by Jones, Rick
After speaking with Obadiah, Shari felt uncertain of the affinity between Mossad and the American government. With Mossad being the proxy eyes and ears of American espionage in the Middle East, Obadiah could have enough pull to reclaim the disc. In case she did have to turn over the original, she had to secure the backup CD.
Obadiah may get one disc, but not both. Shari was determined not to relinquish the data unless a direct order from the Chief Commander required her to surrender all forms of data contained on the disc for the sake of political camaraderie.
Before heading to her desk, Shari went to the vault and quickly punched in her PIN code. When the bolts pulled back and the door opened, she zeroed in on the correct aisle and shelf and retrieved the backup CD.
The jewel case felt good in her hands; the disc shined like a newly minted coin. Even if Obadiah filed a grievance, she still had this.
When she returned to her desk she immediately loaded the CD. What came up on the monitor caused her heart to hitch in her chest.
The data was gone.
“No, no, no . . .” She tapped furiously on the keyboard, trying to pull something up, anything. And then the realization set in that the CD held no data to recover. It was simply blank. It was possible that the disc was improperly burned, but she highly doubted that. And with these discs bearing embedded codes that cannot be duplicated, she was down to the original disc, which she would somehow have to safeguard before it ended up being appropriated.
Apparently, Abraham Obadiah’s influence ran deep within the American government, she thought. He was capable of getting results, and quickly.
More than ever, Shari was suspect.
For a long time she sat there staring at the blank screen, stewing over the possibility that the American government was involved in a cover-up.
#
Embassy of Israel, Washington, D.C.
September 25, Mid-Afternoon
Abraham Obadiah sat in the embassy’s conference room with captains of industry from Russia, Venezuela and Israel. Under normal circumstances, collaboration amongst this group would be a geopolitical impossibility, given the anti-American sentiments of the Russians and Venezuelans and their open disdain for American allies. But on this day, commerce took precedence over prejudice.
The conference room was designed to be impervious to information appropriation, devoid of any listening devices.
There were three representatives from Russia, two from Venezuela, and four from Israel. All held an air of self-importance.
“Gentlemen, please, the news is good,” said Obadiah. “We’re on track with the cause, and everything is running smoothly.”
Vladimir Ostrosky, a reigning member of the Russian Parliament, examined Obadiah, with studious eyes, trying to penetrate his veneer. He found the man enigmatic and difficult to read. “According to our sources,” Ostrosky said, “that is not entirely true.”
“Really? And what exactly are your sources telling you?”
Ostrosky leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. Slowly and deliberately, he clasped his hands and interlocked his fingers. “I’m told, Mr. Obadiah, that a certain agent from the FBI is looking into corners where she should not be looking.”
Obadiah nodded in affirmation. “There’s no need to concern yourselves with Ms. Cohen,” he stated. “She will be dealt with and the problem will be quashed.”
“If I may ask, how so?” This came from Hector Guerra of Venezuela, a man with soft, doughy features and a pencil-thin mustache that complemented a set of equally thin lips. His collar was so tight around his neck, folds of flesh curled over its edges.
Obadiah hesitated, seeking a politically correct response that would allay these inquisitive concerns. Apparently the Russian and Venezuelan sources were quick and accurate. And these men were well-armed with damaging information.
“It’s true that Ms. Cohen is looking beyond the box, but that’s her job.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Guerra insisted.
“Let me finish,” Obadiah said, raising a hand. “I assure you, I assure all of you, that Ms. Cohen will be factored out of the equation by the American principals.”
“And the CD?”
Obadiah was startled by this question but tried not to show it. Apparently their sources produced as well and as quickly as Mossad, who was the best in the business. To know about the CD was impressive. “We’ll have the CD in our possession soon,” he said.
“And the copies?”
“There are no copies. Our people at the CIA intercepted all incoming data from the Mossad leak and destroyed it. And the leaks themselves have been dispatched. The backup copy within the vault of the FBI has also been destroyed. The only disc in existence is the one Ms. Cohen possesses.”
Ostrosky measured Obadiah with eyes so black they were seemingly without pupils.
“Gentlemen, please relax,” said Obadiah. “Everything I tell you is the truth. Within a year there will be no more economic hardships for our countries and no more dependency upon Arab states. Our industries will flourish and enjoy the full support of the international community. ”
“And Yahweh?”
“He continues to be the forerunner in the cause and will use the United States to spearhead the change, since alternative fuels are still fifteen to twenty years away.”
Ostrosky leaned back in his chair. “And you can guarantee our anonymity?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s good,” said Ostrosky, “because I would hate for history to remember me as a monster rather than a prognosticator of a better future.”
“The pope’s death will not be tied to any man in this room. I assure you.”
“You better, Mr. Obadiah, because our political reputations, if not our lives, would be in jeopardy if the truth of our participation was known.”
“I agree.”
“If that CD is worth the life of the woman who possesses it,” said Ostrosky, “then it must hold damaging evidence, a record of what we are doing.” Suddenly his brows dipped sharply over the bridge of his nose, punctuating his point. “You must not fail to repossess the CD before she has a chance to turn her battle into a crusade.”
“Trust me,” Obadiah said. “Ms. Cohen will never get that opportunity.”
“Make sure that she doesn’t.”
Hector Guerra reclined in his seat. “There is also the matter of a Venezuelan leader who is quite anti-American. Bringing him into the circle will be impossible.”
Obadiah was quick to respond. “Our American constituencies will see to it that a Venezuelan leader who is pro-American will be in place within ninety days of the pope’s assassination.”
The Venezuelan nodded. “I don’t think I want to know how that’s going to happen.”
“Let’s just say that everything has been examined from every possible angle. Any more questions?”
There were none.
“Then let’s talk about the future of our countries.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Washington D.C.
September 25. Early Evening
The last trails of light from the sun’s westward trajectory dispelled into magenta twilight. It was a magnificent view apt even for an artist’s canvas, but Shari didn’t notice the beauty of the colors painting the heavens as she made her way home. Her eyes were focused elsewhere beyond the road, her movements to steer the car in the right direction governed by reflex and habit alone, since she had driven the same course for years.
Since her debacle meeting with Abraham Obadiah, she made constant calls to Mossad and got nowhere. She even went as far as to talk to the Director of Mossad, who was no different from Abraham Obadiah, just another stone wall who denied everything.
For the first time in her life she felt like she was spiraling downward into an abyss that held nothing but a deep despair. The actual mindset of ‘not knowing’ terrified her.
As soon as she turned into her neighborhood her e
yes focused the moment she spotted her brownstone. After turning into the garage she knew that she should regroup and train her thoughts on her family. But she found it impossible. So she sat there with her mind working to the point where her thoughts detained all the vagueness of a drunken stupor, that sense of feeling utterly lost and alone.
As brilliant as she was, she stood by alone in this political nightmare.
And for a moment she felt a deep and shameful pang of self-pity.
In her mind’s eye she could see her grandmother’s hardened face that was much older than her given years. Yet her voice was strong and gentle and carried the weight of courage and resolve. It was a voice recalling a moment when the sky over Auschwitz rained ashes for days on end—the buildings and camp becoming laden with gray soot, the image somewhat ghostly and pale, the demeanor somber and cold. And of course there was the repugnant odor of burning flesh, which no one dared to speak of. Yet she never became hollow, always propelling herself mentally, believing that willpower overcame the abhorrence of those who cruelly bound her. In the end, she was right.
Shari closed her eyes and pulled deep with her nostrils, taking a lungful of air to soothe her, then released the air in an equally long sigh. She had no right to feel dismayed when her grandmother had suffered through much greater. So she admonished herself quietly and thanked her grandmother for all the stories that held lessons to draw from in moments like this.
Reaching for the key in the ignition, she saw the crumpled business card in the ashtray, untouched since she placed it there earlier. Grabbing the card and unfolding it, she smoothed out the creases. It was just a simple business card—no fancy fonts or styles—just sophomoric typeface with the phone number of the D.C. Archdiocese. She brought the card to her brow as if she might glean something from it through osmosis and tried to recall the man who gave it to her. For a brief moment she struggled for clarity. Then it came to her: Kimball Hayden, a name from the past she had heard before only in whispers, forgotten until now.
Approximately six years ago as an upstart in the counterterrorist program, Shari was in the company of men who didn’t realize her presence until after the name of Kimball Hayden was spoken with a measure of reverence and referred to as “a man who was as deadly as he was without conscience.” When the attorney general at the time and top-ranking official from the Joint Chiefs realized her presence, they immediately drew upon another topic. But Shari had already taken in snippets of conversation that had painted Kimball Hayden as a brutal killing machine.
She placed the card back into the recess of the ashtray. This man, professing to be an emissary of the Vatican, couldn’t have been the same Kimball Hayden. The man she recalled was an unrelenting and remorseless killer.
With the thoughts of Kimball Hayden ebbing, she decided to research data on the CD and scrape together whatever information she could. At best, she may open a gate that would lead her down the right path. At worst, she would resign herself to the fact that there was nothing she could do to save the pope. It was literally a crap shoot.
After making the rounds with the children and sharing an awkward moment with her husband, by shying away at the notion of joining him in bed, Shari sheltered herself at the work station in the den area and booted the PC. Within moments the screen downloaded the dossiers and, while fighting fatigue, probed every page until she finally nodded off into a deep sleep.
#
Washington D.C.
September 25. Late Evening
At 10:39 Yahweh received the call in his study. Outside, the moon was in its gibbous phase which cast an eerie glow upon the land that was the color of whey. It was the only light granted as he sat silhouetted in front of the window overlooking the grounds. As the phone rang, his mind was drifting, when he reached for the phone and lifted the receiver. “Yes.”
“It’s Obadiah.”
Yahweh’s spoke without emotion. “Yes, Mr. Obadiah, what do you want at so late an hour?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“You know I am a man-of-position. And the situation with the pope is taking up a majority of my time.”
“We seem to have a problem.”
“Which would be?”
“Shari Cohen,” he said.
Yahweh remained quiet.
“I’ll come directly to the point,” said Obadiah. “It appears that Ms. Cohen has some rather delicate information that could prove catastrophic, if she’s able to make the proper ties. And our associates supporting the cause are not happy with that situation.”
“The proper ties with what?”
“Apparently, someone from Mossad sent the United States Government an attachment of encrypted pages holding something of value to the project.”
Yahweh’s attention was fully captured. “I’m listening?”
“The pages hold the graphics that could tie a lot of people involved with the cause, including prominent leaders in the United States, Russia, Israel and Venezuela. It was never meant to be seen outside of the Defense and Armed Forces Attaché and the Mossad Director.”
“Then why is it in the possession of Ms. Cohen?”
“It was passed through black channels without the knowledge of the Director or the Attaché. It seems that American sleepers within the Lohamah Psichlogit and the Research Department obtained and forwarded the information to the FBI.”
After feeling his neckline prickle with heat, Yahweh undid the top button of his shirt. “What exactly is in the encryption?”
“Diagrams,” he answered, “and some photos. But if a connection between the diagrams and dossiers are made, then the matter could open up a Pandora’s Box.”
Yahweh wanted to strangle something, anything. “We need that CD back,” he finally said. “And I think we both know what needs to be done. I want you to contact Judas immediately and have him direct Omega Team to dispatch Ms. Cohen tonight . . . And get that CD before it ends up in the hands of the NSA.”
“I have no problem with that, but so you know, the encryptions contain inbred viruses. If anyone outside of Mossad or the Attaché tries to decipher the code without having the proper knowledge to do so, then the viruses will ignite and completely wipe out the file, dossiers and all.”
Yahweh closed his eyes and slowly dropped his head into his hand. “I don’t care what toys you put into the program, Mr. Obadiah. I just want you to put Ms. Cohen out of my misery.”
“I understand.”
“Do you, Mr. Obadiah? Then understand this.” Yahweh slammed the phone down as a measure of his discontent.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Washington Archdiocese, Washington D.C.
September 25. Late Evening
He lay between the two mounds of sand with a hand on each mound, his eyes looking skyward for the face of God. In between the great distances of the stars, he tried to glimpse something celestial, to make him believe there was something heavenly beyond the blind faith that led men to believe an existence beyond the five senses. All he saw was the glimmer of stars shimmering like a cache of diamonds on black velvet.
Beneath his hands the soil began to undulate, the tenants below trying to force their way to the surface. Applying great strength through his massive arms, Kimball employed himself to keep them below the depths of the plane and, as always, failed. When their heads broke through the layers of sand, Kimball tried to force them back down, their strength far greater than his. Their faces, remarkably similar to his own in shape and contour and with eyes the color of ice, held the mottled skin tones in the putrescent hues and shades of decay.
Crying out against the surge, Kimball exerted all the power he could call upon. But the shapes continued to rise, the jaws of his own rotting features opening to impossible lengths and revealing a darkness in the throat that was blacker than black.
Kimball always woke at this juncture and searched his surroundings for the reality of the moment. Once calm settled in and the moment less surreal, he would always ask t
his question: Could You ever forgive me for the things that I have done? But Kimball believed forgiveness would forever elude him, since he gave up one war to wage another against his personal demons. And these demons never allowed him to forget, coming night after night and eroding what little hope of someday being free of a past laden with the bloodshed of others committed by his hands.
It would take him almost twenty minutes to shake off the images, and ten more before he could commit himself to his duties.
Kimball sat in the van outside the Cohen brownstone, with Isaiah in the back monitoring the audio receiver and listening to every movement within the Cohen household.
As Kimball sat with his back against the paneled wall, he wondered why Isaiah’s faith remained so entrenched after living in a culture of hardcore misery.
Isaiah, or Christian, was born in 1984 to a family who lived in makeshift huts of discarded wood and corrugated tin in a Mexican shanty town. Dung piles and rancid water drew mangy curs and blow flies. And as time went on and their world a constant state of suffering, the only possession they held was their faith in Christ.
After Christian’s father succumbed to the ravages of dysentery, wasting away until his body withdrew into itself, the rack of his ribs threatening to burst through flesh, he was buried with little ceremony in a scratch of earth marked for the dead not far from the dung heaps. The stark-white crosses, too numerous to count, seemed to saddle the small stretch of land. But after six months, as the land dwindled, the family was forced to pay homage from a distance, since additional grave markers took over the trails leading to his father’s burial site.
As Christian and his faith grew, he never questioned his abject poverty, but accepted it as a test of diversity to achieve a higher level. But when his mother was taken from him—her body found in a muddy waterway with her skirt hiked up to reveal unspeakable violations—he became lost and frightened, and sought union with anybody who would have him.