The Hand of Christ (42 page)

“
You know, Sonia; it was because of that night that I fell in love with Yellow Tail Chardonnay. After that man almost killed you, I went to the nearest bar to get a drink. I was shaking at the thought of nearly losing you, and the bartender poured me a glass. Ever since then, I have had one after a successful mission to remind me of just how close I came to losing you.”

Sonia sat back and thought for a long moment, and then said, “Michael, you drink a lot of Yellow Tail.”

His response was deadpanned: “Well - I am really good.”

Rolling her eyes at him she groaned but smiled, “Jesus Christ, you men are all the same: ego and testosterone.”

Pausing for a moment, Michael sensed that her mood was deflating somewhat, “Sonia, are you okay?”

“
Michael, will you always be doing this kind of thing, running around shooting and killing people the government doesn’t like?”

“
I didn’t kill the Ayatollah if that’s what you are asking. The Company doesn’t do that kind of thing, we don’t do assassinations.”

“
Then what do you do?”

“
I used to be in special operations dealing with counter terrorism activities. I did a lot of work in the Middle East, you know, on my
business trips.
It was pretty dangerous stuff, but now I am a policy guy. I am the Company’s expert in the Middle East and am supposed to only deal with intelligence and matters relating to Middle Eastern relations between the US and Islamic countries. My days jumping out of planes and conducting tactical operations are over. They have been for awhile, or at least they had been until today.”

“
Do you ever get to speak to the President?”

Michael smiled at her question and answered, “Sometimes, I spoke with him earlier today.” The call on the secured line through NORAD had been brief but counted, Michael supposed.

Sonia felt an unannounced twinge of admiration for her husband but then remembered the attack, “Were you in Syria today, in that mosque?”

Michael sighed, and answered, “Yes, I was.”

Sonia was in disbelief, “How could you get there and back so quick, the attack was only this afternoon?”

“
On a really fast plane,” Michael thought back to the constricting effects from the g-forces and winced.

“
Sonia, I don’t know why the mosque was attacked, we were having peace talks between the US, Israel, Syria, and Lebanon. I was there to help and they were going really well and then the attack. I am sure that it is related to the assassination of the Ayatollah. My hunch is that someone was not happy that we were all negotiating.”

Michael remembered Yousef; he was Sonia’s friend from Georgetown, too; he needed to tell her.

No more lying.

“
Sonia, Yousef was there too, he was with Syrian Intelligence. He was the one that asked me to be there today.”

“
Is everyone a damn secret agent?” Then it hit her. Michael has used the past tense. “Wait,
was
a Syrian Agent Michael?”

Sonia knew what Michael was going to say. The news had said there was only one survivor – and she knew who that survivor was.

“
He died in the attack, Sonia, I am really sorry.”

Sonia buried her head into her hands. Michael turned the car back on and then reached over and stroked her hair. Without lifting her head she spoke through her whimpers, “Does Alaina know?”

“
I am not sure, but we will have to worry about her later. Sonia we have to go, I am going to take you to my Dad. He will take care of you. I want the two of you to head to our cabin in the mountains. The Company doesn’t know about it; the place is clean of any traces to us, I made sure of it. Those guys that just tried to kill us were with the CIA; they’re a rogue sleeper-cell. I knew those two guys for years; somebody in the Company is in on this whole mess. I can’t trust anyone right now, and I aim to find out just what the hell is going on.”

“
What are you planning to do, where are you going?” Sonia asked. Her voice trembled with fear.

Michael reached over and grabbed her hand. Giving it a squeeze, he said, “This isn’t over, Sonia. A group of people is conspiring to start a war between the US and Iran and they have thrown me right in the middle of it. Given what just happened, I don’t think that I was supposed to live today. The assassination of the Ayatollah and the attack in Syria was just a start. I think that they are going to kill the Pope next. Somehow Yousef found out about it and passed the information to me before he died.”

“
Oh my God! The Pope? Michael, what are you going to do?”

“
I am going to stop a war.”

Chapter Forty

1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW

Washington, DC

It was late or, depending on how one looked at it, it was early. His watch read 2:30 a.m. and the previous night had somehow morphed into the early morning. He was not yet aware just how tired he was surviving off caffeine and shots of adrenaline.

Startling him, both of his cell phones seemed to vibrate at the same time. Having just left the Situation room, the Director was in a hurry but stopped in the hallway leading to the side entrance of the White House to check his messages. Unclipping the Blackberry from his belt, the stopped his heart for a moment:

Game is over.

We lost.

Two players permanently out for the season.

New game plan?

Shit
, cringed the Director as his head fell backward in disbelief.
Sterling is too good; I should have sent the second team with them.

Quickly, he responded to the Handler:

Go Home.

Get yourself cleaned up.

Call you some other time.

The Handler would receive the message and would know that it was time to disappear. The second part of the message ordered him to clean up any traces of his existence. He would go into deep hiding until it was necessary to be called back into service.

He reached for the still buzzing second phone; the incoming message was from the Messenger:

12 hours.

28 steps to the seat of the First.

The simple message was an old code but easily understood, the three ranking men of The Order would be meeting soon and the Director knew precisely where.

Chapter Forty-One

Denver Tech Center

Centennial, CO

The Colorado Athletic Club was nearly empty but offered its services around the clock. Only the die-hard and obsessive were working out at this time of night. Michael rarely ever used the club, only needing it as a place to keep certain items secured. Once a year the club deducted the dues he owed from an innocuous bank account under the name of Jeremy L. Peters, a member that was never late paying his fees.

The real Jeremy L. Peters was a middle-aged man who was currently living out his days as an early Alzheimer’s patient in a full-time care facility in Colorado Springs. Any real diligence given to checking the background of Jeremy L. Peters would lead to a man with no family, a valid social security number, a bank account automatically funded by social security checks, and a man whose estate was managed by a Company
friendly
trustee and nothing more. But no one would check so long as the dues were paid on time, not that it would matter.

In addition to the yearly membership fee,
Jeremy
paid the annual cost for the rental of a full size private locker and unlimited towels.

Michael swiped his card, which caused his photo and name to display on the computer screen behind the front desk counter. The clerk on duty offered the customary pleasantries, “Hello, Mr. Peters, getting in a late workout?”

Michael (aka Mr. Peters) responded casually, “Yeah, I’ve got pretty bad jet lag. Just got back from a long business trip to Japan, it feels like five in the afternoon to me. Can I get a towel from you?”

The overnight front desk clerk threw Michael a small rolled up white, terry cloth towel. Michael thanked him and continued to the locker room.

As he had hoped it would be, the locker room was empty.

Quickly, Michael made his way to locker number C-140 and inserted his key. Inside were two changes of clothes, a set for winter and one for summer, along with three different jackets depending on what type of weather he would expect. He put on a button down Tommy Bahama fitted-shirt and donned a black North Face shell that would help in case of slight cold and rain, nothing more.

At the base of the locker was a locked metal and fireproof box that required a combination to open. Looking around once more, ensuring no prying eyes Michael entered the requisite numbers and opened it. He pulled out a small stack of foreign passports; rummaging through them he took out the Italian credentials and threw back in to the box the Russian, Canadian, and South African ones. He grabbed a wad of American currency and a stack of Euros from the five different options. Inspecting the three cell phones that were in the box, he chose the one that was programmed for a European network.

He removed the top tray of the container exposing two Kel-tec P32 handguns and a pair of tactical four-inch throwing knives. He grabbed the diminutive six-ounce guns and ensured that each was loaded with ammunition. Both went inside of his jacket, one in the left pocket the other in the right. Extra clips were placed in his outside coat pockets. The two knives were shoved in small specially designed containers in his sleeves.

Michael dialed a rarely used number that was pre-programmed into the new cell phone’s Subscriber Identity Module (SIM) card.

The International Mobile Subscriber Identity appeared on the recipient’s cell phone as blocked. After three rings, a digitally scrambled deep voice void of any emotion responded coldly, “Go ahead.”

“
Ahaggar wasn’t missing as much life as you. How have you been old friend?”

“
Michael, is that you?”

“
The one and only, sorry to call so late, but it’s important.”

“
More important than Syria?”

The man he was speaking to was a professional, long ago having turned to the private contracting world. Michael replied, “More important.”

“
What do you need?”

“
Jimmy, I need to be in Rome. It has to be non-commercial, no questions, and faster than a couple of rabbits in love.”

“
Whew! How ‘bout a couple of Raiders’ cheerleaders to go along with that? Jesus, Michael, you’re asking a lot.”

“
I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could do it. Listen, Jimmy, this is serious. Can you do it?”

“
Let me make a couple of calls, and Michael?”

“
Yeah?”

“
It’s gonna cost you.”

“
I figured as much; take it from my numbered account, same one I used to pay for the windows, whatever the price is. Just make it fast. Oh, by the way, those Lexan windows worked pretty damn good – saved my ass and my wife’s.”

“
Glad to hear it, I think. What’s the story behind it?”

“
Some other time, Jimmy, call me when the arrangements are made.”

Michael hung up the new phone and took his Company issued cell phone from his front pocket. Cracking open the phone he yanked out the traceable SIM card and shoved it deep into his front pocket. He put the newly unusable cell phone back into his jacket.

Chapter Forty-Two

Langley, VA

CIA Headquarters

The young Professional Trainee (PT) had pulled the night shift for the second straight week and was having a hard time staying awake. He was one of the fortunate young men to be awarded a full academic scholarship from the CIA and dreamed of action and intrigue. He didn’t envision sitting up all night waiting for phones to ring or alarms to go off as part of his career plans. Unfortunately, he owed the Company six-years of service to repay the scholarship.

He had to start at the bottom.

He was fighting a losing battle with sleep; his head rhythmically bobbed up and down – doing
church-pew-nods
– when the muffled alarm on his computer screen sounded.

The tone startled him and he snapped his head up; a small stream of drool hit the side of his cheek, “What the hell? Is that real?” He wiped the spittle from his face glad no one was around to see it. He strained his eyes, the lids of which were still heavy from sleep, to make sure he was seeing correctly.

The PT picked up the phone and dialed the phone number that flashed on the screen. It took eight rings before there was an answer. The PT had no idea that the Director was currently en route to Rome and for that matter that the phone number belonged to such a senior official.

Trying to catch some sleep on the plane, the Director was startled awake by the ring of his cell phone as the satellite fed the incoming signal of the call to it. His phone was stuck at the bottom of his deep coat pocket, which was folded neatly in the overhead bin. Standing to retrieve it – it took him a moment longer than what was considered socially acceptable to get his tired fingers around the ringing device – he fumbled to find it.