceedingly late with your call,” she said.
“We followed Cohen for the past two nights and noted her habits,” Mannix returned, “which appear routine. She exited the embassy at approximately the same time and took the same route to her residence.”
“And the one she’s with? The Vatican Knight?”
“He arrived approximately one hour later, on both nights.”
“Then that’s when you will take the woman, tomorrow night within that one-hour window of opportunity.”
“Why n
ot wait and take out the Vatican Knight when he arrives at the apartment?”
“My handler wants this done away from Rome to assure that the Vatican Knights will not run interference, and to keep authorities from involving themselves in subsequent investigations. Our targets are to completely disappear off the grid without leaving behind evidence, as though they had never existed at all.”
“A complete sanitation order, then?”
“Precisely. Their bodies are never to be discovered.”
“Understood.”
The two then spoke about the time necessary to perform the dispatching and the subsequent burial of the bodies. In fact, it would be wise to pre-dig the sites to expedite matters. So, the plan had been a simple one. Take the woman, lure the man, terminate the two with extreme prejudice, then pitch them into a hole deep enough that dinosaur fossils could be found.
“I don’t care if you have to dig all the way to China,” she told him. “No . . . shallow . . . graves.”
There were additional discussions regarding a successful operation with no mishaps since everything depended on fluidity. Once the matter was concluded, then the church would be purified of Kimball Hayden.
Once the woman hung up, she grabbed her pack of smokes and discovered that she had one cigarette left. Tapping it free from the package, she then crumpled the packet and tossed it to the floor. Lighting the cigarette and then falling back into her seat, she inhaled and released a string of smoke rings, the act in itself a telltale sign of a seasoned smoker.
Her people were in place and the makings of the strategy appeared sound. These were experienced soldiers who did not know the word ‘failure,’ or considered it to be a part of their vocabulary. They were surgical practitioners when it came to warfare, with these men all standing at the top of the pillar looking down.