The Devil's Magician

by Rick Jones

  “Sargon Azerbaijani and Hassan Maloof,” said Father Essex. “It appears that our man has been sleeping with the enemy. A double agent who plays both sides of the fence.”

  Father Auciello nodded, the priest concurring.

  Then they watched as the scene played out. Maloof appeared agitated, though in the subsequent moments he apparently fought for calm and eventually won.

  After handing Sargon Azerbaijani a cellphone, Hassan Maloof left the establishment. A moment later, Azerbaijani left as well.

  “Follow them both,” said Father Auciello to the console operator. “Lens to lens, eye to eye—just don’t lose them.”

  “Yes, Father.” The controller started to tap furiously on the all-touch keyboard, searching for CCTV and security cameras to home in on the targets as they ventured from location to location, from site to site.

  Whereas Maloof got into a vehicle, Sargon Azerbaijani was on foot, the men going in two different directions. The trouble with VisageWare was that it measured certain facial features, which abruptly ended when Maloof entered the car and cut off the FR feed. Now the controller had to determine the make, color and style of the vehicle he was in, which was a nondescript brand that looked like so many other vehicles on the road. It would be a difficult task whereas Visage- Ware followed Sargon from one camera view to the next, the program skipping from lens to lens while tracing his path with ease.

  “Azerbaijani’s on foot,” said Father Essex. Then he turned to a second security agent, “Take sole control and monitor his position,” he told him. Then he pointed to the primary agent, “Tap into the geospatial satellites from an overhead view, then zoom in.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Once the image of Sargon Azerbaijani was transferred to the second operator’s screen, the primary operator typed in a new code to ascertain the utility lens of a CIA satellite over Damascus. The screen instantly winked and brought up a new image of Hassan Maloof’s vehicle from an overhead angle.

  “Zoom in,” said Father Auciello.

  The controller did. Since there were no CCTV cameras along the highways, this particular feed was crucial to their needs of surveillance. But the vehicle, even after closing in on the image, was no larger than a match head onscreen.

  “Can you get closer?” asked Father Auciello.

  The operator tried. Couldn’t. The image was now moving among other cars, all similar in design. And then the vehicle began to pass underneath bridges and into tunnels, which made tracking all that much more difficult, if not impossible. Finally, as the Damascus traffic built up, after vehicles came and went from tunnel to tunnel, they had lost Hassan Maloof.

  Father Essex turned to the second operator. “Sargon Azerbaijani?”

  “We still have him, Father.”

  Then Father Essex gave a clear order to a third operator by pointing him out. “I need you to get me a direct link to Kimball Hayden. And I mean like yesterday!”

  “Absolutely, Father.”

  After a single tap on the touch-keyboard which enabled the speaker-phone system, the linkup to Kimball’s BGAN and phone system initiated.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ––––––––

  Kimball Hayden moved across the sand dunes with labored steps, always eclipsing one only to scale another. The desert landscape seemed endless, the horizon a faraway and distant land where a Biblical beam of daylight appeared to surface, but a destination where the sun never rose above the vista, the Light nothing but a tease. At the crest of one sand dune, while the course of a breeze blew his long-coat so that the tails flagged behind him, Kimball stood his ground to stare at this beam of Light. Removing his goggles as the windblown sand scoured his face, he continued to look at this beam which seemed so distant and so unattainable. Yet he reset his goggles and drove himself through knee-high sand to close the gap between himself and the Light— a gap that never seemed to close, or lessen, a distance he was never able to bridge. And he was not alone. Kimball was never alone.

  Behind him were the wails and moans of those he had robbed of their lives. Old men, women and children, anyone who compromised his position in the scheme of his duties, whether they were a part of the mission or happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—it made no difference to him.

  Looking over his shoulder, he could see vague shapes behind a wall of dust.

  My past is stalking me, he thought, and then he tried to move on. But the shapes remained, moaning and wailing, some even pleading for their lives, the voices heightening to a crescendo, screaming, their cries a damning assault to Kimball’s ears, the land gap between them not gaining, but not diminishing either.

  My past is stalking me, he thought once again.

  And then the sand around his knees seemed to become thicker, denser, his steps becoming much more arduous as he strove for the distant Light.

  ...Kiiiiimbaaaall...

  He turned. Even through the veil of dust the color of desert sand, he could see the shapes with spindly limbs the size of broomsticks reach for him, the extending fingers as long and thin as the tines of a pitchfork.

  ...Kiiiiimbaaaall...

  Kimball turned away, saw the distant Light—a Light that was impossible to reach, the former Vatican Knight extending his own hand, reaching, his fingers wanting so badly to touch a Light that was so far away.

  “Please,” he said, his fingers reaching. “Please.”

  ...Kiiiiimbaaaall...

  And then the distant Light began to fade, the beam diminishing, the once burning brightness smoldering to a dim glow.

  Pleeeease. He extended his arm, wiggled his fingers.

  And then the Light was gone, the sky within this desert realm as black as pitch. No stars. Nothing but a blackness that was complete and absolute.

  ...Kiiiiimbaaaall...

  And in this darkness there was a sound, something that was alien and familiar at the same time, a drone that was distant but grew louder and more intense. Kimball opened his eyes, saw the ceiling. Apparently he had fallen asleep while going over the documents since he had gone without sleep for more than a day. But this wakeup call from his cellphone was a blessing, he considered, since this dream had plagued him for nearly a decade, along with the trailing images who refused to give him peace of mind.

  Looking at the cell phone’s screen, he noted that this particular code was coming straight from Vatican Intelligence. He picked it up and hit the green button.

  “Yeah.”

  It was Father Essex. “We have a hit on the target you asked for,” he told Kimball.

  Kimball eased back in his chair and wiped the itch from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “In Damascus?”

  “Not too far from your location,” he answered. “About six kilometers. But there’s something we never expected.”

  “Yeah. And what’s that?”

  “It appears that our contact has been playing both sides of the fence.”

  Kimball had always suspected that things weren’t quite as copasetic as they seemed to be, since everything began and ended with the contact. Though the insurgents were at the specified location as informed, two additional matters remained rather perplexing to him as well, such as the number of terrorists involved in the operation, and the added speculation that the insurgents knew that the Vatican Knights were en route to their position; therefore, the ambush.

  “And there’s something else,” stated Father Essex.

  Kimball waited.

  “Are you on your BGAN?” the priest asked him.

  “It’s topside.”

  “What about your phone?”

  “I have it with me,” he said, picking it up from the desktop.

  “I’m going to send encrypted images over the line. I need you to look over the data.”

  A moment after the tie was severed, the phone pinged. Kimball quickly brought up the images and the attached dossiers after decrypting them, and began to scroll through the messages by using his thumb to sli
de the communications across the phone’s screen. Sargon Azerbaijani, he thought, recalling the photo of the man and the biographical record attached to the photo. There was zero background information regarding his contacts with terrorists, the man obviously wise enough to sanitize certain aspects of his life. Then Kimball brought up a photo of Hassan Maloof, a man Kimball knew well. Maloof was a leading lieutenant in the ISIS organization. But he disappeared from radar soon after the death of his commanding officer, a man by the name of Mabus, whom Kimball had dispatched.

  Then he slid the images aside, coming to a third photo. It read: The Elissar Restaurant. And the timestamp of the photo was recent, within the hour, in fact. It was a picture of Sargon Azerbaijani and Hassan Maloof together, with Maloof standing over Azerbaijani in the patio area of the establishment. Sliding that image over with his thumb, a video file came up. Kimball touched the black triangle encompassed by a red circle, and the video began to play. In the black-and-white recording from one of the restaurant’s CCTV, Maloof appeared agitated by sweeping glassware off the table. And even though there was no sound, Kimball could tell that he was loud and vociferous by the way the surrounding patrons looked at him. And then he handed Sargon Azerbaijani a cellphone, which Kimball thought with certainty that Maloof was handing him a ‘burner.’ When the video ended and froze, Kimball scrolled to the next file, which also happened to be the last. It was a GPS indicator that had targeted Sargon Azerbaijani, who was on foot, and the subject of simple tracking. But Maloof had escaped the net. Not a problem, Kimball thought, after enabling the feature.

  As Father Essex said, Sargon Azerbaijani was within six kilometers of Kimball’s location, a distance of three-and-a-half miles. A small red circle pulsated on the cell phone’s screen, the circle representing Azerbaijani. Six minutes later the circle stopped. When Kimball hit the location button, he was given an address and an image of the residence, which was a broken-down building made of desert stone and window panes without glass.

  “I have you,” whispered Kimball. Then he looked at his watch. The day was nearing its end, the light of the sun waning during its descent, and still there was so much to do. Getting up from his seat, Kimball knew he would not sleep from here on in now that the mission was hitting a critical stage. He would find Azerbaijani and mine him for information. And then he would deal a punishment to Azerbaijani that would fit the crime of his betrayal to the Vatican, even at the dismay of the pontiff who sat upon the highest throne in the church.

  “I have you,” Kimball repeated softly. Then he left his chamber that was deep beneath the level of the Earth, and made his way through the shadows of the oncoming night, finding comfort and peace in the shades of darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ––––––––

  People like Sargon Azerbaijani didn’t have good clothes, only scraps that were marginally better than burlap sacks. But as soon as the transaction was completed, he told himself, as he smoothed out the creases of his best attire with sweeps of his hands, he could afford better. Meeting men like Firat Rashi on a consistent basis and remaining as part of his circle would certainly boost his image in the eyes of his constituency, a plateau of recognition on a level Azerbaijani had always dreamed about.

  As he went to the window of his residence and looked over the drab area he lived in, with trash-littered streets that were of packed dirt instead of paved roads, and with mangy curs always going through the garbage hunting for scraps of food, Sargon Azerbaijani couldn’t wait to reestablish himself as a new man. Of course he wouldn’t live like the Firat Rashi’s of the world, but at least he would have a measure of respect not only from others, but for himself as well. And that was Sargon Azerbaijani’s dream in life, the hope of becoming a man-of-importance in the eyes of his brethren.

  After leaving his spartan residence, Sargon Azerbaijani walked the streets of his neighborhood until a clear transition could be seen from the slums he lived in, to the upscale areas that were considered to be twenty-four carat neighborhoods that were guarded by quality fencing and ornamental pruning. When he reached Firat Rashi’s residence, he once again ran his hands over his attire to smooth out what- ever leftover creases there were, then pressed the button. A moment later the cam- eras high on the wall moved and centered on Sargon, the cameras making a whirring noise as the lenses focused. A moment later, two guards appeared at the gate with assault weapons, and escorted Sargon to the main quarters.

  * * *

  Kimball Hayden had followed Sargon Azerbaijani from his residence, always trailing the man no less than 50 meters. Even with the weight loss Kimball appeared larger than most, though he tried to hide his bulk beneath layers of clothing and stayed close to the shadows.

  They had moved through transitioning neighborhoods going from the devastatingly poor areas to the absolute rich, with the changes going from under- privileged areas to the middle-class areas, then the middle-class areas to the obscenely rich within a four-kilometer stretch, with the entirety of the community shifts approximately two-and-a-half miles distant in total.

  Once Sargon reached an estate that Kimball recognized as extremely high-end, Kimball tapped the pulsating target on his cellphone that represented Sargon from the eye-in-the-sky satellite and brought up the address, which he forwarded to Vatican Intelligence for further examination.

  A moment later when Sargon was escorted to the main residence, Kimball’s phone pinged with encrypted data. It had everything he needed to know about a man called Firat Rashi. And it was enough to put the man within his crosshairs in order for him to achieve the means.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ––––––––

  Even though Sargon Azerbaijani wore better attire than their previous meeting earlier in the day, the man still smelled gamey to Firat Rashi as they sat inside a vast living room of the estate. There were couches made of the finest leather, mostly imported, along with expensive vases and valued paintings that adorned the walls. The ceiling was very high, about thirty feet, with an expensive chandelier hanging in the room’s center, its crystals shining with iridescent glimmers of light. And the ceiling itself was a work of art with the surface appearing like bas-relief carvings, with the images exemplified in the Six Pillars of Faith.

  “Since you’re here,” stated Firat, after informing his two young daughters and son to leave the room, “I’m assuming Hassan has agreed to the terms?” As he took a seat along a very lengthy couch, Firat noted Sargon’s less-than-adequate at- tire—though they were better than the garments he wore earlier in the day—and told Sargon to keep standing, which Sargon did without question.

  “Hassan has agreed to your terms,” Sargon answered.

  “Very good.” Firat Rashi measured Sargon with a stare that made the small Syrian uncomfortable. And then from Firat Rashi: “And Hassan’s terms?”

  Sargon reached into his garment, which seemed to be filled with countless pockets, rummaged around, and eventually produced a cellphone. He held it up in display. “He wants to communicate with you directly from here on in,” he told him.

  Sargon handed Firat the phone, a cheap flip-type. Then Firat went to the contacts list which held a single number. “And this is his personal number?”

  “It is.”

  Firat slipped the cellphone into his shirt pocket. “And Hassan’s terms?”

  “He wanted me to advise you that your guarantees are just that—guarantees.”

  “Hassan doesn’t have to worry about my guarantees or my word ...Anything else?”

  “He would like you to call him immediately.”

  Firat Rashi gave Sargon a half smile. “I think I’ll wait a bit.” What Firat Rashi wanted to establish over Hassan was a mere creation of boundaries by managing this transaction entirely without Hassan Maloof’s direction or input, though he would keep Hassan in the loop. Then he waved a hand dismissively to Sargon.

  “You can go,” he told him, then Rashi pointed to a burly security guard standing at the o
pposite end of the room by the massive entryway. “My man will see you out.”

  Sargon bowed his head in respect, then left the area with the large Syrian man wearing a western-style dress suit showing him the way out.

  * * *

  FIRAT RASHI.

  The letters that titled the biographical record were in bold letters on Kimball’s cellphone, and as he scrolled through the pages with swipes of his finger across the touch screen, he read everything there was to know about Rashi with absorption. Firat Rashi, also known as ‘the Banker,’ began his career by establishing ties to launder and transfer questionable money transactions for known terrorist groups in Jordan and Libya, then canvassed the region by adding connections from Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Iran, Iraq, as well as Muslim populated countries in North Africa. He had been tagged by Interpol, the CIA, the Mossad, and other Intel agencies which included countries in Germany, France, Italy and the United Kingdom. But even with the intelligence community circling Rashi like a pack of wild dogs, they had nothing but circumstantial indications that magically faded away and disappeared, making it impossible to converge on Firat Rashi as a primary source. Kimball continued to scroll through the electronic pages until he came to Rashi’s personal biography such as height, weight and family, with his wife having passed away three years ago of cancer, which left him to rear three young children between the ages of twelve and nine, a son and two daughters, on his own. Kimball ran his finger across the screen until he came upon the schematics of the estate, which was a thumbnail sketch that he was able to expand with his thumb and forefinger.