Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) (8 page)

I glance at my watch.

4:30 in the morning.

Where did the night go? It’s not like me to sleep for hours on end without waking. My ride to the airport is scheduled for dark-thirty. It will be the break of dawn within a half hour. Which means, I’ve got to get my ass up and out of bed.

Crawling out of bed, I run myself under the shower and get re-dressed in the uniform I require for a trip to Israel and Palestine. Levi jeans, cotton work shirt with breast pockets, bush jacket stuffed with passport, cash, notebooks, medical history — including vaccination records, should the worst happen and I end up at the hospital. The jacket also houses some simple first aid items like surgical tape, Band-Aids, a small tube of Neosporin, a little bottle of Advil, and even fishing line and a hook. Lastly, I strap an old black nylon bag around my shoulders. This isn’t a man purse so much as it’s what I use to cart around the treasure I might be going after which, in this case, will constitute seven very special ancient metal texts.

Slipping my shoulder holstered .45 caliber Model 1911 over my shoulder, I also slip two extra magazines into the left-hand pocket on my jacket. No need for leaving it behind since I’ll be flying in Cross’ private jet and I can bring a howitzer aboard if I feel like it. It’s still dark, but the pizza joint is open downstairs, and I head down for a quick coffee. It’s while I’m carrying it out of the shop that I spot her getting out of a taxi, tossing an orange and blue Tough Traveler knapsack over her shoulder.

Magda.

The taxi pulls away, and she stands there staring at me.

I say, “Is it me? Or did I somehow expect not to see you again until I returned the ever triumphant explorer, the fate of the world resting in my hands in the form of seven metal books, the seventh one of those sealed until the day God unseals it?”

She approaches me, takes the cup of coffee, steals a careful sip, then hands it back to me.

She says, “After I left you last night, I went home and tried to sleep. But all I could think about were the codices. How important it is that they are found. How important that the seventh seal isn’t breached. How very important it is that we are able to examine them first before handing them over to Cross.” She smiles. “Plus, I figured two sets of eyes are better than one.”

I sip some coffee. It’s still piping hot.

“Or maybe you just missed me,” I say, not without a sly grin. Chase the tease.

Her smirk says it all.

“I’ll plead the fifth on that one.” She looks at her watch, and adds, “That’s pretty good coffee, by the way.”

“Coming right up,” I say.

Naturally, I get the hint. Chase the gentleman.

I head back into the pizza joint, grab her a coffee and bring it back out. That’s when the black Suburban with tinted windows pulls up.

“Looks like our ride is here,” I say.

Both the driver and passenger side doors open, and two men emerge from inside the big SUV. They are not big men, but huge. Both of them dressed in traditional Hasidic Jewish garb. Black pants and matching suit jackets. White shirt with the tassels hanging off their belts on both hips. They’ve got these big black Stetsons on their heads, and long black hair that’s braided on both sides hanging down to their shoulders.

“Chase Baker,” says the taller of the two, his voice a combination exotic Israeli and tough-guy Brooklyn Heights. “We’ve been instructed to accompany you to the airport.”

“I think there must be a mistake,” I say. “You must be confusing me for someone else.”

“Why should there be a mistake?” the second, shorter Hasidic Jew says in the same oddly accented voice. He takes a step forward on the sidewalk, halting under an inverted ark of sodium lamplight. “You trying to say we look funny?” He opens his black jacket just enough to reveal the pistol grip on a Mini-Uzi 9mm machine pistol.

These guys might be men of God, but they’re not fucking around . . .

“Nice kosher convincer,” I say. “I guess that’s as good as ID. Cross really knows how to pick his employees. You two buddies or bros?”

“Both,” Tall Hasidic Jew says. “And yes, Cross knows what he’s doing. Now, if you don’t mind, the plane is waiting.”

“I need to head upstairs, grab my bag,” I say. Shifting my gaze to Magda. “But my partner can load in now.”

Short Hasidic Jew is quick to shake his head, make slashing motions with his arms like a referee indicating a missed field goal.

“Cross did not say word one about a girl joining us,” he says. Then, turning to his taller partner. “Hey, Moshe, did Cross say anything about a girl?”

“Nah, Itzhak,” Moshe says. “He most definitely did not. Or I would have remembered it.”

Dr. Azzahra looks at me like,
what do we do?

“Tell you what, Moshe, Itzhak,” I say, “why don’t you give Cross a call now. Go ahead and wake him up. Ask him if it’s okay that I bring along an expert in the field of the ancient metal texts I’ve been placed in charge of finding. I’m sure he’s been up almost all night playing Tekken or Tetris or Final Fantasy or whatever video game it is he’s trying to beat the crap out of these days. But then, he’ll be happy as all hell to be woken up out of a sound sleep to field your justified concern.”

Moshe turns to Itzhak.

“The Goyim has a point, Itzy,” he says. “Cross is a good boss, but he’s cranky too.” Nodding at Azzahra. “Okay, lady, you can come.”

Itzy takes hold of her knapsack, carries it around to the back of the SUV, opens the hatch, tosses it in. Meantime, I go upstairs, put some food in the bowl for my pit bull, Lulu, who is no doubt sleeping under my bed. Knowing she will be well taken care of with all the pizza crusts she can eat by the guys who work the pizza joint downstairs, I grab my bag, head back down the single flight of stairs and out onto the sidewalk.

I go to hand Itzy my bag. But he looks at me like I just stepped on his Old Testament.

“I’m not your slave, Mr. Baker,” he says. “And last I looked, you ain’t no pharaoh. You can do your own packing.”

“I’m not Egyptian,” I say. “Not even a teensy bit. But I was an altar boy, and I know that the Jews escaped the Pharaoh when Charlton Heston parted the Red Sea.”

He looks at me wide-eyed, then turns to Moshe. They both start laughing.

“Looks like Chase Baker has watched Ben Hur one too many times,” Itzy says.

Moshe responds, “It’s not Ben Hur, Itz. You got it all confused with The Ten Commandments.”

“Yeah, but he was in Ben Hur. He played the good part. The Jew. That Roman asshole stepbrother of his tried to crash his chariot.”

“Charlton Heston is bad ass, Itzy. He played a killer John the Baptist in The Greatest Story Ever Told.”

“That was a good one, yeah. He should have played Jesus. Not that German guy. What’s his name?”

“Max Von Sydow.”

Itzy laughs hard. “Imagine a blonde German playing Jesus. He’s a big fat Goyim like our boy Chase here.”

They both belly laugh over that one. I laugh too. Not because anything’s funny. But because I’d rather laugh with them than be laughed at.

We all pile in.

“This is going to be a fun drive,” I whisper to Magda who’s seated beside me in the back seat.

“My guess is it will be the most fun we have in the search for the lost codices,” she predicts.

We proceed out of Manhattan, in the direction of the rising sun, just like Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt.

CHAPTER 14

Cross must have some real pull with the TSA (not to mention dough) because Moshe is allowed to enter through a series of secured gates and directly onto the tarmac beside Terminal 4 at JFK International. The white Gulfstream G650 is already powered up with engines idling. We pile out and immediately board the luxury plane. A flight attendant is standing at the open door to greet us. She’s wearing a short blue skirt and matching jacket, tight fitting white button down, her long blonde hair veiling her smooth-as-silk face. Obviously, Cross believes in his eye candy.

She leads Magda and me to our leather bucket seats with a smile and hands us a glass of chilled champagne a piece.

“This is what I call a gig,” I say over my shoulder. “Now I know how Leonardo DiCaprio feels.”

“Leo is a strong advocate for the environment,” she says. “Even if he does travel the world in a gas guzzler.”

“We can’t all be perfect. Maybe he’ll buy one of my pot boilers, make it into a major Hollywood production.” Setting down the champagne and spreading my hands to imitate the big screen. “What do you think? Leo DiCaprio as Chase Baker.” Picking the champagne glass back up by its stem. “Kind of has a ring to it.”

“He’s a little tall,” she says.

“Or maybe what you’re trying to say is I’m too short.”

She sips her drink, grins. “Anyone ever tell you, Chase, that you have quite the imagination?”

“Man’s gotta think big, or his world will always be small.”

“Same goes for a woman.”

“I hear you roar, baby.”

As Magda elbows me, I make out the sound of two more people boarding the jet. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that it’s Itzy and Moshe.

“What are you two doing?” I say.

“Cross didn’t tell you?” Itzy says, sitting down hard across the aisle from Magda and me. “He wants us to accompany you every step of the way.”

“Allow me to explain,” Moshe adds, sitting down beside his partner. “We’re to protect you in case an evil element presents itself.” He pats his rib cage in the place where the Uzi stock is located under his long black coat.

Magda leans into me.

“Cross is onto us . . . onto me,” she whispers.

“We’ll ditch Mike and Ike first chance we get,” I whisper back.

“Good luck with that,” she says.

Hot Flight Attendant closes the hatch, kindly informs us that we will be taking off shortly, and to buckle our seatbelts. She collects the empty champagne glasses and, within minutes, we’re taxing along the runway and then in the air, on our way over the Atlantic Ocean to the Holy Land.

We’re maybe four hours into the eleven-hour flight when Moshe and Itzhak get up from their seats and gather by the closed door of the cockpit.

“Hell they doing?” I say.

“Praying,” Magda says.

“Now?”

“They’re strict Jews. They never miss their prayers. Remember, they’re preparing themselves for the coming of the Messiah.”

“He’s already been here.”

“Don’t tell them that.”

“But won’t the coming of the Messiah signal the end of the world?”

“So what? It will be a day of rejoicing for the Jews.”

Both men pull out little black leather editions of the Siddur prayer book and place them close to their faces so they can read the fine print. They begin to sway in rhythm with their recited words.

“Why do they move like that when they pray?” I ask after a beat.

“Abraham is said to have insisted that the Israelites sway when they pray. It’s a gesture that is supposed to capture the attention of God, maybe make Him more eager to finally make his descent upon the earth. Usher in the end of days.”

I clear my throat. “You beginning to make the same connection I’m making, Mag?”

“The end of days, the addition of two devout Hasidic Jews to our team. the Seventh Seal.”

“Kind of all adds up, doesn’t it?” I note.

“Let’s hope not.”

We hit a sudden air pocket and drop like a stone, only to belly flop against some good air. Moshe and Itzy wobble and nearly fall to the floor, but regain their balance at the last second.

“You feel that, Moshe?” Itzy the shorter says, his face beaming as opposed to horrified. “God is sending us a message.”

“I feel it, Itzy,” Moshe says, his face also alight. “Right in my gut and in my soul.”

Magda grabs hold of my hand, squeezes.

“I hate turbulence,” she says. “Do you mind holding my hand during the rough patch?”

Her hand squeezing mine feels like heaven. I peer out the window at the setting sun and pray for severe chop the entire way.