The Ragnarok Conspiracy (21 page)

For Savas and Cohen, things had become far more difficult in Intel 1. Their everyday interactions had always been somewhat restrained, a tension constantly between them, but it was one they both controlled within their separate and private shells. Intimacy had unleashed emotion that was freely expressed outside the office but that was caged again each morning. She passed by and he smelled her, heard the fabric of her clothes rustle as her body shifted positions, caught a glimpse of her eyes or saw her smiling and laughing with others. Each time it was a struggle to remain detached and distant. He longed to put his arms around her, both to relieve his need for her touch and also to claim her as his in front of others. It was primitive, and it was sublime.

Savas did not know where this would lead. His life was complicated enough without a constant deception. They agreed to keep their affair secret until she could transfer to another department, and that would not be until this case had reached some kind of ending point. For each of them, it was too important.

At the end of the day, the pattern was reversed. Each left separately, trying to stick to previous work patterns. This was difficult, because in the past, they had both tended to work later than the others and would often find themselves the sole members of Intel 1 working into the night. With their new circumstances, this was a dangerous pattern, so one started leaving earlier than the other, and both, despite their desire to work on the case, ended up spending less time at work and more time with each other. Competing needs, to be sure, but intimacy had been denied both of them for so long that it took some precedence.

This night, Savas had arrived an hour after Cohen. Her apartment
was a mansion compared to his tiny studio in Queens. She swooped out of the kitchen and into her bedroom. Savas heard the sound of her closet door opening, unmistakable rummaging noises, an object falling and a grunt, then the door closing once more. She came out toward the dining table, her hair somewhat disheveled, grasping an old bronze candlestick holder. It was unusual, a style Savas had never seen before. There were two holders for candles, spread apart by about a foot and a half, each supported by a curved and decorated arm that arched up like the beginning of a heart-shaped form from the base. The base itself was also highly decorated, with prominent symbols carved into the bronze. He was sure they looked like Hebrew letters.

Cohen looked toward him expectantly. “So? Do you like it?”

“It's pretty. Is it something special?”

“It's a Maurice Ascalon, an
original
.” She took some candles she had shoved into her pocket and set them in place. She frowned at his lack of understanding. “Maurice Ascalon was one of Israel's most famous sculptors. He was famous in many areas but especially decorative arts. This was my mother's. She gave it to me a few years before she died.” Her voice trailed off, and she stared into the distance for a few moments.

“Anyway, they were packed up in the closet, and I haven't used them since. It's not that I would have had a reason anyway. I don't really hold to much tradition—something that always made her sad.”

Savas could see the pain in her face but did not understand. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, John. These are Shabbat candles.”

“Like Sabbath?”

She smiled. “Shabbat is
the
Sabbath, John. The Jews invented it, so we ought to know,” she said in an amused voice. “It's nearly sunset, so I got it about right, even if I forgot the flowers. She always had flowers. Friday evening meals, my mother lit the candles. We would have a special meal, and, when we were little anyway, we couldn't do anything fun. All the electricity was off, so no TV! My father, as man of the house, would say the prayers to welcome the day of rest after the candles were lit.”

Savas looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Cohen laughed. “Don't worry! My feeling all nostalgic doesn't mean you have to get religion tonight, John.” She lit the candles and whispered something he could not catch. She stood tall and recited.

“
Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha-olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat.
” She paused and closed her eyes.

“It means: Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to light the Shabbat candles.”

She turned quickly and went into the kitchen, returning with a tray holding the food she had been preparing. “And now, we eat.”

Cohen placed the tray on the table and looked at him. There were tears in her eyes and rolling down her beautiful cheeks.

The September night was cool and misty in Morden, a southwestern suburb of London, home to the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community. A cloud sat on the earth, and the air was a prickling vapor of water droplets that obscured vision beyond ten or fifteen feet. Street-lights seemed to be standing at attention with ghostly haloes around their heads.

Situated on more than five acres of land, the Baitul Futuh Mosque displayed a proud and powerful facade. Able to accommodate over ten thousand worshippers per day in three prayer halls, its interior filled with a gymnasium, multiple offices, a library, and television studios, it held claim to being the largest mosque in Western Europe. It was a statement to the people of London, and the world, that this Muslim community was to be taken seriously. The Ahmadiyya faithful represented a splinter sect of Islam, condemned by orthodox Muslims as heretical, and also by Western groups as harboring fanaticism and anti-Western sentiment. The Baitul Futuh, or House of Victories, was a defiant answer to all these doubters.

The parking lot in front of the mosque was deserted. Only a single military-standard personnel truck was parked in front of the structure, its color faded to gray in the darkness and fog. A minaret drove skyward for over one hundred feet, but this evening it was lost as it plunged into the gray, and the top of the silver dome began to blur. Several weary-looking soldiers stood at positions around the structure, weapons in hand or lighting cigarettes and cursing their foul duty to guard the property of a group many considered to be enemies of their nation.

One soldier cupped his hand over his lighter and puffed. He
glanced toward the parking lot as streetlights suddenly went dark, plunging the area into near total blackness. As the flame went out, a small red circle the size of a pencil eraser danced over his forehead. For a moment, the laser light hit his eyes, blinding him as had the flame. Before he could understand, a soft pop was heard some thirty yards away. Instantly his head arched back, blown open, and he dropped to the ground with a loud thud. Several of his mates turned toward the sound, but before they could even complete the motion, a near simultaneous group of muffled retorts sounded around the mosque. Each of the soldiers fell. A sudden rush of dark shapes flooded over the steps like a polluted tide. Dressed in black from head to foot, only their eyes showing through masks, they quickly grabbed the downed soldiers and dragged them off the concrete around the mosque, several bending down and washing the ground of blood and remains. Riflemen rose from the fields and parking lot around the mosque, shouldered their weapons, and approached the others.

At that moment, two soldiers stepped out from inside the mosque and froze before the sights and sounds of the shadowed men around them. One grabbed for his weapon, but a shadow was on him from the side. The dark shape seized the soldier's gun arm in one hand, extending it with the weapon grasped tightly, then drove his palm into the back of the elbow, breaking the joint. The soldier screamed and dropped the weapon just as the dark figure drew back his palm and struck the soldier in the neck, shattering his windpipe. The man dropped to the ground, choking and gasping for air, unable to scream further. Beside him lay the other soldier who had stepped outside with him, an empty expression in his eyes, his neck twisted strangely to one side.

“Move these two out!” hissed one of the cloaked figures. Like the others, the two bodies were dragged away from the structure. A van had pulled up next to the military vehicle, and the bodies were loaded into it. Black bags were taken off the van and distributed to several masked figures who busied themselves pulling out dark bundles from the bags and stripping off their clothes.

Others moved around the mosque, placing devices that they
camouflaged in various ways—with mortar and tile that matched the surface of the mosque or as electronic devices, some even resembling the cameras that were already in place around the building but that had ceased functioning several minutes previously.

Within thirty minutes, the scene had nearly returned to normal. The dark shapes were gone from the deep fog, like undead wraiths that crept back into the mists. A small group of false soldiers in uniform patrolled the site, glancing up only momentarily as streetlights winked back on, throwing a ghastly light over the building. Cameras mounted around the mosque turned on and began to transmit once again. At the end of the parking lot, a brown van turned out onto the road, its headlights off, only the red of its brake lights flashing momentarily like two grim eyes fading in the mists as the first light of dawn began to pale the evening sky.

Across the Atlantic, in Manhattan, the sidewalks were almost empty after midnight, and the streets around Ninety-Seventh contained only a handful of cabs and late-nighters. Few noticed that the streetlights along this side of the block up to Third Avenue had gone out. None noticed the darkly clad figures passing by a large structure, quickly darting out of sight, one by one over a span of five minutes. Inside the high fences, a building at a twenty-degree angle from the Manhattan street grid loomed upward yet was still dwarfed by taller apartment buildings around it. The building was squat, broad at its base, with sheer walls and a modern style tapering to a large black dome. It had been said that the geometry of the structure, founded on a repeating pattern of square units, followed Islamic law, which forbade the representation of natural forms. Atop the dome, on a spire, rested a crescent moon. A minaret rose next to the building, nearly in the middle of the block of land but open and easily visible to Ninety-Sixth Street. A sign outside read: “Islamic Cultural Center of New York,” but the place was better known to many as the Manhattan Mosque.

Within the fences, no one from the streets could see the dark figures quickly traversing the traditional exterior court that led to the
entrance of the mosque, or the shapes gathered around the minaret, placing objects along its sides. Shapes entered and exited the mosque carrying loaded backpacks that appeared to be much lighter on their way out. Within forty-five minutes, all activity ceased; the dark figures were gone, and the corner displayed nothing out of the ordinary. Even the streetlights were back on.

Finally, across all of Europe and Africa, the morning sunrise drenched the lands. In a suburb of London, a tired-looking troop of soldiers drove off early, a little before the arrival of the morning shift, and disappeared, never to be seen by any regiment in England again. In Finland, Friday worshippers prepared to make the long trek to one of the handful of mosques in this northern country, grateful for asylum and a chance to worship in this new land. In Nigeria, the spires at the tops of the four minarets of the Abuja National Mosque lifted majestically toward the heavens in the orange light. Approaching from the main highway, the sun rose behind the stunning building, casting it in a dark shadow, a silhouette of a giant dome and four spears. Morning sounds played over the capital of Abuja and mixed in with the sounds of the
adhan
called out over the city by the muezzin.

Cohen sat down beside Savas at the table and smiled. By the calendar, it was nearly a week since he had shared that special Sabbath meal with her, but in the growing madness around them, his sense of time had begun to blur.

However absurd, he knew she loved the way he looked in the mornings. His hair, flattened and disheveled from the night's sleep, had always refused to obey even the roughest of brushings. Only after he had showered and shampooed could there be any management. Coupled with his unruly hair, she noted impishly that he had the shell-shocked look of being half-asleep. She said it gave him the expression of a little boy just slightly lost. She kissed him as he grumbled and drank his coffee, and stretched over to turn on the television.

Savas's face hardened almost immediately, and the boy and the lovable expression vanished, replaced by something hard and hurt.

The scenes on the television were horrific. The British police and military had carved out a zone beyond which the public and press were excluded. Inside this region, the remains of a large structure could be seen burning brightly and belching skyward a plume of black smoke. Emergency responders rushed back and forth, carrying body after body. Pools of blood were easily made out as the runoff water from the fire hoses diluted them. Crumpled figures, blasted and burnt carcasses littered the site—men, women, children.

Children.
Savas stared at the horror in front of his eyes as a reporter gasped out words in a British accent.

“Simply unimaginable carnage at the former site of the largest mosque in Western Europe. The mosque, the entire structure, is
completely gone and burning as I speak to you. The death toll appears to easily be in the thousands. This attack happened on the holiest day of the week for Muslims, Friday, during the mosque's busiest time at noon prayers. Men, women, and many, many children lie dead behind me at this horrific, horrific site of England's, of Europe's, most terrible terrorist attack in history.”

“Oh, God…John?” Cohen reached over and took his hand. He held hers but did not take his eyes off the screen. Savas reached over and turned up the volume.

The reporter continued. “Sources have reported that a section of British soldiers has been in place for several weeks guarding the mosque. Like several other Islamic sites in and around London, the government has acted proactively to try and protect them from the new and terrifying terrorist organization that has been targeting Muslims. Many are asking how anyone could have planted the enormous amount of explosives needed to destroy this building under the noses of the military.”

Savas looked at Cohen. “You know what today is?”

A dawning of understanding lit her eyes.

“Rebecca, today is September 11.” Savas looked back at the screen. “This attack has been very deliberately chosen for today. My God, Rebecca, this isn't going to be the only one. I know it. I feel it in my bones. They will hit multiple targets today to make a point—remind the world of the multiple attacks on 9/11. Today is going to be from hell.”

As if to respond to his terrible intuition, the coverage cut from the scene of devastation in England back to the station's main desk. A well-coiffed woman with blonde hair and a fashionable scarf spoke almost hesitantly.

“Sorry to interrupt, Donald, but we have breaking news. Reports are pouring in that there have been two more bombings. I repeat, two more bombings of mosques in different parts of the world. Several reports are coming in from Nigeria, that there has been a bombing there. We also have word of a bombing in Finland. A mosque there has been attacked. We have a report live from the capital of Nigeria….”

“John…” Cohen looked at him, pain in her eyes.

“I'm sorry. I didn't want to be right. But I knew I was. I'm going to get showered and dressed. We've got to get in. I won't be long.” Savas stood up from the table and headed down the hall and into the bathroom. He shaved quickly, not bothering to notice the nicks and blood. He showered even faster and was out and dressing before ten minutes had passed. It dawned on him as he buttoned his shirt that he was processing sounds, sounds invading his swirling thoughts of past and present, death and destruction.
Sirens.
It sounded like ten or twenty police cars. He darted to the window but could see nothing. However, it was unmistakable—the well-known Doppler shift of a siren approaching, then drawing away as it passed. One after the other after the other.

“John,” Cohen called. “You'd better get in here.”

By the time he reached the kitchen, he did not need to see the scenes of destruction at the edge of Harlem to know what had happened. The target he did not guess. He had forgotten about the Manhattan Mosque—the Islamic Cultural Center of New York, thought by some to be a potential incubator for radical Islamic elements. No terrorists would be stepping forth from Ninety-Sixth and Third anytime soon.

A reporter spoke hurriedly, shouting over the sounds of a helicopter. “This is the Traffic Cam in the Sky, news every hour, on the hour. We have diverted location to the Upper East Side.” A camera showed the geometric lines of the New York City grid, and at one corner of a block, what seemed to be a volcanic eruption of smoke pouring into the sky. Around the site like bugs circling honey, a flashing light show of fire trucks and emergency vehicles contrasted with the dark cloud climbing from the blaze below. A voice cut in over the reporter in the helicopter.

“We are going back to footage in Nigeria….” On the screen appeared a split image; on one side, the giant mosque as it had appeared before the explosion, with its four minarets intact. The other side showed the same building, live, now with a single minaret standing and the rest of the structure reduced to rubble, fire, and ash. More
scenes of carnage followed from the capital city of Nigeria. Savas stood nearly breathless watching the wild, panicked expressions and motions of emergency workers tending the wounded, many beyond help, scattered over the field of vision provided by the camera. The news reports darted back and forth, from Africa, to Finland, to England, and back to New York. It all began to blur in his mind, rubble and smoke, sirens, hysteria, blood, and fire.
So much death.
Men and women struck down. The old and the young. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons.

Sons.
The images before him began to merge with his own memory—two towers falling like sand to the earth, burying thousands, choking downtown Manhattan.
The death of sons.
The death of a young police officer who had made his father proud, giving the greatest sacrifice for his city and never knowing why.

His fists were balled tightly, and tears dropped from his eyes, yet his eyes still had nothing soft in them. A wildness burned there, a primitive urge to strike at the creature attacking the young, stealing life from those who should never have been buried by their parents. A shout broke him out of his trance.

“John, please!” Cohen was standing next to him, shaking him. “John, stop this; come back!”

Savas fought through the nightmare in his mind. He turned to the counter and grabbed his wallet and keys. “I'm sorry, Rebecca, I've got to go.”

“To work?” she asked, hesitantly, afraid of the look in his eyes.

“No, not to work.” He looked forward, seeing something far off. “I'm going to Gunn International. I'm going to do what Jordan said we should do. I'm going to confront that bastard and look into his eyes. I have to know, Rebecca. I can't wait for the wheels to turn in this matter.” He motioned toward the television. “I don't know if the world can wait for this damn machine to do its job. These guys are ten steps ahead of us. If we play inside the rules we've set for ourselves, it will stay that way.”

“John, please, think about this,” she said, grabbing his face in her hands, staring up toward those wild eyes. “You'll have no authority; you'll be potentially in violation of the law, vulnerable to charges of
harassment. They might not even let you in. What are you going to do, break down the doors?”

“If I have to.”

“John, even if you find something, these actions might sabotage any legal recourse we have against this man and whatever organization he might be running. You know this, John. You can't do this.”

Savas smiled bitterly. “Rebecca, what I know is that we are losing badly, and while we lose, people are burning alive. I
can
do this. I
have
to do this. Someone has to.” He stared at her silently for a moment.

“Until today, my damn rage and quest for revenge blinded me to seeing what was so obvious. Every time these bastards would take out some jihadist, I was cheering them on. They were doing what we could never do. I didn't want to know what I should have known, to see what is so clear.” He grabbed her shoulders firmly but not forcefully.

“They were destroying the monsters and becoming themselves the very things they sought to destroy. I hated the jihadists for taking the lives of the innocent. Of my son. But God, Rebecca, look at this,” he said, gesturing toward the television. “The streets are lined with children's bodies. They are no longer fighting the enemy. They
are
the enemy. They have become everything they seek to destroy.” He let go of her shoulders. “Someone has to stop them.”

She stared a moment into his eyes, shaking her head, but she knew what she saw. “Then I'm coming with you.”

Savas looked at her in disbelief. “Absolutely not! It's enough for one of us to go crazy and jump off the cliff. I will not let you endanger yourself, your career, for what I'm forced to do.”

Cohen slipped on her shoes and grabbed her bag. “If you don't let me come with you, I will call the FBI, the NYPD, and Gunn International and warn them of your coming. They'll wall you out before you get into the building. Take me or forget going, John.”

Savas didn't know whether he felt angry or touched by her hard-headed bargaining. “All right, you crazy woman. Let's go. But you let me do all the stupid stuff.”

“Agreed. And I'm
your
crazy woman, stupid man. Don't forget that.”