The Sinai Directive

by Rick Jones

  “I guess we’ll find out,” said Jeremiah, who switched back to the scanner. The laser measure, however, came back with an anomaly. The corridor beyond the opening appeared to disappear after ten feet with the passageway sloping downward. What was beyond that could only be a hazarded guess, since the Atlas had its limits. “Well, I guess that’s all she wrote,” Jeremiah remarked. “From the data received, I would have to say that the tunnel angles downward to a subterranean level.”

  “Mark the location,” Kimball told him.

  Once Jeremiah sent the coordinates to Kimball’s BGAN tablet, Kimball changed modes to use the system as a GPS. Three miles of double-time would get the Vatican Knights to the site in a half hour. Once Roman set the Semtex charges and detonated the plastique, Kimball knew the sound would ripple over the mountaintop to catch the attention of Ahmadi.

  After changing modes to tie himself in with the satellite feed, Kimball was able to gauge the distance between Ahmadi’s group to the point of the structure. They were four miles beyond it and to the southeast. If the Vatican Knights hastened, then the advantage would belong to them. They would get there long before Ahmadi with time to spare.

  After informing Jeremiah to power down Atlas, Kimball, using the tablet as his GPS guide to follow a particular course, had everyone double-time across the landscape to claim the golden calf in advance of Zahid Ahmadi.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Mossad Headquarters

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Director Immanuel Rosenberg of the Mossad’s Political Action and Liaison Department was pouring over the data he had received from an internal source, as well as from Langley. The weapons in question, the suitcase nukes, were being housed in a facility in Tunisia. Since the location was never a mystery to the agency, Rosenberg, along with Meier and Lehrer, had to come up with a game plan. With Rosenberg sitting behind his desk and Meier and Lehrer sitting in front of it, the Liaison Team were discussing matters as how to proceed against the Tunisian facility.

  “Now that we know where the components are being stored,” said Lehrer, “now is the time to send the Sayeret Matkal.”

  Rosenberg concurred, as did Meier.

  “We’ll have Lieutenant Colonel Yosef Sneh head the team,” added Lehrer.

  Rosenberg and Meier had little to say, since the Sayeret Matkal had always proven themselves to be an effective force. There was nothing to truly dispute. All that needed to be discussed were the operational procedures, such as the ‘when’ and ‘how to invade.’

  “First we’ll do intel recon to determine the number of Faruk’s armed forces who are guarding the stockpile,” said Rosenberg. “Then we go in without surprises regarding the number of Faruk’s men and take them out systematically. Once done, then we’ll need to develop a foolproof escape design with an extraction unit in place. We’ll leave it up to Yosef Sneh’s to come up with that design.”

  Since time was not a luxury, the meeting between the principals was brief—about twenty minutes. When the operational pieces were confidently in place, their technicians were mobilized to respond accordingly and with headlong efficiency.

  Within the hour they had their number regarding Faruk’s mercenaries confirmed at twelve.

  Within four hours and after a three-hour flight, the Sayeret Matkal would be in Tunisia.

  By the sixth hour, Lieutenant Colonel Yosef Sneh would have his team ready and an extraction unit waiting beyond the stronghold’s perimeter. Should the mission of the Sayeret Matkal misfire and fall short of their undertaking, everything would fall upon the first line of defense to neutralize the situation.

  But the Vatican Knights would have a major challenge of their own, if not an absolute struggle, to see this done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Jabal Maqla

  Jabal al-Lawz Mountain Range

  The Vatican Knights had reached the coordinates that were given by the Atlas. It was a stonewall face that had a rock pile stacked against it in one particular area, with some stones large and others small. What was factual was that the Atlas was able to validate an opening beyond the makeshift barrier, about six feet in, meaning that six feet of heavy rock needed to be removed.

  Kimball checked his tablet for Ahmadi’s location. The radical cell was about three clicks away, almost two miles, and closing quickly. Setting his tablet into his backpack and grabbing his MP7, he said, “Ahmadi’s unit is closing fast.” Then he pointed to Roman, his detonation expert. “Pack the Semtex.”

  Roman removed his backpack and a pair of bricks from the knapsack. Then he removed the detonation cords and wires. After pulling apart the plastique and fitting the Play-Doh-like substance in strategic places along the fallen stones, he attached the cords and switches and powered up the detonator remote, the light turning from red to green. All he needed to do was to press the button.

  “We’re good,” he told Kimball.

  After the Vatican Knights took cover, Kimball gave Roman a thumbs-up.

  Nodding, Roman depressed the button with his thumb.

  The world beneath their feet suddenly shook with Richter-like intensity, as they hunkered behind boulders. Rocks the size of compact cars had been broken down to fist-sized stones that jettisoned from the base of the wall with deadly velocity and wide-spreading trajectories. When the terrain finally settled, the dust combing the air did not. A cloud the color of desert sand hung in the air as granules of dust floated lazily while sand eddies moved in glacially slow spirals.

  But as the dust slowly settled, Kimball, who pointlessly waved his way through the dust and haze, took position by the wall’s breach to give it a brief examination. The opening had an odd shape to it, something amoeba-like, but it was large. After powering up his NVG monocular and sliding the unit down over his eyes, he stepped deeper inside the cave’s mouth. Through the lens of his NVG unit the interior appeared lime green and the visual feed clear. The passageway was as the Atlas had recorded—a downward slope that veered to the left and then it was gone, the channel most likely leading to a subterranean level. Returning the monocular to the ‘up’ position of his Kevlar helmet, Kimball backpedaled his way out of the opening and said, “The passage veers to the left before disappearing. Stay close. But stay attentive. Ahmadi’s group is not far behind.”

  Taking lead after lowering his NVG monocular and with the others paralleling his actions and doing the same, the Vatican Knights, along with Sherpa, entered the hole. The walls were bumpy in areas and smooth in others. As they descended to a lower depth, they discovered that the trail was becoming more difficult to navigate from an upright position, the pathway suddenly becoming alarmingly steep.

  Kimball balled his fist and held it high to hold up his team. “This passageway dips sharply,” he commented. “I don’t know if it leads into a lower chamber or into an abyss.” Kimball leaned forward trying to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead, only to realize that a risk had to be taken to see what truly lay beyond. And then to Isaiah, he said, “I’ll move ahead to recon below. You keep the team at the ready and don’t move until I say so.”

  “Understood.”

  Pressing his palms against the opposing walls of the tunnel to fortify him, Kimball made his way forward using his hands and his feet to steady his course. But six feet in he lost his footing because the decline became too steep, too slick, the Vatican Knight now tumbling downward through hairpin curves as the walls passed by him in a blur. He bounced from side to side, the ride a jarring one as he tried to use his hands and feet to brake his fall, his actions failing, the Vatican Knight now sliding faster and faster until he finally landed on a mound of desert sand that was situated at the base of the tube, a godsend that cushioned his fall.

  Standing and then stretching out the pain in his joints, Kimball took a few steps into the chamber. It was cavernous with a tall ceiling and uneven sides. The floor, which consisted entirely of sand, held the recorded history of a man who had walked upon it ages ag
o with his footprints having gone undisturbed and memorialized for more than thirty-five hundred years. Getting to a bended knee, Kimball examined the prints. They had been made by sandals with the prints suggesting, by the length of the strides, that Moses was a man of above-average height.

  Returning to a standing position and then to the tube’s opening, Kimball lowered his lip mic and said, “Isaiah, you read?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “It’s going to be a bumpy ride, but it leads into a chamber. When you come down, make sure you embrace yourselves and cross your legs at the ankles. Stay tight.”

  “Like a slide?”

  “Exactly.”

  One by one the Vatican Knights took to the tube and raced down along its length, each hitting the soft spot of the sandy bank. When all had gathered, Kimball immediately brought attention to the set of footprints that led deeper into the cavern. There was nothing to question since only one man had walked this trail in the past. These were the footprints of Moses.

  After studying the prints that went off into darkness, Kimball realized that there wasn’t a returning set, meaning that Moses had discovered another way out. Careful not to damage the established prints, the Vatican Knights followed the steps of Moses deeper into the cavern.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Jabal Maqla

  Jabal al-Lawz Mountain Range

  Even from a distance of more than a mile, Ahmadi and his radical team of extremists felt the Earth shake and the unmistakable sound of an explosive detonating. There was no doubt that the power of the concussive waves that quickly followed the blast was the result of a military-grade explosive like Semtex or C-4. Either way, the explosion spoke volumes to Ahmadi. They were not alone. In fact, those who carried such plastique often did so because they were operatives from a militarized unit. Ahmadi’s head began to spin with thoughts as to who it could be, only for him to come up with an excess of candidates.

  He turned to the Bangladeshi. “Obviously, we’re not alone.”

  The Bangladeshi was nodding in agreement.

  “Perhaps when you engaged the operative in Istanbul,” Ahmadi continued, “he got enough of the information through to compromise our mission goals, after all.”

  “Impossible,” he answered.

  “Then how do you explain what we’ve just heard?”

  The Bangladeshi did not respond.

  “It could be the Americans,” Ahmadi extended, “if the man you tossed from the twenty-fifth-floor window was CIA. Or perhaps a member of the Mossad. Maybe Interpol. The list goes on and on.”

  Amal Purakayastha turned on Ahmadi with a fierceness in his eyes, a rare and odd show of emotion. Though such intensity didn’t make Ahmadi flinch or stand down. The Arab was someone who had stood against far greater enemies than the Bangladeshi.

  “Did you not say that your team was the best?” Purakayastha challenged. “Are they not the warriors for a new tomorrow? The ones who will be the driving wedge who will divide and conquer your enemy? Or was your overpouring and proud promotion of them simply what the Americans would call verbal diarrhea?”

  Ahmadi had no knowledge or idea regarding American idioms or their meanings. But if it was connected to the United States in any way, shape or form, then it couldn’t have been good.

  Ahmadi clenched his teeth when he spoke. “To talk to me in such manner, Bangladeshi, often invites death. I do not care if you are under the employ of Abesh Faruk. The terms of our agreement are simply a transfer of the goods into each other’s hands. Keep in mind that you have little value outside of getting us to where we need to go.” He then pointed to the direction of the explosion. “Apparently, the point we seek is just ahead. I would suggest for future reference that you address me with respect. If not, then Abesh Faruk will be receiving more than just the golden calf in a trade, but also your head. This I guarantee.”

  Amal Purakayastha’s features did not betray what he was feeling—whether it be anger or fear or something else. The Bangladeshi was simply reacting with cold determination, his resolve as icy as Ahmadi’s heart as the fierceness in his eyes quickly diminished.

  Zahid Ahmadi leaned into Purakayastha. And with words softly spoken, the Arab added, “You will take us to the front line of aggression. Whoever is ahead will feel the wrath of Allah through my blade and the blades of my warriors. And you will fight beside us as Abesh Faruk’s extension to gain the treasure he seeks and say nothing more. Do you understand me, Bangladeshi?”

  Amal Purakayastha nodded and said, “I only hear you because my allegiance is with Abesh Faruk and with no other. I will fight by your side only because I have given my word to the man who employs me. I will only aid you because it is what Faruk wants . . . Not because you say so.”

  Ahmadi eased away from Purakayastha. “What I say, Bangladeshi, is this: get us to the relic before whatever forces ahead of us appropriate the item before we do. If we lose the opportunity to do so and the deal of the trade is forfeited, I will take your life as payment for your failure.”

  The Bangladeshi said nothing. He simply stared at the Arab with cold emptiness.

  Pivoting and then pulling away from Ahmadi, Amal Purakayastha took lead and started to jog towards the point of the explosive discharge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Zurich, Switzerland

  0758 Hours

  Angelika raised her head from the pillow the moment her cellphone rang and snatched it from the nightstand. Due to its distinct ringing style that was assigned to one meaningful number, she immediately knew it was her handler. Staring at the phone’s screen, she noted the numerals 0515. It was the code to contact her principal immediately through secured measures, meaning through Ismarsat iTablet.

  She immediately went to the safe, dialed the combination, opened the door and retrieved the unit. After using 0515 as the opening code to join the Ismarsat iTablet to a geospatial satellite, she typed a predetermined program using Greek characters in a particular sequence. Once the characters were read and validated, her handler came online.

  HANDLER: CLOCK MOVING UP WITH SENSE OF URGENCY. OPERATIONS FROM ASSOCIATE ORGANIZATIONS ARE RUNNING ACTIVELY HOT. TIME IS NOW OF THE ESSENCE.

  ANGELIKA: ??????

  HANDLER: COMMENCE WITH THE FINAL PHASE OF THE OPERATION. SUBJECT CANNOT GET WORD OF ONGOING ACTIVITIES BEFORE ASSOCIATE ORGANIZATIONS LAUNCH ASSAULT ON HIS STOCKPILES. WE CANNOT AFFORD SUBJECT TO GO UNDERGROUND AND THEN RESURFACE LATER WITH THE NUKES.

  ANGELIKA: AM I TO WAIVE THE GATHERING OF ADDITIONAL INFORMATION FROM SUBJECT REGARDING ANY ILLEGAL BUSINESS STRUCTURE? JUST A CLEAN CUT?

  HANDLER: YES.

  ANGELIKA: WE HAVE DINNER TONIGHT.

  HANDLER: TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE. SUBJECT MUST BE DEALT WITH WITHIN A TWO-HOUR WINDOW.

  ANGELIKA: TWO HOURS! SUBJECT MIGHT GROW SUSPECT IF I KEEP ALTERING TIMES.

  HANDLER: TWO HOURS. EMPLOY YOUR SKILLSET AND SEE THIS DONE . . . OUT.

  Angelika growled in frustration as she tossed the Ismarsat tablet to the bed. She knew she was frustrating Faruk by the way she gathered information and quickly departed with the promise of spending more time together. The problem was the pattern she was leaving. She would dig for information regarding his business ventures and abruptly leave when she felt that Faruk no longer wanted to accommodate her subtle mining procedures. Regardless if his weakness was the constant and ambitious fawning over him from a beautiful woman to acquire his attention. Money was still his god. Sooner or later, if the pattern did not change and Faruk became wise to her machinations, he might wave her off with a dismissing hand. If that was the case, then her two-hour window would slam shut before she had an opportunity to complete the final leg of the operation.

  Picking up a cellphone, she dialed Faruk’s estate. The line rung one . . . twice . . .

  “Come on. Come on. Come on,” she stated impatiently.

  . . . three times . . .

  “Yes, Ms. Hartmann. What can I
do for you on this lovely morning?”

  It was Abesh, who obviously recognized the number from caller ID. What disturbed her, however, was that he referred to her as ‘Ms. Hartmann’ instead of ‘my dear.’ Had she overstepped her boundaries? Did she break that proverbial straw of the camel’s back when she hastily left the estate last night?

  “Sweetheart,” she said cooingly. “I won’t be able to make tonight’s dinner date with you, I’m afraid. So, I was hoping that we could meet for lunch instead, since I have a business affair this evening—something I cannot neglect, unfortunately.”

  Faruk remained silent on his end.

  “Abesh?”

  “I’m here,” he answered. “Is there no other way? I have a remarkable menu planned for tonight.”

  “I’m afraid not. You know the business as well as I do. Sometimes matters come up that cannot be altered. As I mentioned to you before, Abesh, I would like to break away from my employer for said reasons and be the sole manager over my own actions, without ever having to answer to another. I do wish for dinner with you tonight, but I’m being pressed into duty, as one might say.”

  She could hear the man breathing on the other end, a rhythmic pattern.

  Then: “Of course, my dear. Breakfast it shall be, albeit a late one. Say—”

  “Immediately,” she interjected. “As soon as I can get there. I do miss you so.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll have the chef prepare for you a delight.”

  “Thank you, Abesh. You won’t be disappointed with what I have to tell you.”

  “A surprise?”

  “Quite.”

  “Then I’m looking forward to your presence, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Abesh.” She immediately hung up the phone. Sitting at the edge of her bed with her eyes cast to the floor, Angelika started to take deep breaths to calm her. Everything started to move quickly, too fast, her ability to operate free and clear at her pace to achieve the means apparently not so. Outside forces were pressing her to act immediately.