Guardian (20 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-­Two

A
bu knocked on the oak door with three quick raps and waited.

“Enter.”

He opened the door, stepped into the office and closed it behind him. He did not move any further, head bowed, eyes on the toes of his shoes. The carpet was a sand color with hints of brown.

“Lord Protector.”

“Please, come in, Abu.”

Abu lifted his head and walked toward the desk on the other side of the large space. Behind the desk, Saladin Issa, Lord Protector of the Guardians of the Prison, rose and waved him toward a leather chair. His old yet muscular frame filled the window behind him, blocking the view of downtown Baghdad below.

“Have a seat.”

Abu did, sitting across from his host. Saladin wore a taupe business suit with a red shirt and gray tie. His cuff links were gold with diamond tips. His white hair was parted to the left and combed with generous amounts of pomade.

Saladin returned to his seat and leaned back, hands on the arms. “The prison of Belial has been found.”

“Yes.” Abu did not make direct eye contact out of respect. “And steps are under way to ensure its security.”

“You mentioned in your report that we have the cooperation of the Israeli government. How so?”

Abu explained the relationship he had developed with Joseph. “The Israeli does not want to believe everything he was told, but he will not risk endangering his ­people or his country. He has told his superiors that a chemical weapon smuggled by Hezbollah in the mountains was intercepted and accidentally destroyed, making the area around the mountain dangerous. They seemed to have accepted this lie.”

“And our ­people?”

“Will build accommodations on the mountain with the help of the local Druze population. The site is very remote and we do not anticipate any problems for the foreseeable future.”

Saladin nodded. “Very good. And Kharija is neutralized, correct?”

“I saw to it personally.”

“A shame how he allowed himself to be corrupted by Nassir. He was a true guardian until he lost his way.”

“Yes. All for a wife and daughter who were already dead, sadly.”

“Unfortunate for him and us. We are much weaker now. Too many Brothers have been killed.”

“Kharija made one final request of me before he died.”

“What was that?”

“He wished his Brothers to know he was sorry.”

“At least he realized the truth before his death.” Saladin rubbed the arms of his chair. “You did not neutralize the American, though.”

“With the Israelis present, I had to choose between killing him or securing cooperation for guarding the prison.”

“You chose correctly. But every moment the American draws a breath is dangerous for the world.”

Abu was silent a moment, thinking about how to broach the subject. “There is something else that I did not include in the report.”

Saladin's eyebrows rose. “And that is?”

Abu cleared his throat. “Nassir did not kill the American while he had the chance. Instead, he disappeared into the night like a ghost. The Israelis scoured the surrounding area for hours with men and helicopters and they could not even find a track. Something happened up there that scared Nassir away. And Nassir somehow vanished without a trace.”

“That is strange, but I do not see how it matters to the order.”

“Nassir knew about the prison. He had a better idea of where it was than we ever had. He knew about the order, enough to seek out Kharija and turn him. He wanted to free Belial. How he or the American came to know it was Belial's prison, I know not. But I do know Nassir is not who he appears to be. He has amassed a wealth of forbidden knowledge and possibly power.”

Saladin turned his chair and looked out the window at downtown Baghdad. “You make reasonable and alarming points. Nassir requires watching.”

“I have already taken steps to put someone in place.”

Saladin turned back to Abu. “In what way?”

“I am working to move a Brother currently working in the president's administrative offices over to Nassir's.”

“How?”

“By creating a vacancy.”

Saladin smirked. “Of course.”

Abu chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “There is something else.”

“Yes.”

“Well, when we were ascending the mountain, we saw a fire break out on the summit above. All of Nassir's men had been burned alive.”

“By who?”

“I do not know. The American would not elaborate other than to joke that his guardian angel did it.”

Saladin leaned forward, eyes tight and serious. “Guardian angel?”

“Yes.”

“And you said the men were burned alive? You saw fire?”

Abu nodded.

Saladin rose and walked around his desk to a wall on the far side of the office. The entire length of it was covered in shelf after shelf of modern and ancient books. Saladin's personal library. He ran the fingers of his right hand over the spines on a middle shelf and then settled on one.

The book was old but not ancient, the pages yellowed and the binding tattered. Saladin opened it carefully and gently flipped through several pages.

“How did the fire burn?” he asked.

Abu's eyebrows sank. “I do not understand.”

“Could you tell if it burned like a normal fire? Did the flames lick the sky?”

Abu remembered that night and how the fire looked from the trail below, the way the colors danced. They did not flicker like the flames of a regular fire. “No. From what I saw, it seemed the fire swirled.”

“Come here, Abu.”

Abu stood, walked to Saladin's side and looked down at the page Saladin was studying. On it was the picture of an old wood-­engraved illustration of a winged angel swinging a sword. But the sword's blade was forged of flame instead of steel. And it did not end with a tip. Instead, flames extended beyond the sword in great curves, like a whip. In the corners of the illustration, horned demons cowered in fear.

He looked at the title of the illustration at the bottom of the page: uriel defends the garden.

“What does this mean?” Abu asked, almost breathless.

“It means we are dealing with forces greater than even we are aware of.” Saladin closed the book. “And Nassir Fahd is right in the middle of them all.”

 

Chapter Thirty-­Three

“T
he prime minister is ready to see you, Mrs Shamar.”

Kitra rose and moved past the secretary into the office of the Israeli prime minister. Inside, Simeon Gilead sat behind his olivewood desk, elbows on top and fat fingers interlaced. To say Gilead was overweight was to be kind. To Kitra, the man resembled a walrus, with his bushy moustache and dark brown suit.

“Come over here, Kitra.”

Kitra walked across the room and stopped before the desk, hands behind her back. “Prime Minister.”

“Please sit down, Kitra.”

She did as commanded and sat in the leather-­backed chair across from the leader of her country. “How may I help you?”

“You are to retire as the head of the Metsada in a ­couple of months.”

“That is correct.”

“Unfortunately, retirement will not happen.”

Kitra leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

“The director of the Mossad informed me this morning he is resigning due to family reasons. Poor man's wife has Alzheimer's, apparently.”

Kitra looked down at the floor out of respect. Poor Moshe. She'd known him and his wife a long time. To hear such news, from Gilead of all ­people, bothered her. It was something she would have preferred Moshe to approach her with.

“I had no idea.”

“No one did. Moshe kept it to himself until he informed me. And I think he wishes to keep it as such. So he will leave quietly and without any fuss.”

“Of course,” Kitra said, thinking that after she was done with the prime minister, she would find Moshe and talk to him privately.

“So I need someone who can take Moshe's place and will not attract much attention or queries. You, being career Mossad and with a record of exemplary ser­vice, fit the part.”

Kitra's eyes narrowed. “You are asking me to take Moshe's place. It is not a part to be played.”

Gilead unlaced his fingers and rocked back in his chair, his belly cresting the surface of the desk. “Yes, you are correct. It is not a part. It is yet another position you are being asked to serve for your country. Will you?”

Kitra did not hesitate. “Yes.”

“Excellent. I will make the announcement later today.”

“Will that be all, Prime Minister?”

“Not quite.”

Kitra remained still, wondering what else Gilead would drop on him.

“The recent incident in the north is very alarming. Hezbollah with chemical weapons. Full support of Syria. Troubling to say the least.”

Joseph nodded. It was a lie, but no worse than the truth. “Yes, it is.”

“I have come to the conclusion that to prevent another attempted attack—­or worse, a successful one—­drastic measures must be taken.”

“What kind of measures?”

Gilead drummed his fingers on the desktop. “President Saddam Fatik of Syria represents a present danger to the ­people of Israel. He must be neutralized.”

Kitra nodded. Nassir was the real threat, but his puppet Fatik was dangerous, too. Why not kill both?

“Very well, but I insist that Nassir Fahd be added to that list next to him.”

“The advisor?”

“Yes. He pulls the strings and coordinates directly with Hezbollah.”

“Then he must be neutralized as well.”

Kitra rolled the order over in her mind. She had just been promoted and offered the chance to take out the two biggest current threats to Israeli security. How could the day get any better? Then she remembered poor Moshe and suddenly felt a small twinge of guilt.

“I will take care of it,” she said. “I believe the Syrian president has a trip planned for Beirut in early November.”

Gilead nodded. “That will be a good time. After the US presidential election but before the inauguration.”

“And just before the end of your term.”

“Yes. Let us wipe the slate clean and set the new leaders up for success.”

“Have you communicated with your successor about Moshe and myself?”

“I have, and he assures me you will be given a fair chance under his administration.”

Kitra nodded. Shee could not ask for much more. She rose from her seat. “Well, then, Prime Minister, I have an assassination to plan.”

G
lenn glanced from his novel to the television. The news was reporting that the governor of California had pulled ahead of the senator from Maine in the latest presidential poll. He didn't really care usually, but the guy from Maine was an asshole. Which meant the guy from California got his vote by default.

And if he wins, there will be a new CIA director come January,
Glenn thought. Which also wasn't a bad thing.

He turned back to his book, finishing the page and turning to the next. After a few more minutes he grew tired of it, though, and set it on the desk.

It wasn't his cup of tea, but he had decided to do some research on Mike's bullshit stories. The book was hard to track down, having been out of print for a few years, but he'd managed to find one on eBay. The author was passionate about the topic, which he appreciated, but the topic was too fantastical for his taste. Still, he had a rogue agent working for him who had been through some pretty fantastic shit. Might as well do some studying.

He looked at the cover. On it a winged angel stomped down on a demon and held a spear to its throat. The title was in garish gold lettering: the forsaken.

Glenn smirked. He found the author by accident. He'd run a Google search for angelic prisons and come across a professor of religious history at the University of Southern California named Jennifer Longinus. From what he found, Longinus wrote nonfiction books about religion in the Middle East. Nothing at all to do with angels and demons.

Then he did a little more digging and discovered Longinus had written a novel under the pseudonym Jack Spears.
The Forsaken
was the first in a series. This led Glenn to another book by Longinus, written before she was a professor, about the occult.

Longinus and her work quickly become an obsession for Glenn. He didn't know why. The nonfiction books read like most nonfiction books: slow, bloated, and pompous. The fiction ones read like schlock. But Glenn had to admit that Longinus seemed to know her shit. And on several occasions she had referenced angelic prisons. Anyone who could back Mike's tall tales snatched his full attention these days.

Someone knocked on the door. Then it opened and Chloe, his secretary poked her head in. “Deputy, S.A.D. is here to see you.”

Shit, Glenn thought. He'd forgotten about his meeting with Steve Ogden. “Show him in.”

Chloe stepped aside and the Special Activities director moved past her and she shut the door behind him.

“Deputy,” Steve Ogden said.

“Steve, what did I tell you about that formal shit? Have a seat.”

Steve eased himself into the chair across from Glenn. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Sure. What can I do for you?”

“I need to call in that favor you owe me.”

Glenn shrugged. “What favor?”

“Don't play that game with me.” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I need Mike Caldwell for a job.”

“Sorry, Steve. Mike's out of the country right now. Maybe next time.”

“I'm tired of that fucking excuse. This needs to happen sooner rather than later.”

“I'm sure we've got other ­people that can handle it.”

“Not this one. It's wet work and could end up on foreign soil in countries we've got explicit agreements with not to target individuals.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

“Still, I want this one clean, and someone with complete deniability will work perfectly.”

Glenn frowned, realizing he wasn't going to win this one. “What's the target?”

“The man Mossad backed off on to rescue your boy in Iraq.”

“The gunrunner?”

Steve nodded. “Frederick Gottlieb.”

“Why now?”

“Kitra Shamar called in a marker. She's taking over Mossad and wants that chapter closed. So, now I'm calling in my marker on you.” Steve rose and smoothed out his jacket. “Let me know when Mike's ready to go.”

Before Glenn could say anything more, Steve turned his big frame and strolled out of the office.

Once he was gone, Glenn thought,
Shit.