The Ragnarok Conspiracy (23 page)

At that moment, Savas heard sounds at the door behind him. Gunn rose and asked his secretary, “Marianne—this is the other agent?” Savas turned to see Cohen standing in the doorway, her hair disheveled, her blouse untucked and wrinkled. He winced to think of the security guards manhandling her.

“Yes, Mr. Gunn. She was in the custody of our guards, and I brought her back up as soon as you requested.”

Gunn walked chivalrously toward Cohen and motioned to the seat beside Savas. Cohen, her glasses gone, straightened her clothes and walked stiffly over to sit next to Savas, never glancing in his
direction. He understood. She couldn't look into his eyes and maintain her composure.

Gunn returned to his seat in front of the enormous window. Savas motioned toward Cohen. “This is my colleague at the FBI, Rebecca Cohen.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Cohen. I am sorry about our security personnel. They are often overzealous in keeping the peace in my building.”

Cohen glanced quickly around the room and over his desk. She focused momentarily on an object at his side, then looked into Gunn's eyes. “No need to apologize,” she said. “We have been in a great hurry today, and our lack of standard protocol has created some problems.”

“Yes,” said Gunn, “Agent Savas here was explaining to me. Something about explosives?”

“This S-47 is easily traceable material in many ways, because it is so rare. It can only be found with US military personnel or on the black market in the international arms arena.”

Savas stared intently at Gunn, but the businessman showed no reaction. Savas continued. “Agents with the CIA recently ran a sting operation in the Middle East and identified the source of much of the black market S-47. This source had been sold repeatedly to a single buyer, of unknown origin and identity, but the goods were always shipped in the same way, by boat—ships owned and operated by the Operon Company.”

“Operon?” Gunn said, searching his memory. “That's one of ours. I see. You have connected the supply of this explosive to one of my companies, and you now wish to trace it further to attempt to identify the buyers, and thus, presumably, the terrorists themselves.” He glanced momentarily at each agent before continuing. “Of course, the FBI will have full cooperation from Gunn International on this. Unfortunately, I know little of the day-to-day operations of the many subsidiaries and contractors we have. But I will personally see to it that those who do, will work with the FBI and the CIA and whoever requires information from us to help apprehend these terrorists.”

Savas stared at the man. This was not what he had expected. He
had been so emotional this morning, he believed he would confront the man, and the truth or an obvious lie would come out, be forced out. He had come here, navigated the obstacle course on passion and adrenaline and street smarts, and hit Gunn with the facts, only to find a calm and cooperative citizen.
Was Husaam wrong? Am I wrong?

He looked into the eyes before him—cold, icy-gray, and unrevealing.
Eyes of a predator
, he thought. No, his intuition, his gut, whatever it was that had saved his life on many occasions on the street told him otherwise. There was something profoundly unsettling about William Gunn, and Savas felt that he was sitting only feet away from someone calculating and murderous.

Cohen spoke up. “We were concerned that this connection to your company, Mr. Gunn, might go further than the use of a shipping company.” The CEO turned slowly toward Cohen, and Savas felt his stomach tighten as the cold eyes fell on her.

“I'm sorry, Agent Cohen, could you be more explicit?”

“Yes. There have been enormous financial transfers in these arms purchases. These levels of monetary exchange and the financial machinations that made them possible, and difficult to trace, could only have been accomplished by individuals with enormous capital and financial dexterity. We are concerned that perhaps someone within your company, at a much higher level than that of a shipping organization, might be involved.”

My God, this is bold, Rebecca!
She faulted
him
for being reckless today?

The CEO eyed her very closely. “That is a very serious concern you have raised, Agent Cohen. Rest assured that we will seek to root out any such person, should they exist, and work closely with you to do so.” He looked at his watch, then back at the two FBI agents.

“I'm sorry to be rushing you, but I have a very important meeting with the visiting ambassador from China. As you know, China is becoming an increasingly important business partner for much of the world, and Gunn International is no exception. I cannot keep the ambassador waiting. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“One other thing,” Cohen continued. “This terrorist organization has a fascination with the Nordic myths. Do you know of any such people or organizations within your company who might be involved in such neo-paganism?”

Savas stared at her in confusion.
Rebecca, where are you going with this?

“Agent Cohen, I would expect every sort of person from the wonderfully diverse city of New York to work under the umbrella of my organization. Such interests do not concern me in general as long as each employee does his or her job.”

“We understand that, Mr. Gunn,” she continued, “only in this case, such individuals would be highly suspect. You come from a Northern European background, Scandinavian, I believe?

The CEO focused on her impassively. “Yes. My father was an immigrant from Stockholm.”

“Do you know what the name of this organization, Mjolnir, means?”

Gunn shook his head. “No. I mainly studied the Greek myths in school.”

“It is the name of the hammer used by the Norse god of thunder, Thor.”

“Yes, I'm sorry. I do remember reading that somewhere.”

“If you were to see or hear this name in any context, in the English translation, or as Mjolnir, or depicted in
any
symbolic form, please let us know.”

Savas nearly wanted to jump over and shield Cohen, so hostile and intent were the eyes that looked her over. “Yes, Agent Cohen, you can rest assured that I will.”

As they walked out of the skyscraper and into the bright midmorning sunlight, Savas felt the adrenaline rush out of him and the world speed up again. It seemed that he had passed out of a dream state. It was always like this after confrontation. He sat in the car next to Cohen and exhaled, not starting the engine.

“I can't believe we did that, and I can't believe we did it for nothing!”

She turned toward him, her sunglasses back on, and her shaking hands withdrawing from her face. “What do you mean, ‘for nothing'?”

“We go there, risk our careers, potentially blowing the entire case if he is the one behind this, and for nothing! He turns out to be happy as a clam to work with us! So cooperative! He played us like fools. And, I swear, all the time I felt like I was sitting across from a serial killer laughing at us.”

Cohen stared forward, her face still ashen from the encounter. “We didn't fail, John. His cooperation
saved
our careers, for one thing. For another, he
is
the one behind all this. Trust your feelings.”

Savas shook his head in confusion. “Well, that is something! How on earth do you conclude that? My feelings agree, but we came away with nothing.”

“Did you look at his desk?”

He looked at her incredulously. “Sure. Hard to miss. Big giant thing, expensive wood. Cost more than my car.”

She shook her head, still gazing forward. “No, not the desk itself, but what was on it.”

Savas didn't know what she was getting at. “Papers, a computer…a few executive playthings?”

“Like the little toy on his left in front of you?”

He shook his head. “No, I didn't see what it was.”

Cohen paused. “Well, I did. Small little metal thing, hanging from two metal rods that almost meet. The small little metal thing, John—it was a hammer.” She turned toward him. “It was Thor's hammer.”

“Oh, my God.”

William Gunn returned to his desk after locking his door behind the departing FBI agents. He sat down and typed in several keystrokes. The black screen lit up, revealing the familiar face of Patrick Rout.

“Mr. Gunn? What the hell was that all about?”

Gunn gazed sideways, away from the screen. “Well, it's obvious, isn't it? You were right about the hit on the Russians. They have the connection, and they suspect. My concern was right about fearing
someone passionate about this. You didn't see his eyes, but this John Savas is a driven man. And Cohen, well, she
knows
.”

“They have no proof! Nothing to go on!”

“No. Of course not, and they will not get that, certainly not in time to stop us.”

“We need to make sure of that, Mr. Gunn.”

Gunn turned toward the monitor, his expression grim. “Yes, my friend, we do. We need to find out who these agents are. We will have to make some decisions about them soon.”

The Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) announced today a partial embargo against the United States and the European Community. OPEC will reduce oil supply to these nations by 25%, effective immediately.

An OPEC spokesman was quoted by Al Jazeera as saying that “the recent bombings of Islamic Holy sites around the world have left us no choice” but to enact the embargo. In the statement issued, OPEC demanded that Western nations end the terrorist attacks and apprehend those responsible.

Last month, in an unprecedented attack on Muslim houses of worship, terrorist attacks destroyed four mosques in four nations spread around the globe—England, the United States, Finland, and Nigeria. These attacks led to more than four thousand deaths, and followed on the heels of what have become seemingly monthly attacks on Muslims, including attacks in Algiers, New York, and Venezuela.

The White House press secretary issued a stern warning to OPEC. “The president condemns both the terror attacks and the response of OPEC, and cautions OPEC that the United States will not allow its supply of oil to be threatened.” Reports placed several US warships en route to the Persian Gulf, and military sources claim that the entire United States military has been placed on high alert. Analysts have parsed the president's words and generally conclude that a full-scale embargo would in short time lead to massive military intervention.

China and Russia have protested US deployment in the Gulf, the Chinese representative to the UN calling the moves “reckless and destabilizing.” Russia has vowed to prevent foreign occupation of oil-producing nations, and has placed its own military on heightened alert, according to sources in Moscow. The president has canceled his long-planned trip to India and is returning to Washington. He is expected to address the nation tomorrow evening.

John Savas stepped out of his office and nearly crashed into the muscled figure of Husaam Jordan standing outside his door. Jordan had made a rapid recovery. He still limped slightly and favored his shoulder at times, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell that he had been through the ordeal in the desert. Savas assumed that in another month or two, he would be almost fully recovered. He apologized for his carelessness, caused by distraction over events following last month's insane visit to Gunn International. The large CIA agent smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

“So, how is the investigation going?” he called out.

Savas smiled ruefully. “Which one?”

Jordan nodded back. “Indeed. But I am more interested in one than the other.”

Savas could only agree, except that the FBI inquiry into his trip to Gunn Tower was occupying increasing amounts of his time. He had managed to convince all those involved that Cohen had been dragged along with him, and, for now at least, she had been spared the paperwork, meetings, and constant interruptions that an internal investigation entailed. He had also been spared any suspension of his duties or privileges—a rescue effort by Kanter. That was
a
f
ter
Kanter had first threatened to kill him.

Savas nodded toward Jordan. “You were right.”

Jordan cocked his head to one side and half-smiled. “About which investigation is more important?”

“Yes,” said Savas, “but more than that—about following the trail of Operon and the shell companies.”

Jordan became serious. “That trail is getting cold as we speak. The CIA isn't going to listen to the ravings of two mad FBI agents who stormed an American icon. Gunn practically ran a monopoly in the defense industry for two decades. He's owed more favors in Washington than we can guess. They've tied my hands, John. And it's been too long. Weeks and weeks have gone by. They aren't going to leave anything standing, or anyone connected alive.”

“The FBI has twisted itself into a tangle of internal investigation,” said Savas with obvious irritation. “Everyone is scared shitless now about moving on this guy. Larry's frustrated as hell, but he is protecting his division. Until this blows over, we're left doing research reports on the Internet. Meanwhile, we wait for the next fall of the hammer.”

“Don't give up hope, John,” Jordan rumbled. “It is written in the Holy Koran, ‘When a man dies, they who survive him ask what property he has left behind. The angel who bends over the dying man asks what good deed he has sent before him.' You have worked for justice.”

Savas stared at the black man standing before him, an American, a former gang member, and now a Koran-thumping Muslim. Yet he had come not only to respect Husaam Jordan but to feel a tug of affection for a person who clearly sought justice, who had disregarded career and safety in the service of justice. He just could not reconcile the different parts.

“Husaam, I don't want this to go the wrong way, but there are some things I don't understand.”

Jordan stared straight into Savas's eyes, his expression unflinching yet knowing. Savas pressed forward anyway. “I like you. I didn't at first, I have to be honest. Well, I couldn't at first.”

“You could not separate me from the Muslims who killed your son.”

Savas winced. “You're a good man, a man who sees right and wrong and risks his life for what is right. You can't find one out of a thousand men like that. How can you be part of this religion that gives birth to all these crazed murderers who kill in the name of this damn book you keep quoting? How can Islam be anything but evil for the wars and bombs and wrongs it has caused? I just don't understand it.”

Jordan smiled, his white teeth set in his strong jaw, bright against the darkness of his face. “The Abuja National Mosque was a gift from the heavens. If you had seen it, with open eyes, John, not eyes colored with anger, you would have seen its majesty rising into the African sky, its four minarets reaching toward God. Its beautiful dome was a bright star in the daytime sun or a powerful silhouette in the setting orange light at day's end. Muslims have made some of the most beautiful religious houses in the world. For hundreds of years, they preserved knowledge while Europe sank into the Middle Ages and burned witches at the stake, tortured innocents with the Inquisition, and converted by the sword many of the pagans of central and northern Europe. Science, mathematics, and philosophy were preserved, developed, and passed on to an awakening Europe by
Muslims
.”

Jordan opened his hands in a questioning gesture. “When you listen to the great composers of Germany—Bach, Mozart, Beethoven—do you also see in their music the ashes of the Holocaust? When you gaze at the religious sculptures and paintings of Michelangelo, do you see in them the blood-soaked lands the Crusaders marched across? America was founded by people fleeing persecution at the hands of fellow Christians. For the centuries of Christians doing evil in the name of God, how can
you
be one?”

Savas shook his head. “You're using this argument on the wrong man, Husaam. I'm not sure what I believe. I very nearly became violent with the priest of the church where I was an altar boy, and this crazy man still hears my confessions. Confessions mostly about how much I don't know, and how I can't see God.”

Jordan nodded. “But my point is that if we are to judge a belief system by the actions of any group that claims to act in its name, every creed that exists or has existed will fall. Just as great beauty and selfless service to humanity has come from Christianity, so, too, from Islam.” He paused for a moment, considering his next words.

“John, Islam is very personal for me. I grew up in poverty, abandoned by my parents, rejected by society—both black and white. I joined a gang before I could shave. At least there I
mattered
, I had a
family. There was a code of honor and loyalty. The gang gave me a sense of worth and purpose society had denied me. But it was a life of sin. In prison as an adolescent, an imam who had emigrated from Africa was making the rounds. I was ready to hear what he had to say. I was ready to open myself to something larger and to find my place with God.”

His eyes had a faraway look. He smiled softly.

“Do you know what the
al-Hajar-ul-Aswad
is?”

Savas shook his head.

“It is more commonly known as the Black Stone.”

“Yes,” Savas dredged his memory. “The meteorite in Mecca. Where the pilgrims go every year.”

“Yes. It is one of the Five Pillars of Islam to make at least one pilgrimage to Mecca in a Muslim's lifetime. There the pilgrims congregate at the al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque in Saudi Arabia, and in the center of this mosque is the holiest site in all of Islam—the Kaaba. The Kaaba is a cube carved out of granite from the hillsides, covered with a black silk curtain decorated with gold-embroidered calligraphy, its four corners pointing in the four directions of the compass. It is the site to which we Muslims pray five times a day.”

Jordan's eyes appeared to gaze far off, as if trying to glimpse the site itself. “At the eastern-most corner of the Kaaba is the Black Stone. According to our tradition, it fell from Heaven during the time of Adam and Eve. After the Fall, it was hidden by the Angels until Abraham rebuilt the Kaaba, and then the Arch-Angel Gabriel brought it to him from its keeping place.”

Jordan paused for emphasis and turned toward Savas. “Muslims believe, John, that when the Kaaba fell to the earth from the heavens, the stone was
not
black but a blinding
white
. It has since absorbed, year after year, the crimes, the lies, the pain, the torture, the murder, poverty, and starvation—in short, the sins of mankind. The white stone from above turned as solid black as the evening sky from our sins. So you see, Muslims do not turn away from this truth, that we are all both light and dark. Someday, I will make the pilgrimage, the
Hajj
, and I will walk around the Kaaba, find my way to the Black Stone, and kiss it as did the Prophet.”

He nearly recited. “I believe that there is no god but Allah, and that Mohammed is his Prophet. Not despite any evils of Islam, but because of its beauties, and its call to submission to God in the face of the evils every nation, every creed, and every person has committed.”

Savas held his gaze. “How do we know that the evil itself isn't somehow built into many of the beliefs that claim to save us from them? For all the talk of salvation, there seems to be scant evidence that anyone has been saved by any of these faiths. We keep repeating the same old evils, in old as well as new forms. If religion and faith are real, and change us, and heal us, and remake us, then I have to ask why this is the case. I've called to God, and listened, but so far I haven't heard anything.”

Jordan smiled. “But you are honest! How much closer to God you are than so many who deceive themselves. When Muslims, Christians, or Hindus, whoever, do evil in the name of God, they listen not to God but only to themselves, their fears, their inadequacies. At least you will not create a false god to serve your own needs. I will have hope for you yet!”

“That's fine. Hope is good,” said Savas with resignation. “Just let's keep the volume down on all this
religious
hoping, if you would.”

Before Jordan could speak, Manuel Hernandez came crashing down the hallway, his awkward gait nearly a full run. Too many long hours hunched over a computer screen had given him the dough-boy physique of a programmer, and he panted, struggling for air as he leaned over to catch his breath, his long brown hair hanging over his face and covering it, his brushy beard the only part sticking out from under the hair. He gasped out anxious words.

“John, we've got a situation.”