SANCTION: A Thriller (2 page)

Despite the imprudent behavior of their father, both of the Ward boys were gifted and intelligent. They exhibited the rare and extraordinary ability to master subjects of inexhaustible range and theory. If they had inherited anything from Frank Ward, it was the cautious and sober minded approaches to life that they had accrued by watching him trash their family’s legacy.

Rhinefeld laughed at the comment as he gazed past his students to stare at the magnificent backdrop of the library. The farthest wall was studded with a brilliant array of rare gems. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires and onyx stones were arranged in concentric circles along its length. Inside each was a single Hebrew letter painted in black script. Rhinefeld read the wall to himself for the umpteenth time. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge.”

The library itself had been discovered as part of a larger excavation of the ancient town of Halam when an earthquake uncovered its subterranean entrance. The shaft that led to the library had been built into the base of a low-lying hill behind a large private home in Halam. When the earthquake moved a stone from the back of the home, it revealed a secret world of unimaginable beauty and wealth. It was still unclear to Rhinefeld, as well as everyone else who knew of the site’s existence, why the library had been intentionally hidden during its construction. Like all archaeologists, Rhinefeld hoped it would one day become apparent, but he knew all too well that history did not always lend itself to clarity.

Kathrine Boyd stepped closer to the professor; a sheepish grin draped across the lower half of her face. He knew that this was a veiled apology. He also knew that it was not genuine. Had it been, she would not have pursued him on tape the way that she had. She would not have sought to further her career under the guise of ‘free press’ by sensationalizing the ‘off the record’ conversation that they had had before the interview.

“Professor Rhinefeld, I hope I didn’t upset you. I only meant to get to the bottom of things.” she said. “Allow me to make it up to you. Let me buy you dinner in Zefat.”

If Rhinefeld hadn’t been interested before, he certainly wasn’t now. Though Katherine was beautiful, it was apparent to him, as well as everyone else in the room, that the reporter thought a great deal more about herself than she ought to.

She reached around to the back of her head and pulled her shoulder length black hair into a tight pony tail. Her lips, perfectly set into an oval face, were dark brown.

Rhinefeld guessed the color of her lipstick to be named something like Cinnamon Trance or Umber Rose–something pretentious. He wondered if this little act was the equivalent of batting her eyes. He also wondered if anything about Ms. Boyd was authentic. Thankfully, she had left him with an out.

“That won’t be necessary Ms. Boyd I wasn’t offended, although I do think you were off base. I made it clear in our previous conversation that there’s no evidence as to the origins of this place,” he said as he looked into her sharp hazel eyes. He hovered an entire head above her.

“It was misleading,” he added softly.

The professor in him endeavored to tell the truth with tact and kindness, but above all, to tell it.

“I see,” she said, her remorseful countenance melting into a tight smirk. She moved her attention from Rhinefeld to the line of students that was forming at the base of the shaft. One by one, they each began ascending the makeshift rope ladder for the long forty foot climb to the top.

Rhinefeld studied her profile as she turned toward the exit and focused on the group in front of them. She seemed embarrassed, maybe even hurt, probably the most sincere response he had solicited from her since they had met three hours earlier. It didn’t mean they were going to dinner, but he did consider softening the blow somehow.

The two of them stepped forward as the line moved. Granules of sand rubbed between the soles of their shoes and the stone floor of the library creating a soft grinding noise. Rhinefeld stuffed his hands into his pockets awkwardly. He opened his mouth to speak as she stared at him through her peripheral vision. His words, though carefully chosen, were never uttered.

A piercing crack echoed down to them through the shaft and shattered the relative peace of the chamber. In quick succession, several thunderous claps exploded at the site of the old city of Halam, above the library. Out of reflex, Rhinefeld ducked. The air around them seemed to tear and howl under the volley of rattling bursts. Katherine Boyd stood still, shock numbing her mind, while the students screamed and ran for cover. Rhinefeld struggled to get his bearing as the entire library erupted in a flash of chaos. His heart was pounding and his breathing became labored; fear was beginning to cloud his senses. A few agonizing seconds later he realized he was listening to the deafening sound of a machine gun.

Silence fell over the room as Imam Sharif Nazari took his place behind a glass podium. Cameras flashed for several seconds as he laid his speech notes on the top of the stand and surveyed the crowd. News stations from around the globe were represented by the audience that waited for him to begin.

It had been four months since Nazari had assumed control of the Hamas. He was the first Muslim cleric to run the Palestinian government and the first to reign in all of its members. His first act as Prime Minister had been to declare an official Palestinian ceasefire, after what had been months of vicious back and forth fighting between the two peoples. Everyone had been skeptical about his ability to sustain control but so far his power had held; not a shot had been fired in Gaza or the West Bank.

In that time, Nazari had become a celebrity in the international community. He was being courted as the new hope of the Middle East.

“Today we have reason to be joyous for our collective community,” he began. The large group of reporters hung on every syllable.

“We have seen that my people are willing to seek peace as a means to a cohesive government.” The cleric’s English was crisp and clear.

“What we do not see is the Israeli government. I have continued to keep my people at bay awaiting the counsel of their Prime Minister. I am here, the Hamas is here, in Geneva-the global city, waiting to hear from the Jewish people, waiting for peace.”

The reporters sat patiently, few attempted to conceal the unabashed adoration they held for him.

“Both of our peoples have been guilty of much against each other. There can be no peace if we do not start there. Both sides must sacrifice politically to seek peace.”

Nazari knew that there were many in Palestine that would be infuriated by his words but for the time being, he had exerted an immense amount of pressure on the populace and he was confident that it would hold. He would deal with their discontented blood lust in due time.

“As with all men, we have a limit to our patience,” he said, raising his eyebrows and furling them down toward his nose for dramatic flair.

“I will continue to lead Hamas and the people of Palestine down this road but, it must be understood, that without a reason to believe that Israel wants peace, we must assume this ceasefire is one of only temporary status.”

Ben Schweitzer sat in the back of the room, his smartphone recording the press conference from inside his jacket pocket.

He was short, not so much that he needed a booster seat in restaurants, but such that he was below the Israeli national average as well as that of his native Czechoslovakia. Everything else about Ben however was exceptional. He was lean, on the muscular side with ample biceps and strong shoulders developed from years of Krav Maga. His features were sharp, like they were carved from stone and his hair, a thick pile of black unruly layers.

Both of his parents had been German Jews from Austria. They fled to Great Britain at the beginning of World War ll but had found it difficult to fit in with English society. They were determined never to return to the country that was populated by people who allowed the atrocities of the camps so after the war ended; they relocated to Czechoslovakia–where Ben’s father had distant relatives.

After college, Ben had been recruited by the Israeli Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations. He found his place in the Mossad as a field operative digging up information on potential enemies within political streams. Though he grew up as far away from Jerusalem as one could, his parents had raised him to see only his Jewish heritage as trustworthy and he vowed to protect it however he could. As an agent of the Mossad, his current assignment was to assess Imam Nazari.

He knew Nazari was lying. Ben was aware that the Israeli government had used back channels to contact the Imam’s people on three different occasions. The reason they had not been able to come to the “peace table” was because the Hamas wanted all the negotiations to be public from the outset. The Israeli Prime Minister had seen too many failed accords to be willing to negotiate under the watchful eye of the World without laying some preliminary groundwork beforehand. Nazari had not answered that call.

Schweitzer had watched Western countries go from calling Yasser Arafat, “The Father of Terrorism,” to awarding him the Nobel Peace Prize. He was sure that Nazari and Arafat were of the same cloth. So, naturally, he was predisposed to distrust the cleric.

As part of Ben’s cover, he reported to a Czechoslovakian newspaper, where he maintained a political Op-Ed weekly article. It afforded him genuine credentials as a reporter, which he used to move about in political circles quite feely.

Nazari was nearing the end of his thirty minute speech. His guards tensed, all of their eyes panning the crowd with intensity. Ben knew the security threat to the Imam was real. His own nation presented the greatest reality to that threat. However, seeing the guards displaying such bravado and machismo made him laugh to himself.

The speech ended and Ben picked up his battered briefcase and made his way around the back row of chairs to the rear of the room. He could hear the other reporters volleying for a chance to ask their question. Ben never asked questions.

The Jewish spy was nearing a metal detector that led to a set of glass double doors when he was stopped by a man in a black military uniform. It was one of Nazari’s guards.

The man was tall, at least six inches above Ben’s’ five foot seven. A broad set of shoulders outlined a thick muscular neck. His dark hair hung low over his eyes so that he had to brush it away from his face several times.

“Can I help you?” Ben asked as the Arab sized him up. He stood directly in front of Ben, making it clear that he would need permission to continue.

“Imam Nazari is allowing several reporters to accompany him to his Estate in Syria. They will be invited to interview him privately, as well as present questions to select ranking members of Hamas.” The guard’s accent, thick Middle Eastern, fit his appearance perfectly. “You are among the individuals being invited.”

Ben didn’t know how developed the Intelligence services of the Hamas were, but he had to assume his cover might be gone. He hated being forced into a blind situation and the idea that they could be setting him up, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to get close to Nazari.

“For those who decide to attend, we head directly to the airport after the convention.” The man said as he folded two hairy arms across his chest.

Ben thought it odd that the leader of the Palestinian group Hamas maintained a residence in Syria but he was too eager to get close to the mysterious figure and his organization to raise a suspicious eye in front of his assistant.

“I accept Imam Nazari’s generous offer,” Ben said simply.

The stranger smiled. There was something behind the row of brown stained teeth and sharply upturned mouth; something ominous.

“
J
erry, we need to get out of this shaft,” professor Rhinefeld said as he dangled a few feet below Jerry on the same flimsy rope ladder. Rhinefeld’s heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst. Jerry nodded his head in agreement but Rhinefeld doubted he had the presence of mind to unclench his fists and climb back down.

Jerry was from a small town in Iowa. He was a typical farm-boy, strong, smart and from a big family. Rhinefeld liked him, but he could be stubborn and the occasional know it all.

“Here we go Jerry. One foot under the other.”

Jerry didn’t budge. His face was stark white against the shadowed background of the shaft and the dim light that filtered down to them. He stared, unseeing, as Rhinefeld studied the opening of the shaft thirty-five feet above them.

“I can’t,” he murmured.

For the time being, the shots above had ceased. Rhinefeld couldn’t be sure what that meant.

“Jerry, do you want to live?”

Jerry nodded his head.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Then Jerry, you need to loosen your grip on this ladder.” Rhinefeld paused as he searched for the right words.

“If you stay where you are and they look into this hole in the ground, you are a vulnerable and exposed target, as well as me.” The thought sent a chill up the professor’s body.

Jerry looked like he was about to respond when the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the chamber to them.

Jerry panicked and absurdly hugged the ladder tight as if it had some cloaking ability. Rhinefeld climbed the last few rungs so that he straddled the student. He placed his hands over Jerry’s and began prying at them. Jerry’s grip was strong. Rhinefeld could hear the steps as they neared the edge of the shaft.

Without giving it much thought, Rhinefeld slammed the front of his forehead into the side of Jerry’s head. Jerry went limp and the two slid several feet as Rhinefeld struggled to lower Jerry to safety.

Matt Ward reached up and grabbed the professor’s leg. The two quickly lowered Jerry to the ground and drug him back to the library.

Just as they vanished out of sight of the shafts opening, a tanned Arab face peered over its edge. Rhinefeld pulled Jerry ten yards and laid him down gently on the marble floor. He looked around the room. Everyone’s eyes were trained on the bottom of the shafts opening as they waited for the nightmare that was to come.