The Great Deception (16 page)

The three leading Islamic clerics
representing the Ummahs (people groups) in the kingdom took their
seats before the throne. Before they sat though, each one
reverentially greeted the king with the traditional salaam
treatment (a low bow with the palm of the right hand on the
forehead).

Kahlil curled his finger twice in a
beckoning

motion. "Come Jabour, you have news to
tell."

Jabour came forward upon hearing his alias
surname.

"Have a seat," the king offered.

A red pillow with a throw on an expensive
rug invited the messenger to recline in comfort while passing along
the dispatch. He found the furnishing to his liking. Jabour swept
the shiny dark hair off his face to fix a side part. Untold secrets
stared at the king behind a set of inscrutable eyes. "Long live the
king and may Allah be praised!" he opened it up with, hoping to
grease the skids for what came down the pike.

Kahlil nodded slightly and waited for Jabour
to skip to business. A brief bought with thirst was quenched after
he delivered a golden goblet to his lips and held it there for
quite some time.

"Something is about to happen all around the
world your Excellency," Jabour started off with grim certainty.

The king's cup quivered a little. He studied
his visitor to know even more than what had already been spoken. A
ring on the right hand stood out to him.

He noted the ring seemed to be reversed,
hiding a symbol on it from view. Whenever the character would shift
his hands a little a flash of blue from the underside of Jabour's
hands would show.

Intriguing,
Kahlil thought.

Jabour continued, pretending not to notice
how removed the king was from what was being said.

"A great evil is afoot. Nations will be
supplanted, mountains...moved." "Come now, stop speaking in riddles
and get straight to the point," the king snapped. "But there is
much to tell your majesty, and I wish to do it all in good time,"
he paused to thoughtfully interject, "with your permission, of
course." The king ignored the petition, instead choosing to speak
freely on what he really wondered about.

"And Muhammad al-Mahdi?"

"Yes, he has a role in all of this." Jabour
appeared eager to get by that name and on to something else he had
come to say. For a millisecond he flicked his wrist giving the king
a better angle at the pattern on the ring. Rehan Kahlil
inconspicuously took a snapshot photo with his mind's eye of what
he saw. Somewhere before he had seen a marking just like it.

"Whatever do you mean, Jabour?" he
questioned. The king wouldn't let it drop that easy.

The guest twitched at the mouth and
straightened his pocket square. "You see o king, a great calamitous
event is about to happen."

"Another asteroid?"

"
No
--worse!" Jabour baited him
in.

"Another war? Is that it?"

"No..."

"Good! Because I'm afraid my people prefer
peace over our blood and fire, war-mongering ancestors."

This triggered an involuntary smile on
Jabour's lips.

Kahlil dubiously rubbed his jaw. "You said
the Mahdi is involved in all this?" "He's our savior, o king. Only
he can save humanity from what we're about to face."

He appeared ready to say more, but not
before the king had something to say. "Oh, I don't care about the
Jews or the rest of the westerners." The king made a sweeping
motion with his arms. The freeflowing fabric with white fluted
edging wrinkled under his arm's capricious movements. His nose
wrinkled too as if the mere mention of those people groups equated
to debauchery and smut. "They can get what's coming to them. May
Allah's holy judgment purify the land of the infidels."

"Absolutely. None of that is in question,"
Jabour reciprocated, eager to show the king he shared the same
level of detest against the unholy enemies of Islam. "But I'm
afraid even the United Islamic Caliphate isn't safe, either."

"Whatever are you speaking of? Your
impetuous language baffles me, Jabour. Do illuminate me of this
great evil of an impartial god, judging all."

Jabour's eyes grew dark, hallow. His mouth
opened to deliver the message. Suddenly a hot wind gusted over his
shoulders, ruffling the king's clothing and dissipating into the
thick tapestry behind the throne. Its intensity and brevity were
remarkably similar to the same experience one would get when
standing in the path of a blazing furnace after the door just
opened up.

Confusion washed over King Kahlil. He
understood the message from the man seated three feet away. Yet, he
strangely felt tampered with. Violated. Like he had woken from a
drunken stupor, forgetting how he had gotten to where he now lay
sprawled in a disorderly, but sober mess.

Meanwhile the three clerics who had been
peacefully observing with indifference appeared equally shaken by
what had transpired. Their experience had an otherworldly quality
to it that left all of them extremely uncomfortable like an itching
rash with no relief in sight.

The king struggled with the news immensely.
Suddenly the title that went before his name didn't mean anything.
If what Jabour said was true, his days were numbered as ruler of
the United Islamic Caliphate.

Kahlil drew in a sharp breath and held
it.

"You know all of this for a fact?" "With
one hundred percent accuracy. I stake my life on it." Jabour stared
at the ruler with little sympathy before adding, "I'm just

the messenger." "Oh?"

"There is one thing."

"Name it," Kahlil said without
hesitation.

"The Mahdi needs to use Jeddah's
spaceport."

"For...what? Why does he need ours when
there's one in North America?" Jabour squinted. The king's answer
was unsettling. "North America, your majesty?" Kahlil shrugged.
"What's in it for me?"

Jabour expected this. He had rehearsed
himself beforehand for this part in the conversation. He sat up
straighter now. "For your services, Muhammad al Mahdi will reward
your kindness with a seat on his council with oversight privileges
over one of the ten regions in the New World Order." A moment ago
it looked like he would get nothing out of the deal. Now he had an
offer he couldn't refuse.

Rehan Kahlil gathered his robes and
resituated himself on his throne.

Jabour tilted his head to one side, his
eyebrows raised.

"Jeddah's spaceport is open for business.
Whatever the Mahdi needs."

"Excellent! He will be very pleased to hear
it."

Both men rose together at once and shook on
it.

Jabour bowed slightly before turning to
leave. He turned to the clerics expectantly. The unspoken message,
understood. Each man scampered off their chair to join him. The
door going into the king's chamber opened for the guests to make
their exit. The well-dressed man lingered at the top of the stairs
to take in the view one last time as a token of his victory. He had
played his part. The royal musicians began to play a joyous song.
Their choice seemed more than fitting for the occasion.

Jabour rested his elbows on the
railing.

A voice that originated from over his left
shoulder got his attention. "You seem very upbeat after speaking to
the king," one of the religious leaders noted.

"Yes," Jabour turned to the man who had
spoken. "I am. Who's hungry?"

--

Barcelona, Spain

Alfonso Marcello expected a phone call. He
waited by his phone. When it went off he answered after the first
ring. "Yeah."

"Ready to come in?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

"You're gonna interrogate the Germans."

"Me?" He wasn't sure if he had heard
right.

"Do you need hearing aids, agent?"

"No. No I don't. Just...I'm surprised you
wouldn't go with a more experienced interrogator."

"Do you wanna turn your badge in? Because we
have lots of other talented

recruits who would love to get a crack at
your job."

Alfonso rolled his eyes. His case officer
rarely made good on threats. But still, he didn't appreciate the
sentiment all the same. He looked up at the sky and watched some
clouds scroll past a full moon.

Alfonso shivered. It got very chilly in
Barcelona at nights. Especially in spring.

"I'm coming in," he murmured into the
receiver.

"Interrogation room 3a. We'll be
waiting."

He wanted to say something smart before
clicking off, but decided better of it. Alfonso had racked up some
good miles in his time with Mossad. He wasn't ready to throw it
away over a silly spat with a difficult agency man.

The image of the googly-eyed German couple
holding hands flickered in his mind like a broken computer screen.
He felt nothing.

Whatever it took to get answers from them,
whatever methods of torture, if it even went that far--Alfonso
wouldn't be shy to use all necessary force. It was personal for
him, too. The Nazis had herded up his great-great grandparents
during world war two where they ultimately snuffed out their lives
in ovens at the concentration camps.

What a terrible way to die. Bastards,
he thought as he reflected on the plight of his forefathers.

The anti-Semitism in fact didn't go away
after the holocaust. Instead it raged on for many, many years with
bloody wars fought in the Middle East and world-wide persecution of
the Jews. If anything, the white-hot hatred for the people group
was at an all-time high.

Without his disguise and alias, there was no
mistaking it, Alfonso looked like a Jew. It shamed him to hide a
heritage he took tremendous pride in. But the benefits of doing the
state's dirty work far exceeded the burden of wearing the cloak of
anonymity.

...

A brisk walk in the city to his destination
ended in a photo booth at the back of a rundown arcade. Alfonso
felt some coins bulge in his pant pocket. His eyes stared at the
familiar floor layout, the machines covered up by white sheets. The
Jewish man grunted. As a little boy he enjoyed many late nights out
in the town feeding his favorite arcade game shekels.

Alfonso closed the curtain on both sides and
sat down. His weight triggered a sensor under the cushion which
prompted a response.

An invasive male voice came out of a
speaker. "Say cheese."

Alfonso looked dead center at the camera
lens and weakly smiled. An eye scan positively identified him as
agent Marcello.

Then the floor dropped out with no
warning.

The drop lasted no more than five seconds.
Five seconds of stomach flipping fun. After so many rides though
Alfonso didn't get much of a rush any more. What used to be a
thrill turned into a tame kiddie ride. A sealed blast door opened
up. A nondescript hallway took him to another door. Alfonso pulled
his badge out. The scanner on the door accepted it with a buzzing
noise. A little later the double doors opened inward to let him
pass by before abruptly closing behind him.

Interrogation room 3a. Two lefts, a right,
down a flight of stairs and right at the fork. He knew the station
inside and out. A fastwalking male, late-forties, thinning hair,
square jaw caught up to him at the second turn.

His handler handed him an earwig to wear
which Alfonso reluctantly accepted knowing full well he
’
d have his favorite person in his ear while he worked
on the Germans.

"Don't hold back. This is important.
Level

10."

The few word transmission held a lot of
weight.

Alfonso only nodded. He knew his handler
didn't have anything else to say anyways. Their conversations were
always short and sweet; never any time for personal matters or
unnecessarily verbose replies. He walked for a little while
longer--alone this time. Alfonso glided down the stairs, two at a
time....Almost there. There were no friendly faces along the way
happy to see the Israeli. Mostly part-time staffers trudging along
at a harried pace.

The hallway only went two ways. Alfonso hung
a right and wound up at the door in no time. A glass block window
and a narrow slit of glass in the door were the only outside
sources of light into the dark chamber. A red faded
3a
on
the metal indicated this was the one.

Alfonso's head pounded. In his own time he
punched in the code to disarm the alarm.

Access granted.

The weight of a hesitant hand resting on the
handle wasn't enough to will the door to open. A second went by
before Alfonso finally turned the handle all the way.

--

Maldova, Mossad safe house

"We need to disappear," Tyrone stated the
obvious.

Baruch stood with his arms spread wide and a
stupid look on his face. "And go where?"

Tyrone stopped pacing and lifted his head
up. In the time he spent thinking, he managed to snap up a piece of
wheat and stick it in his mouth. All he was missing was a straw
hat.

"Quiet! I need to think."

"You mean you don't have a plan?" Seth
stared in disbelief.

"I do have a plan," Tyrone corrected. "Do
something."

Crickets.

The sound of Baruch dropping his flask
followed up by, "Great," was all that passed in between the three
men.

Seth leaned in closer to Tyrone and
asked,

"Mossad is corrupted you say?"

"No duh."

"I needed confirmation is all," Seth
replied, feeling a little irritated.

Baruch was slow that night. "For what?" he
asked his partner.

"We're gonna disobey orders, go rogue." "It
has to look like an accident though," Tyrone interrupted, getting
excited. He continued, "Your deaths, both KIAs." "That could be
difficult," Seth mused.

"He's the best," Baruch jerked a humble
thumb in Seth's direction. "But I'm a close second," he grinned
widely. Getting serious, he added, "We're gonna have to get a
mission profile that makes this plan all come together."