The Great Deception (8 page)

Whenever he dreamed, a pretty American woman
would pop up at some point randomly and disappear inconveniently
when his eyes opened and it was back to reality. Her name: Jessica,
his deceased wife. She didn't die from pregnancy complications.
Though he would tell people that, that wasn't the real reason. A
terrorist who believed himself to be doing Allah's will took her
life. It devastated him. But it also gave him a new calling in
life. Before Mossad, Seth worked a desk job as an analyst at an
investment firm. He did well for himself, made his employers
wealthy, but that didn't do it for him.

Making money would have been a wasted life
for him.

Like one reads in books, Seth's story fared
no different. A spy gig literally fell into his lap. He didn't go
bouncing from his plush job as an analyst. Nor would he have had it
not been for a coincidental run-in with an agency man, Tyrone.

Ten years ago...

"Bartender, another scotch."

The keeper of the bar observed the
impassable expression on Seth

Markov's haggard looking face. There were
bags under the eyes. "Coming right up."

Billiard balls cracked in the background
after someone broke the once tightly compact triangle of numbers
one through fifteen. A couple waitresses in their late twenties
hoisted trays with beers and greasy burgers to deliver them to the
boisterous crowd. The air smelled of cigarette smoke. Neon signs in
the shape of martini glasses and olives cast a glow on the patrons
seated at the counter. A basketball game played for anyone that
cared.

Seth sat sideways on his stool--divided. At
twenty-eight years of age he didn't have a whole lot to be
optimistic about. Jessica, the mother of his three-year-old son,
would never be there to see him grow up and become a proud,
respectable Markov man. Even worse, little Azriel grew and matured
to an age where he understood something was missing from the home.
And night after night Seth couldn't keep coming home to his son,
look him in the face, and tell him everything was
hunky-dory...nothing out of place. Before long the little boy would
ask where momma was. Soon he would start school and observe mommies
dropping their little kids off. Then it would sink in--he would get
it.

Seth had to do the hard thing. Tell the boy.
Watch him tear up, look crushed and all pathetic. This far exceeded
the level of difficulty in delivering the bad news on a bear market
via a public conference call to company investors who eagerly
waited to hear his fundamental analysis on whether to buy, sell, or
hold their securities on the Tel Aviv Stock Exchange.

Yet a few drinks that night to dull the pain
seemed the right play to make. He would procrastinate and put off
telling the truth until Monday.

It was still Friday.

When he got his glass back, stingily filled
only a fifth of the way he estimated, Seth undertook the effort to
analyze the newcomer to his side of the counter. A man no greater
no less than four times ten seated himself next to Seth. The
stranger made no eye contact, didn't want anything to do with talk.
Apparently Seth wasn't the only one there for the alcohol.

This guy didn't go for the hard stuff
though.

Leave it to the financial analyst to claim
that.

Instead he sipped on mixed drinks. Some gin.
Seth lost interest and vacated his stool. Three empty glasses
littered the counter where he formerly sat. He got up to stretch
the legs a bit. Maybe walk over to the billiards table and join a
game.

Two mahogany wood tablets, their baskets
laden with balls and green carpet seeing some action, took up the
back room of the place. Most of the group playing pool appeared to
be affluent with jobs in the technology or banking sector, just
like Seth. This wasn't one of those bars that a biker gang plagued
from time to time.

Seth walked up looking like he belonged.
"Next game?" one of the four asked the approaching Seth.

"Me? I don't really play, maybe I'll just
watch."

This made the man with an athletic build and
wide shoulders smile broadly. "I don't think you came over here to
watch four men play pool after work."

"You're right," Markov conceded the point.
"I'll take winner." He looked over his shoulder and caught the man
he previously sat next to a moment ago staring at him.

Five minutes later the same guy from before
held out the triangle towards Seth and said, "Would you do me the
courtesy of breaking?"

He had zoned out there for a minute.

"You're done already? Sure, I'll break." The
men watching Seth leaned on their sticks. What they witnessed was a
man who had done this one too many times. The cue ball raced for
the colorful formation with full intent of scattering them in order
to set up for an easy next shot. Balls started sinking into the
corner and side pockets at random.

Seth had his pick since the break put away
two stripes and solids. "Solids it is," he said under his breath as
one foot left the floor while he postured for his next move. He
systematically, one stroke of skill after another, cleared the
table. His opponent watched in disgust as perfectly placed shots
kissed the painted targets at precisely the right angles to send
them to their final resting place.

Only one ball stood in the way of a
victory.

Seth pointed with the stick and called
it:

"Corner pocket."

Could he do it? Make a clean sweep? The
other man actually hoped the first game to be over with. He would
take his chances into the next one because obviously the first had
been a fluke. Luck.

The forecasted loser of the first match
didn't even bother to watch the miss or make. But he heard the ball
roll the full length of the table, the clink, and the climactic
jiggle of the eight ball joining its cousins in the right hand
corner pocket.

Seth felt a nice release after destroying
the competition.

"Two out of three?"

It couldn't hurt. He had missed this. "You
wanna break?" he kindly extended the offer. "I had better say yes,
otherwise I might not ever get a turn!" the man in the blue shirt
said with a chuckle. "My name is Hector by the

way."

"Not from around here?"

"Born in the U.S.A.," he proudly
answered.

"Ah, good for you. I've visited a number of
times. The Big Apple is quite something." Seth continued the small
talk while he watched Hector set up. Twenty minutes later after a
more contested battle, Seth walked away the champ. Unfortunately
for him the alcohol began to have its way. His steps to the door
zig-zagged a little.

"You look a little sloshed there partner," a
patron quipped, blocking Seth's path from exiting.

"Yeah? Why don't you get outta my way so I
can pass."

The man with a boxer face and substantial
midsection didn't budge.

"I'm sorry, did you want something, pal?"
"Maybe I do."

A brawl seemed likely as the two faced off,
each man waiting for the other to make the first move.

Seth simply tried to walk around him, but it
wouldn't be that easy. In an attempt to escape he got knocked off
balance by a powerful shove.

The owner of the bar cried, "Gentlemen!" as
he stepped out from behind the swinging doors of the backroom.
"Take it outside."

"No, we'll finish this here and now." Seth
glared at the aggressor.

The big guy moved in and threw a big hooker
that missed everything.

Seth ducked and nailed him in the solar
plexus.

The assailant grunted and doubled over.

Not expecting such a well-placed blow.
Nevertheless, he charged at Seth's midsection like a bull.

Seeing someone run at you could have been a
very paralyzing thing, but Seth came prepared for anything. At the
last possible second he jumped out of the oncoming path of the
snarling bellicose fighter and grabbed him by the waist and the
shirt collar. Seth flung the man like a heavy log into a table. It
collapsed into a pile of splinters. When the big guy attempted to
rise from the debris Seth was already there, whaling on his head
left and right. The fight had ended.

Afterwards Seth Markov fled the premises. He
didn't know how, but the mysterious stranger who had not said a
word before now seemed ready to talk, standing under the wash of a
nearby light pole. "You certainly know how to handle yourself."

"What is it you want?"

"We need to meet. I don't have time tonight,
nor is this a good place for me."

Seth blinked.

"Here's my business card," he said casually
flipping it to Seth.

It read Tyrone Banks, Legacy Imports Co.

"What kind of business are you in, Mr.

Banks?"

"I'll tell you only if we meet."

"Fine." He had so many questions that would
have to be answered later. He watched Tyrone disappear into the
darkness. He had thought about following him but that would be
unwise. That could lead straight into a trap.

...

Somehow Moldova seemed like a trail that
led to nowhere. Why was he in Russia's backyard when the real
targets, the mullahs and princes, slept in the safety of their
palaces? Jessica wouldn't die in vain. Her death would be avenged
in blood.

Seth rocked his chair one last time before
he got up to find Baruch, the man he
’
d
stay up with for the first watch.

--

Scorpion War Room: Vandenberg, CA

Into the steel tube the group went as
directed. A short trip later the subway pulled up to a station,
presumably its only stop--to the War Room.

A gas hissing noise filled the chamber when
the train applied the air brakes. The shutter doors on the lead car
opened up.

A short while later everyone stood in the
presence of the Lord of the Ages. He didn't demand his subjects
take this moment to pay homage to him. Far from it. That would come
later after the revelation. Then one by one each foreign leader
would want a turn with the great mind so capable of such a
terrifyingly brilliant plan.

The room mimicked the bridge on the island
of an aircraft carrier in function, but not in aesthetic. Eight
walls in an octagonal shape enclosed the area. There were no
windows in the room, yet plenty of screens.

The doorway held much significance to
the

Masons. The three-in-one, triptych
entrance

(as seen on the famous Rockefeller Center
in

New York or on many cathedrals all over
Europe) stood erect, guarding the secrets inside.

As the leaders of Germany, Russia, and
Britain passed under the rounded arches and support pillars to gain
entrance to the strategic space they were treated to this view: old
mixing in with the new. Stone columns buttressed an impressive
ceiling. In the center of the room a control center anchored
everything else. Consoles or work stations circled a pentagram
which projected an image of the earth with the seven continents and
all the seas. The earth slowly rotated for the guests, enabling
them to see the cities, nations--the pride of man on full
display.

"Look at it," Howard's voice echoed
throughout the chamber.

No one could see him, but they certainly
heard his message.

"I could give you all you see if you do this
one thing."

And then poof, like a smoke and mirrors
trick, Howard appeared at the far end of the room.

"Is there a trap door in the stage that I'm
missing sir?" Grigory whispered to the Russian president. "Because
what he just did is impossible."

The Russian leader shook his head in
amazement. "I told you this man isn't all he appears to be," he
shot back.

No one had taken a stab at the stipulations
to the agreement just yet. The mere mortals in the room still shook
in their boots, like they had seen a ghost. And perhaps that was
true in more ways than one.

Howard knew they were afraid of him. Only a
natural human reaction under the circumstances his mind reckoned.
"Gentlemen, this hour I will show you some earth-shattering plans
that have already been

set into motion."

The men remained close-mouthed.

The Old Man took that as a sign of silent
assent to move forward. And he did. Howard cloaked himself in an
unflappable demeanor.

Whether or not its effect on the others
proved unnerving remained to be seen. Regardless, he would continue
and show mankind his aims for world reunification.

--

The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii

President Toporvsky's forehead whicked sweat
which wound up on his hands. Then his pants would be the final
recipient of the perspiration whenever the Ukrainian man anxiously
rubbed his clammy palms against the already damp fabric. This cycle
only increased when he asked for the initial estimates on the
losses.

The casualties buckled towards the point of
no return. Forty percent of the force had been crippled in the
dogfight.

With some luck though the Central Cyber
Corps came through with the shield frequency on the enemy
combatants' planes: the weak link. With that key information the
fighters in the coalition force were able to retune their own
lasers to expose the loophole. Once the momentum had shifted the
other way Operation Switchblade could then hold a chance at
succeeding.

"There's very small margin for error," Vice
President Edmond Drezzler stated the obvious to the president.

Alexander absorbed all the images on his
screen of the FRN planes turning grey, which meant they had been
annihilated by the enemy.

There had still been no word from the agent
on site, Jennings.

If he doesn't come forth with what we
wanna hear in the next few minutes,
the president thought
,
I'm gonna have to scrub the op.

Sentinel Director Alfred Demsky read the
president's mind. "I don't like this, Mr.