The Cain Prophecy (Lilitu Trilogy Book 3)

by Toby Tate

  Scooter advised Lydia and al-Shamari to ask about staying in tents instead of one of the dorms, which were barely above livable as he discovered on one of his stays while a member of Delta Force. The food at the chow hall was mediocre, as well, but Scooter would send someone into Abu Dhabi and buy all the groceries they wanted, Courtesy of Gordon’s credit cards. On the plus side, the base had a recreation center with large-screen TVs, ping-pong tables, a foosball table, and a pool table, paperback book library, video check-out center and video game stations. Most everything was housed in Quonset huts, but no one seemed to mind. The tents were equipped with a TV and VCR, as well as air conditioning. They would have plenty to keep them occupied while everyone else was hunting down Cain.

  It was decided that Gabe, Gordon, and Abel would go to Cain’s place in Dubai and get all the information from his computer system that they could get. That was likely to tell them everything they needed to know about what he was up to.

  Before they left, Gabe called in a favor to Langley and, using the address Abel had for Cain, had them hack into his home security system. He would never know they had been there.

  Scooter was gracious enough to loan them the Range Rover, and had managed to stash some carbines in the secret compartment.

  “Hopefully, you won’t need those, but you never know,” he said.

  Gabe and Gordon thanked him and then climbed in and headed off base toward Abu Dhabi.

  * * *

  They pulled up to a large Villa in Mohammed Bin Zayed City that was painted the color of an Arabian sunset: deep yellow with light orange window frames and porch awnings. As they parked at the curb, a short Arab man in khakis and a polo shirt came outside and waited on the porch. He sported a head of messy, thick hair and wore a mustache and beard. Even more hair sprouted from under the collar of his shirt like leaves from a bush. He was exactly as Gabe had remembered him when she had helped him and his family escape the clutches of the Taliban two years ago in the mountains of Afghanistan. As they exited the car and came closer, she could see he was a little grayer around the edges than before.

  “Mustapha, good to see you again,” Gabe said, extending a hand. The man took it in both of his as she climbed the steps. He leaned down and kissed her hand.

  “Gabrielle, as always, enti jamilah.” You are beautiful.

  She glanced up at the façade of the villa. “I see you are doing well for yourself.”

  “Yes, business is very good. Come in, you’ll see inside is even better.”

  He glanced up and down the street as he ushered them in with a wave of his hand.

  The inside was indeed more breathtaking than the outside. The walls of the formal room were painted in gold, the edges adorned with intricate Arabic designs and accented by soft lighting. Turkish rugs covered the wooden floors and paintings of people Gabe didn’t recognize hung on the walls, probably family members, she figured. At the far end of the room was a Turkish-style archway with colorful curtains hanging on each side and a staircase beyond. Sunlight filled the room from a window by the staircase. There were tables with vases, decorative plates and a lamp that looked like a genie would pop out if someone were to rub it. There was no couch, but there were several chairs and a pile of throw pillows against the wall in one corner.

  Gabe knew the man had a wife and three little children, but she sensed that he was alone. “So where is your family, Mustapha?”

  “I send them to her sister’s house when I have business,” he said, closing the door, and then leading them through the living room and around a corner into a hallway with even more paintings on the walls. “They do not need to see who comes and who goes. Better that way.”

  They passed through a curtain into a small room and saw tables filled with computers, a fingerprint scanner, cameras, paper cutters, shredder, and various other electronics, as well as hundreds of blank passports piled on the floor.

  “Wow, this is going to cost me,” Gordon said.

  Mustapha got photos and fingerprints from Gordon and Abel and then escorted them all back to the living room, where he served Arabic coffee and a plate of falafel, which the three polished off as they talked and waited.

  “Hmmm, I guess I was hungry,” Gabe said, licking her fingers as she sat on the floor. “So, Abel, where is Cain right now?”

  Abel sat silently for a moment, as if lost in thought, and then said, “Still in South America. But I think he’ll be leaving there soon and going elsewhere.”

  “Who did he kill this time?” Gordon asked.

  “A man running for president of Venezuela. Not a very…easy…death, I’m afraid.”

  “Jesus. Who’s he going after next?”

  “I’m not sure. But when he gets all the money he needs for his project, I believe he will stop.”

  “I wish we knew what that project was,” Gabe said.

  “As I explained, it’s hard to see. But I know it’s somewhere in the desert.”

  “Can you read anyone else’s mind from this far away?”

  “No, only Cain’s. We’re connected genetically, similar to twins. But some people’s minds are harder for us to read.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Extremely strong-willed people are difficult.” He smiled at Gabe. “You, for instance.”

  “How did you get to me in my dream?”

  “Sleeping minds operate differently than conscious minds. It’s almost like riding a wave, a stream of subconscious thought. A sleeping mind becomes part of a collective consciousness. It’s like a gigantic radio signal—I just have to dial in on the right frequency.”

  “So you have to be within view of someone when they’re awake?”

  “Not necessarily, but I do have a range limit of about thirty meters or so. Beyond that, it gets fuzzy. With Cain, anything that isn’t clouded by strong emotions is clear. There is a new development that might be a bit troubling, however.”

  “What development?” Gordon asked.

  “I believe that Cain is starting to realize someone else has been inside his mind.”

  Just then, Mustapha came from around the corner and held up two passports. “My best work yet!” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Gabe had driven in Dubai before, but had forgotten just how insane it was, even compared to her hometown of Sydney. She had always followed the three-second rule—keep three seconds behind the car in front of you. But drivers in Dubai had no such rule. The moment you created a gap with the car in front, another car filled it, usually as they were racing along at one hundred forty kilometers per hour on the expressway. Erratic, aggressive driving was the norm, including something called “undertaking,” where another car would pass you on the inside as you exited the freeway. People drove their huge SUVs, expensive sports cars, and rust buckets as fast as possible, as if they simply could not get where they were going quickly enough. It was unnerving, but she didn’t let it get to her. Gordon simply gripped the armrest and closed his eyes until they arrived at their destination. Abel, sitting in the back seat, stared out the window as if lost in deep concentration.

  Miles-long high-tension wires stretched over the highway and brownish smog seemed to hang over the sky in the distance, created by thousands of automobiles and aircraft from the International Airport. Combined with the heat and sandstorms that would blow in off the desert in an instant, it could create a swirling, choking mass of particles that sickened tourists and residents alike.

  A blue highway sign appeared overhead, announcing that they were only a few kilometers from their destination.

  “We’re almost there,” Gabe said. “I sure hope you can find this place, Abel. Are you sure it’s the Palm Jumeirah and not the Palm Jebel Ali?”

  “Don’t worry, just drive where I say,” he said from the back seat.

  She passed an exit for the Palm Jebel Ali and continued on the six-lane Sheikh Zayed Road, or the SZR, as it was known locally. The traffic began to get denser as they drew closer to the
city, cars zipping around her as if she was sitting still. Skyscrapers loomed in the distance, partially blocked by the monorail track on her right. The eight-hundred-thirty meter Burj Khalifa poked at the sky like a giant hypodermic needle. Several huge cranes stood like praying mantises waiting for their next meal of steel and concrete. As they drove, the gargantuan buildings lined both sides of the highway, creating a corridor like a gauntlet of gods looking down and scrutinizing all who passed at their feet.

  “This place looks expensive,” Gabe said.

  “Whenever I come here, my soul always feel a little dirtier when I leave,” Gordon said.

  Gabe saw the exit for Palm Jumeirah and took it. In the distance was an enormous wall with an arch that resembled something like the gate to paradise, which was fitting. They approached it and came to a tunnel that passed underneath and came out at the main road of Palm Island. The roadway was lined with palm trees and elaborately trimmed bushes that reminded Gabe of the entrance to Disney World. Same concept, she figured, but without the fun rides.

  They followed the central road nearly to the end when Abel said, “Take the next right, at the ‘F’ frond.”

  She turned the big Range Rover and marveled at the mansion-sized Mediterranean-style homes lining the road on both sides, fronted with palm trees and azalea bushes and backed with beach-front property. They looked much like homes she had seen in Palm Beach, Florida.

  “Drive down to about the middle of the street and slow down,” Abel said. She complied. Thirty seconds later, he said, “Stop here. This is it.”

  Gabe threw the SUV in park and stared at the mansion. It was bigger than most of the other villas on the street, and painted a sky blue instead of the more common beach sand or white. It actually looked quite relaxing. Probably came in handy after weeks or months of killing.

  “Okay, let’s go to the front door like we’re supposed to be here,” Gabe said. “Gordon, do you have your lock-picking tools ready?”

  “Never leave home without ‘em,” he said.

  They all climbed out of the SUV and walked toward the house as the call to prayer began to sound from somewhere in the distance. She glanced at her watch—three forty-five—then looked up at the roof gables and saw cameras angled down at them.

  “I sure hope Langley took care of the security system, or this little adventure will be over before it starts,” she said.

  They arrived at the front door and Abel stood on one side of Gordon while Gabe stood on the other, hiding Gordon’s action. He pulled a small leather case out of his pocket, unrolled it, and pulled out two instruments, one hooked and one pointed.

  He handed the leather case to Gabe and then turned and stuck one pick into the deadbolt, unlocked it, and repeated the process on the door handle. He was done in less than five seconds, and turned the handle to go in.

  “Nothing to it,” he said, smiling at Gabe and pushing the door open.

  As they stepped inside, there in the veranda stood a huge, growling German shepherd, muscles tensed and fangs bared.

  “I knew this was too easy,” Gordon said.

  * * *

  No one moved as the dog stood looking at them, daring them to step farther inside. Abel held his arm in front of Gabe and Gordon and said, “Wait.” He slowly moved toward the dog as it watched him, a deep growl rumbling in its chest.

  “Abel, you’re crazy,” Gabe whispered. “That dog will tear your throat out.”

  “No he won’t,” Abel replied. “He’s a good dog, aren’t you, boy?” He continued slowly advancing, the shepherd’s growl becoming less intense the closer Abel got. Gabe would have expected the exact opposite. In fact, the man should already be on the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood. Still, he crept closer, extending a hand and then laying it on the dog’s head and slowly stroking it once, twice, three times. As Gabe and Gordon watched dumbfounded, the dog sat and began licking Abel on the hand, whimpering as if they were old friends.

  “What the hell did you do?” Gordon asked.

  Abel glanced back at them. “Simple. I used telepathic impression to make him think that I’m Cain.”

  “Is he going to keep thinking you’re Cain, or should we be cautiously optimistic?”

  Abel continued stroking the animal’s head. “He’ll be fine.”

  Gabe walked slowly past the dog and glanced around the room. It was cavernous, with a multi-level ceiling over an open living area, kitchen and dining room and oversized windows with a view of a swimming pool and beyond that, a sandy beach and the crystal-clear waters of the Persian Gulf. Persian rugs lay across the wooden floors and paintings of sidewalk scenes from Paris and Venice adorned the walls, offset by simple, rustic tables and chairs that gave it an almost bohemian beach look. It was strange combination of décor, but somehow it worked. Gabe was surprised at the subtlety of Cain’s decorating sense. Perhaps there was more to him than just the mindless killer.

  Gordon slid up next to her. “Man, I thought my place was nice. Maybe I should get in on this assassination thing.”

  “You already were.”

  “Well, obviously the private sector pays much better. And just to clarify, I never really assassinated anyone.”

  “Let’s try to find his office. It’s probably on the ground floor.”

  The pair began walking through various parts of the downstairs until Gabe heard Gordon from the opposite wing shout, “Hey, I found something!”

  She walked quickly across the living room into the other wing of the house and found the office. Gordon stood over a desk with a Mac computer, printer, scanner, and a fingerprint reader similar to the one her friend Mustapha had used to forge their passports.

  “Well, I guess we know how he’s getting into all these countries,” she said. “He probably created an identity and an entire back history for himself.”

  Abel stepped into the room behind them, the shepherd close at his heels. “He goes by the name of Thomas Barrow. His background is of an English born and bred sophisticate, with a DPhil in particle physics from Oxford University. Believe me, he has more than enough knowledge to travel anywhere in the world.”

  “Thomas Barrow is a character on a TV show called Downton Abbey,” Gordon said. “Maybe he identifies with that character for some reason.”

  Abel shrugged. “It’s possible. But Thomas Barrow was also a Jesuit priest from early nineteenth century England. I think it more likely he chose the name of that particular person as a sort of ironic symbolism.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, we need to get into this computer and find something that will tell us what he’s been up to,” Gabe said. She reached over and booted the computer up and glanced around for any CD ROMs or flash drives. She rummaged through the desk drawers and found nothing.

  “If there’s a flash drive, it’s probably got his hit list on it,” Gordon said.

  “Langley may be able to access the computer and get some info off of it,” Gabe said. “If he has it password protected, it may take a while.” She glanced at Abel. He nodded and sat in front of the screen. He pulled up the keyboard and typed in a password—immediately, the 1887 painting Lilith, by John Collier, flashed up on the desktop.

  “Well,” Gabe said from over Abel’s shoulder, “at least we know we have the right house.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  As Gabe and Gordon looked on, Abel searched file after file and found nothing that seemed like it might lend a clue to Cain’s actions in the desert. Whatever files he had worked with were saved somewhere other than on the hard drive. He could dig into the operating system and find out more, but that would take time, which was quickly running out. He gave up on that for now, opened the Safari web browser and checked the history—as he suspected, it had been wiped clean. But in the months he spent locked away in the bowels of the science center, Abel had learned as much as he could about everything he could. One of those things included the Macintosh computer system, a gift from Lydia, which he used to read, play games, and surf
the Internet—at least, as much of the Internet as they would allow him to access.

  He clicked on the blue “happy face” Finder icon in the applications bar, and then clicked the “library” folder, opening a list of folder icons. He scrolled through and found the “Safari” folder and clicked on that. Another menu and list of folders appeared. He scrolled through that, searching for the folder titled “Time Machine.” The folder wasn’t there. He thought of one other trick he could try, and began searching the Safari folder for the “history.plist” file. It was there. He clicked on it and the web history appeared on the screen. Cain hadn’t counted on anyone finding his house, let alone getting into his computer, and obviously hadn’t bothered to thoroughly cover his tracks.

  “Here it is,” he told Gabe and Gordon, who were already staring over his shoulder. There were dozens of sites with an .xxx domain or “sex” in the name.

  “Well,” Gordon said, “he certainly enjoys his pornography, the dirty boy.”

  “Yes, that’s one of his…our…issues—an enormous sex drive. Unlike Cain, however, I have someone to help me keep it in check.”

  “Does she check it often?” Gordon said. Abel heard him grunt when Gabe elbowed him in the stomach. Sex was just another fact of life—he would never understand why humans found it so amusing, yet it seemed to provide fodder for much of their humor.

  As he scrolled through the list of sites, he found something interesting—real estate listings.

  “It looks like he was checking out the availabilities of desert property in the UAE,” Abel said.

  “That confirms what you told us about seeing a place in the desert,” Gabe said. “Did he look at any of them more than once?”

  “Yes, there is one that he seemed to take interest in. He looked at the same property on several different sites.”

  “Let’s make a list of all the real estate firm websites that he browsed and we’ll call around and see if any of them had any dealings with a Thomas Barrow.”