by Don Brown
A moment later, she handed him a receipt and a copy of the wiring form. The destination address was right. Apparently nothing was wrong with the lady's reading and writing.
"The money will be there in less than twenty-four hours, Commander."
"That's perfect, ma'am. Thanks."
"Come on, Zack," Shannon said. "I'll drive you to Dulles Airport."
"Let's go."
David Ben Gurion International Airport
Tel Aviv, Israel
Three days later
4:00 a.m. Jerusalem time
Traveling in civilian clothes, he arrived at Ben Gurion Airport at four in the morning, still under the cover of darkness. He hailed a taxi for Jerusalem and gave the driver the address.
The sun was coming up when the driver dropped him off on the side of the street. The vista from here was gorgeous, the gold synagogues and mosques of the Holy City glistening in the glow of the orange sun rising over the Mediterranean in the distance.
Jerusalem's streets were coming alive with the sounds of sirens and honking horns as Zack sat on the sidewalk and waited. A half hour later, he saw three figures walking up the hill toward him: a young woman with long brown hair and a middle-aged Jewish couple holding hands.
"Welcome back, Commander," the young woman called in an accent that revealed her to be American.
"Thank you for meeting me here, Miss Shadle," Zack said as a smiling Alexander Kweskin extended his hand and said, "Welcome, my friend."
"You've been working on your English, I see." Zack patted the man's shoulder.
"Dah," Alexander said, smiling.
"He's doing great, Commander," Kathryn said.
"Obviously he has a good tutor."
"Thank you, Commander." She blushed. "And, of course, you've met Mrs. Kweskin."
"Yes, I have." Zack smiled at Yael, and she gave him a brief hug. "Thank you all for meeting me," he said.
"You're welcome," Alexander said in a Slavic accent.
"There's something I'd like to ask of you, Alexander," Zack said, gently resting his hand on Alexander's shoulders.
"Anything," Alexander said through Kathryn's translation.
"I still have this picture of your daughter." He held it out. Alexander's eyes moistened almost instantly. "Although I never knew her, she helped me get through the trial. Her life meant something to the cause of justice, Mr. Kweskin, even after her death."
He caught Kathryn's brown eyes.
"I was wondering if you and your wife could take me up there" -- he pointed to the rolling cemetery -- "to the place where she's buried. I'd like to pay my respects."
Kweskin smiled. "We haven't been there in a month. We need to visit our daughter too. Yes, it would be an honor to lead you up."
"Thank you, sir. If this is a good time, I will follow you."
Alexander turned, and with Zack and Yael on one side and Kathryn on the other, he led them through the gate into Municipal Cemetery Number 8 and along the central walkway for about a hundred yards. Zack could see that Alexander was counting the rows of graves. And then, when he had counted fifteen or sixteen, Alexander turned left at marker number 311. Marker 312 had the name Cantor. Numbers 313 through 317 remained anonymous.
"Slava Bogu!" Praise be to God!
Alexander sprinted the short distance to what had formerly been an anonymous grave marker and fell on his knees crying. Yael followed him, sinking to her knees beside him.
Zack looked down and saw it for the first time. The monument company had done a tasteful job.
Anna Kweskin
Who gave love and strength
in life and death.
Never, ever forgotten
Isaiah 53:5 - 6
"She is no longer a number, Guspadyeen Kweskin. She never was."
From his knees, his eyes glistening, Alexander looked up at Zack, then stood and lunged at him, giving him the biggest bear hug Zack had ever received.
Motioning with his left arm, he brought Yael and Kathryn into the midst of the embrace. And then, his tearful eyes looking into Zack's face, he mumbled something in Russian that Zack didn't understand.
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'Lieutenant Colcernian will never be forgotten.' "
EPILOGUE
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea!
William Whiting
"Eternal Father, Strong to Save"
Hymn of the United States Navy
Read an excerpt from Don Brown's Treason,
Book 1 in the Navy Justice Series.
PROLOGUE
Black Forest Cafe
Near the Limmat River
Zurich, Switzerland
Abdur Rahman Ibn Auf checked his watch as the meeting adjourned.
Quarter to twelve. Good.
Enough time for a little walk, maybe some sightseeing, and perhaps even lunch and a couple of drinks before summoning his pilot for the return flight to Riyadh.
He donned the jacket of his Armani business suit and stepped from the front door of Barclays onto the sidewalk beside Zurich's world-famous, charming Bahnh of strasse. Squinting into the bright sunlight, he slipped on a pair of designer sunglasses. Around him bustled serious looking businessmen speaking into cellular phones, young mothers-- or perhaps au pairs; he could not tell the difference -- pushing prams, laughing young lovers, and groups of beautiful women carrying smart bags from expensive clothing boutiques. On either side of the street, flower vendors displayed profusions of colorful bouquets, and halfway to the corner, a group of students crowded around a bakery window.
A cool breeze hit his face, and he closed his eyes, drawing the pristine Swiss air into his lungs. He breathed in, almost smiling at the invigorating result.
Why did Allah place the great cities of the faith in the middle of a scorching, God-forsaken desert rather than in a place like Zurich? At home, survival was impossible without air-conditioning. Here, nature provided it. But the Great Faith had spawned where it had, and Allah had his purposes. Perhaps to avoid distractions, which abounded here.
Abdur headed south down the Bahnh of strasse by foot in the direction of the Arboretum and Burlki Plaza on Lake Zurich. A traffic light stopped him just before he reached the Swiss National Bank Building, and he turned left toward Stathausquai, on the east bank of the Limmat River.
The deep blue waters of the river, fed by the melting snow from the Alps, flowed into Lake Zurich a few blocks to his right. Abdur never grew tired of this view. If paradise was like any city in the world, surely Zurich would be at the top of the list. He watched two tour boats churning south toward the lake.
The sounds of laughter -- young and feminine -- broke into his thoughts. He turned toward a sidewalk cafe across the street, on the bank of the river.
There were four in the quartet -- or perhaps he might say the bouquet -- of exquisite Swiss frauleins. They sat giggling under an umbrella at a white wrought-iron table. He did not need to blink even twice to see they were blond, well figured, and perhaps in their mid twenties. They were all blue-eyed. They were Swiss; how could they not have eyes the color of a summer alpine sky?
One of the frauleins, the prettiest, with shoulder-length hair and wearing a navy business suit, seemed to sense his gaze. She shot him a coquettish smile, tilting her head slightly toward an empty table next to hers.
The outdoor cafe on the riverbank would make a perfect spot for lunch and a cocktail. And who knew? Perhaps this was his lucky day. A successful business session in the morning. An unanticipated rendezvous in the afternoon before leaving the country?
Blond European women seemed to be inordinately attracted to clean shaven Arab men in expensive business suits. This trend had been established, luckily for him, by the late Princess Diana of Great
Britain and Dodi al-Fayed. Or so he had been told when he studied at Oxford.
Abdur sat at the table next to the foursome. They spoke German, which was no impediment to his eavesdropping. He was fluent in the three official languages of Switzerland -- German, French, and Italian -- in addition to having mastered English and, of course, his native Arabic.
Such were the privileges of an educational pedigree for which money had been no object.
He inched his chair closer to the pretty one, and now she was only a stone's throw from him. When the wind shifted, he caught a whiff of exquisite perfume. Is it hers? He couldn't tell.
As he listened, he heard her speak in a low, velvety tone as she announced she had ended her relationship with her boyfriend. She sighed deeply -- for his sake, perhaps? -- then went on to tell her friends she would have to take holiday this year in Monaco without him. "He deserved it. Such an unfaithful dog."
An unfaithful dog.
Was that a calculated message, intended not only for her attractive fraulein companions, but also for his ears? Or merely coincidence?
Nothing is coincidental. Everything is calculated.
Abdur ordered a cocktail and contemplated his next move. Perhaps a round of complimentary cocktails for the frauleins would attract their attention. Or maybe he would trail her home when she left.
"Ahff wun, yah eff." The sudden deep sound of a man's voice over his shoulder distracted Abdur. "Excuse me, mister," the man repeated in Arabic. "Her name is Marta."
Abdur turned, frowning. The man was handsome, Middle Eastern, and perhaps in his early thirties. He wore an expensive suit, tie, and shoes, all of which were white.
"You contemplate luring her to your hotel." The man's Arabic was flawless. "Except you did not reserve a room, because you had planned on flying back in your Cessna Citation this afternoon to report to Riyadh. But now, with the bat of her eyes, the scent of her perfume, the crossing of her legs, you are contemplating, shall we say, a slight change of plan?"
Abdur rose to his feet and met the man's black eyes. The penetrating quality of the man's gaze was instantly gripping, as if he had the power to hypnotize. Abdur felt a chill shoot down his spine.
"Do not fear, my brother," the man continued. "And I assure you, my sudden intrusion has not compromised your opportunity with this Swiss maiden. You will have your opportunity, if it is what you want. She will cooperate. Trust me."
"Do I know you?"
"I have been searching for you, my brother."
"You look familiar." Abdur frowned again, trying to read the other man's expression. He was unsuccessful.
"I am Hussein al-Akhma of Kuwait."
"Un hum del Allah. Praise be to God." Abdur had seen Hussein's picture in Arab newspapers. But this was the first time he had seen the man in person. "Of you I have heard much, Brother Hussein."
"And I, of you." Hussein inclined his head. "But then, we are a small brotherhood, are we not?" Hussein gave Abdur a friendly pat on the shoulder, and Abdur relaxed. But not much.
"When I was at Oxford, you were at the London School of Economics. But we never met." Abdur was getting his voice back.
"An unfortunate crossing in the night. But Allah has his purposes and his timing. And this moment has to do with the latter."
Abdur pointed to the chair across the table. "Please, be seated."
He studied the mysterious man, rumored to be both a billionaire playboy and a stalwart man of the faith. Was this an oxymoronic combination? Perhaps not. Abdur felt the same tug-of-war within. The prophet Muhammad himself --Peace be upon him -- certainly had felt the same struggles.
"Brother Abdur, though we have never met personally until now, I have known you for some time." Again, a fiery, magnetic flash lit Hussein's eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"You are searching for the purpose of life. I believe Allah has called you. Like me, you have been entrusted with much at a young age. But it is all meaningless unless we are called to a higher purpose." Hussein's voice was smooth, hypnotic . . . as if he saw through the windows of Abdur's soul.
How can he see my struggles? My demons?
"Next to the prophet Muhammad -- Peace be upon him --there had been no greater Muslim to walk the earth than the servant of Allah, Osama bin Laden," said al-Akhma. "Not since the British burned the White House in the War of 1812 has a foreign enemy struck the heart of America. But one man on September 11, 2001, carried out what the Japanese, the Germans, and the mighty Soviets did not.
"Drew American blood.
"On American soil."
"He was so bold. So daring, was he not?"
"Yes, he was, my brother." Hussein smiled. "But even Osama was not perfect. The brilliant hero of 9/11 failed to realize that to defeat our great enemy, one must become invisible, blend in with their forces."
Abdur studied his companion. "I do not follow you."
"That was Osama's Achilles' heel. He and his cronies all looked and spoke Arabic. Of course, our Arabic heritage is glorious and to be embraced. But Al Qaida cast the perfect stereotype for the Zionist media to beam over the airwaves into American homes and plaster on the front pages of the New York Times and the Washington Post.
"Al Qaida," he continued, "gave the world the image of bearded-looking, turban-wearing 'terrorists' firing AK-47s into the air in frenzied jubilation whenever a bomb went off in Israel. Meaningless. What did we ever accomplish by blowing up a civilian bus on the streets of Tel Aviv? Nothing. Yet all this fueled the Zionist propaganda machine around which Christians and Jews wrapped their anger. It caused them to turn their political and military power against Islam."
"It does make sense," Abdur said.
"I am recruiting a new, more sophisticated breed of Islamic fighter. A fighter who can blend into the Western landscape with fluency in English, with the ability to instantly ditch his turban for a business suit . . ." Hussein's black eyes glinted, drawing Abdur in. "A fighter with the willingness to don a U.S. military uniform for the cause of Allah. These characteristics will epitomize Council of Ishmael operatives.
" 'Know thine enemy,' " Hussein quoted in Arabic. "Allah has laid it upon my heart, Brother Abdur, to assemble a council of twenty rulers to govern this new breed of fighter and to advance this unprecedented worldwide organization."
Goose bumps crept up Abdur's neck, and he sat forward.
"All who have been called to this council are wealthy beyond earthly measure -- among the wealthiest men in the various Islamic nations they represent. All are British- or American-educated. All are fluent in English and fervent in their devotion to Islam. All loathe the three great enemies of Allah -- Israel, America, and Christianity."
Hussein put his hand on Abdur's shoulder, paused, then met Abdur's eyes. Something supernatural seemed to hold Abdur in his chair.
"Allah has told me, Brother Abdur, that you are one of the chosen twenty."
Chills shot down Abdur's spine.
"One of his coveted Council of Ishmael." Hussein seemed to caress each word as it passed from his lips. And then he stared at Abdur, silent.
The sounds of summer in a busy European city returned to Abdur's ears: car horns honking, birds chirping, trolley bells ringing, the wind blowing off Lake Zurich. All provided a surreal backdrop that Abdur felt was somehow divine.
His gaze wandered to the table next to them that was now empty. Sometime within the last few minutes, Marta had left, and he had not even noticed. He turned again to his companion. "I feel, Brother Hussein, that this is a divine moment. An appointment with destiny preordained by Allah himself. Beyond that, my words have left me."
Hussein's smile was gentle. Abdur noticed his teeth were nearly as white as his suit.
"Abdur, you need not give up your lifestyle. You are not called to poverty. Only to glory. To use all you have been blessed with -- your language abilities, your educational background, your resources -- for the glory of Allah. You were born for this day. You were blessed for this reason. Very f
ew Muslims the world over possess your combination of talent, skill, and resources.
"Say only this: that you will come, that you will follow me. That you will say yes to Allah's call. That you will become an adopted son of the Council of Ishmael."
Femme du Monde School of Modeling
International Headquarters
North American Division
Madison Avenue, New York City
Diane Colcernian ran her hand through her hair and took a swig of bottled water. She was standing near the elevated runway down the center of a mirrored room that served as a combination lecture hall and practice studio. Four other models lolled against the runway, listening to Monica, the agency's artistic coach, deliver another of her dull lectures on the importance of runway posture.
Angelica, a long-legged blond, rolled her eyes toward Diane, and dark-haired, gamine Corrine snickered. This brought a glare from Monica, who then continued her delivery in her pseudo French accent.
"Next she'll show us an example of her runway work in Paris," whispered Sybil. A moment later, Monica, dressed in designer warm-ups, did exactly that. She floated up the runway stairs and signaled the technician to start the strobe lights and music. Then, head back, body thrust forward, she moved along the runway, her long legs in a fashionable strut. She snapped into a turn and returned to where her young students waited by the runway.
"Now, your turn," Monica said above the music. The women lined up at the stairs, and Diane, who was first in line, climbed up, ignoring the snickers of "Teacher's pet."
Monica made no secret that she was grooming Diane to step onto the runway as a world-class supermodel, just as Monica herself had done twenty years earlier. Diane suspected it was her wavy, flame-colored hair-- which, according to photos she'd seen, was much like Monica's in her youth-- that endeared her to the artistic coach. Their physiques were similar: tall, lithe, long-limbed, with an almost liquid manner of movement. Because Monica had chosen Diane as heir apparent, she was often harder on her than on all the others; her expectations were greater.