He arrived with his friend to find about thirty people – most dressed in grey, a couple also wearing simple purple hoods – and he was greeted in a friendly manner. Then one of the individuals had removed their hood to reveal a striking young woman, who’d then addressed the room. She talked of the corrupt powers who’d once dictated the fate of society, dubbing them False Prophets; of the economic recession as an apocalypse; of the Order, who must now, post-apocalypse, reclaim their ancient role of dictating the fate of civilization along moral lines; and finally of The Zahir – their leading light and all-knowing arbiter.
Later that day, Dalet discovered that the purple hood was a symbol of status – worn only by those who’d been permitted to see The Zahir, and The Zahir himself.
Dalet had returned to The Order’s Washington base three times in as many weeks. Then, on his fourth visit, he was told out of the blue that he’d been granted the momentous privilege of meeting The Zahir, without his hood on. Once Dalet had gotten over the tremendous aura of the man, it transpired that The Zahir knew all about him – about his father and grandfather, and his life. The Zahir told him he was deeply impressed that he’d been brave enough to come to The Order, given the powerful presence of False Prophets in his family. And then The Zahir told him the truth about the apocalypse: that it was yet to come – and that The Order was working to bring it about by waging war against the False Prophets. With this revelation, Dalet realized that fighting for The Order offered him a chance to effect meaningful change. Not only in his own life, but in society at large.
It was that evening that his name was changed from Dennis Ericson to a letter in the Hebrew alphabet – Dalet – a privilege reserved for The Zahir’s closest.
As Dalet became increasingly involved with The Order, it soon became apparent that The Zahir had a special purpose in mind for him. He wanted Dalet to infiltrate the FBI: the False Prophet organization which – by secretly manipulating events – represented a mocking bastardisation of The Order. So instead of living at The Order’s collective, Dalet kept his links with The Order concealed, and pursued his career at the FBI, joining the Baltimore Field Office in June 2011, and quickly moving up through the ranks.
Then, in October 2012, the excitement started. Director Muldoon contacted Dalet, and asked him to be a part of a top secret mission in Chicago and immediately Dalet and The Zahir realized that this was an opportunity for something exceptional. And now, because of this opportunity, the revolution – The Deluge of Euphrates – was in motion.
Dalet returned to the kitchen, ate a quick dinner, before heading to the main control room. The Zahir was sitting watching the news on the largest monitor. The anchor was talking about the murder of novelist A. J. Aimes.
‘Are the False Prophets fed?’ asked The Zahir.
‘I’ve distributed water, bread, and cheese. Cephalexin tablets for Haddad.’
The Zahir smiled warmly. ‘Very good. Did they give you grief?’
Dalet nodded.
‘You must pity them, Dalet,’ said The Zahir softly. ‘Their minds have been perverted for so long that there is little hope of them ever seeing our righteousness. Pity them.’
Dalet absorbed this, and felt himself calm.
‘For you to have seen the light, despite your upbringing…’ continued The Zahir ‘… well, it took special courage and vision. You truly are unique among my disciples.’
Dalet nodded modestly. Inside, he felt a wave of pleasure.
‘So you’re certain we shouldn’t expect Liam back before nine?’ asked The Zahir.
‘We should be on guard from five to play it safe – and move the van from the car park even before that. But I’d be surprised if he appeared before nine.’
The Zahir nodded, still smiling warmly.
‘And if he were to be caught – by the police, or the outliers – there’s nothing on him that would give this location away?’
‘Nothing,’ said Dalet. ‘The official Bureau line is that this operation doesn’t exist. And if Liam were caught, he’d hold his tongue.’
The Zahir’s eyes shone with satisfaction, and again Dalet felt a wave of pleasure. He lived to please The Zahir – the man who’d spent twenty years in solitude, talking to God; who’d been sent by God to deliver justice to earth…
The Zahir looked at the clock. 2:57. The Zahir said:
‘My son – it’s time for you to lead our first Call to Taprobana.’
Without another word, the pair headed for the room reserved for The Call to Taprobana. Inside, Shin, Beth, and Lamed were already sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, chanting the word “Taprobana.” The Zahir joined them. And then Dalet, numb with adrenaline, stood at the front of the room, and joined the chant. After five minutes, he plucked a single grain from the ceremonial bowl of sand. He then took it to the window – which looked out onto a grey, abandoned train-track – and cast it to the wind.
Chapter 13
Wednesday, February 27, 2013, 4:02 p.m. EST – Marine Corps Base Quantico, Virginia.
It was just gone 4 p.m. when I arrived at The FBI Academy: the 385 acre campus-like complex domiciled within MCB Quantico – known colloquially as Club Fed – where all new FBI employees go to learn the basics. And though I would usually spend time catching up with old faces when visiting, this time I didn’t hang about: I made my way directly over to the Hostage Rescue Team. But when I arrived at the familiar building, and passed through its familiar doors – the ones adorned with the words Servare Vitas (Latin for “To Save Lives”) – I was confronted by an unfamiliar new receptionist. And I could tell instantly, by his grizzled face, no-nonsense buzz-cut, and hard-set gaze, that he was hard as nails.
I needed him to comply quickly. But, at the same time, I had to play it cool. Word couldn’t get back to Parkes that I was down here.
‘I need to speak to Vannevar Yeung,’ I said, approaching his desk.
‘For what purpose?’ he replied. Not rudely. But not hospitably, either.
‘I’ve just come from headquarters,’ I said. ‘Need his advice, fast. I’m an old friend. We served in the HRT together. I enrolled on the selection course in May 2002. My final mission was with the Blue Operational Team in September 2005. Saul Marshall.’
He tapped at his keyboard. Then, when he clicked the mouse, I knew he was on the page with my mug-shot and potted history; the page containing details about my military history in Iraq and my Bronze Star for Valor. And though he clearly wasn’t the sort of guy to be bowled over by such things, I could tell by the look in his eye that I now had his attention.
He looked up at me.
‘Vannevar’s at the firearms training house, taking a lesson with the new NOTS contingent. He’ll be done by six.’
The NOTS stood for New Operator Training School: the grueling four-month course that any would-be HRT operative must pass after they’ve made it through the initial two week selection process. Whereas the firearms training house was the steel and rubber structure where live ammunition training was conducted. I hadn’t tried to get Vannevar on his mobile because I’d known he’d almost certainly be overseeing HRT training – and cells are, unsurprisingly, left in the locker-room while training’s in session.
I shook my head.
‘Not soon enough. I need you to call through and tell whoever’ll be doing the interrupting to say Saul Marshall is waiting. That should do the trick.’
The receptionist looked me over for a long moment, then picked up the landline and pressed a button.
‘Drew,’ he said. ‘I need you to cut the kill house exercise short. Tell Vann that Saul Marshall is waiting. Apparently it’s urgent.’
There was a crackle down the phone, followed by a faint melody, indicating he’d been put on hold. A couple of minutes later, he said a quick ‘thank you,’ then hung up.
‘Vann says to wait in his office. No more than ten minutes.’
I nodded my thanks, and made off down the corridor.
*
It was no surprise the pair of us had looked so serious. After all, the HRT – as the FBI’s most elite paramilitary unit – is serious business. Indeed, within the American arsenal as a whole, only Navy SEAL Team 6 and US Army Delta measure up to the HRT in terms of expertise. And, really, the HRT needs to be among the best, given that its job is to deal with the most extreme situations that arise in domestic law enforcement – hostage situations, terrorists, bombs threats. However, to achieve and maintain the level of expertise required of an HRT operative isn’t easy: operatives are required, day in and day out, to engage in complex paramilitary training. And of course this punishing lifestyle is reserved only for the rare few who make it through extensive vetting, of which there have been no more than 300 since the HRT’s inception in 1983.
And even the SEALs and Deltas fall short of what HRT operatives bring to the table, since all operatives must be able to do everything a regular Bureau agent can do – such as interrogate captives and analyze information. In fact, anyone looking to join the HRT must spend two years as a regular agent beforehand and that includes former SEALs and Deltas.
I met Vannevar at the initial two week selection process, held at the FBI Academy. This is where HRT hopefuls – who are stripped to nothing but a blue tee-shirt and shorts, and referred to only by a letter and number – are put through grueling challenges as they compete for a place on the NOTS. On the first day, I was assigned Vannevar as my partner for an open-ended trek through the Quantico wilderness – known as “The Dog Run.” Ever since, Vannevar and I had grown increasingly close as we saw each other through the trials and tribulations of NOTS, then went on to save each other’s lives countless times in the field.
Vannevar was closer than a brother to me. I could think of nobody better to have at my side at a time like this. And, crucially, he was now available to stand at my side – because he’d quit as an HRT operative in May 2011, and was now merely an instructor. So, unlike full-time operatives, who must be ready to be deployed anywhere in the US at zero notice, Vannevar could get away with leaving on private business.
‘What kind of fresh hell have you got in store now?’ came the voice of Vannevar Yeung. I turned to see him entering the room. ‘One minute, I’m on the FBI Academy tour group, the next I’m being roped into meeting the mad, bad Saul Marshall.’
He said this with an anarchic grin. Vannevar had a subversive sense of humor, and loved nothing more than taking my favorite jokes, and repeating them back to me in mocking parody. He was known for cracking wise under pressure, and I could recall certain occasions when his wit had been invaluable for morale. Anyone that knew Vann knew that just because he was joking, didn’t mean he wasn’t taking things seriously.
He stalked across the room, and threw himself gracefully onto the chair behind the desk. The way he moved reminded me of a panther, and I knew from experience that this 6’4” giant was no less deadly than one. He ran a hand through his straight, black hair.
‘You interrupted a pretty intense simulation,’ he continued. ‘This better be a real disaster – something to rival the worst of them.’
‘Samuel’s alive,’ I said.
Vannevar sat bolt upright, and looked at me hard.
‘Which bastard has your son?’ he said, quickly inferring the nature of the situation.
‘A radical cult, whose idea of morality is having sinners take their own lives,’ I said. ‘Run by a psychopath who wants nothing more than to see me squirm.’
Vannevar wanted me to go on, but I was worried about the time – the clock above Vann’s head was already nearing 4:40. Fortunately, Vannevar caught me glancing at the time, and understood.
‘Where and when?’ he said as he got to his feet.
‘9 p.m.’ I replied. ‘Durham, North Carolina.’
‘Let’s head to the equipment store now. Fill me in as we get what we need.’
The pair of us exited the office, and climbed the stairs to where the special equipment room was located. Vannevar unlocked the door by first entering a fifteen digit code into a keypad, and then touching his fingertip to a reader beneath. The room beyond – with its white walls, humming lights, and glass cabinets – looked like a large museum, the difference being that in these cabinets were not artifacts, but some of the world’s most sophisticated weaponry. I’d been filling Vann in since we’d left his office, and by now he was starting to come to terms with the situation. Fortunately, he seemed unfazed by my plan to keep Parkes in the dark and play vigilante, his loyalty to me winning out over his loyalty to the Bureau.
‘If we’re heading to a theater, we’re going to need snipers and night vision,’ said Vannevar, as we paced down an aisle dedicated to rifles. He stopped before twelve identical black rifles, each fifty inches long, and secured within its own glass cabinet.
‘Let’s take a PSG1,’ he added.
Vannevar and I had learned all about sniper rifles during NOTS. And by the time we’d graduated, we could both hit thumbtack heads from 300 yards with the M40 bolt action rifle – the weapon we’d trained on, and favored by the Marine Corps because of its huge effective range of up to 1,000 yards.
The Heckler & Koch PSG1, on the other hand, was only effective to 800 yards. However, to say only was to do it an injustice, since it more than made up for it with its ferocious accuracy. It was powerful, too: it spat 7.62mm NATO rounds at 949 yards-per-second. For these reasons, Vannevar was a particular fan of the PSG1 – and I could see it would be perfect for the task at hand. And no sooner had I said this than Vannevar extracted one, before dismantling it into its constituent elements, and stowing them in one of the metallic briefcases stacked nearby – along with a night scope.
Briefcase in hand, Vannevar then led the way to a cabinet containing maybe one hundred units of the Invisio M4 in-ear tactical headset. This was a little polymer piece that plugged directly into the inner ear and once connected to a walkie-talkie via the cable, allowed for hands-free communication. However, the exceptional thing about the Invisio M4 was that its microphone was not external – it was built into the internal earpiece, and deciphered what you said through the vibrations of your jawbone. This meant ambient noise was removed, and even a whisper could be clearly heard on the other end.
Vannevar took two of these, each in a little silver box, along with two walkie-talkies.
‘We’ll need these if we have to split up,’ he said. He then led the way to other side of the room, found a large green sea-bag, and stuffed it with the gear we’d picked out so far.
‘And we have no idea how many people we’ll be up against…’ He said this with a shake of the head, and a more somber tone. The magnitude of the task was sinking in. ‘From what you’re telling me, it could be a small army. And what if there’s a get-away, an escape? Two guys don’t have a hope in hell of giving chase. Meanwhile, they could be heading to a hideout – to Samuel’s location.’
Before I could respond, Vann was back among the technology. He picked out five GPS tracking units plus a digital reader, which would allow us to see where these tracking units were once they’d been activated.
‘These could make all the difference,’ said Vann, slotting them into the bag.
‘We should also think primitive,’ I contributed. ‘Worse ideas than a pair of blades. In case we find ourselves in close-quarters combat – or need to be stealthy.’
Vann nodded, before finding two six-inch blades, and adding them to the gear. I knew we didn’t have to worry about pistols: I had my Ruger, and Vann never went anywhere without his standard issue Glock 22.
I looked at my watch. Already 5:05. On a bad day, it could take as many as four h
ours to drive to Durham, meaning if we wanted to be there by nine, we had to leave now.
‘Time to haul-ass,’ I said to Vann.
At that, Vann flung the bag onto his back, and we bolted downstairs to the lobby.
‘Tell anyone who asks,’ Vann said to the receptionist, ‘that I had a private matter to attend to and that you don’t know what it was, exactly. And if headquarters calls, there’s no need to tell them Saul Marshall was here. Even if they ask about him directly, there’s no reason why your memory shouldn’t be hazy. Okay?’
The receptionist gave a deferential nod. The next second, we were gone.
Chapter 14
Wednesday, February 27, 2013.
Now I was back on the road – hurtling south on the I-95, on my way to retrieve my son – I was feeling better. In fact, with Vann in my passenger seat, I was feeling positively confident. A serial-killing cult? Forget about it. There was nothing the two of us couldn’t handle.
The first time Samuel had gone missing, I hadn’t had the luxury of Vannevar’s help – he’d been with the HRT at the time, and hadn’t been able to leave his post. But this time, it was different: Vann was free. And not only had he offered his assistance without hesitation, but he’d also made it abundantly clear where his loyalties lay.
As I bore down on the accelerator, I proceeded to give Vann a more comprehensive run-through. His eyes glazed as he processed the information.
‘So where’s Samuel been all this time?’ he probed, after I’d finished.
I shook my head. ‘Beats me. It’s not impossible that he’s been held by The Order since day one. Then again, he might’ve run off for some other reason entirely, and found himself taken hostage only recently. We could speculate endlessly.’
False Prophet: The gripping breakthrough thriller (A Saul Marshall Thriller 1) Page 8