The Seventh Pillar

Acknowledgements

First my wife, Gayle. She is so patient. I think out loud. I constantly run plot and scene scenarios by her for months and in general drive her nuts. She makes excellent suggestions. She's really good at pinning me down when my masculine mind falls into some trap regarding the way women think. Because of her this is a better book.

Then there are readers who actually read, appreciate and comment on my work. They haven't seen this one yet, but the emails and comments and thoughtful reviews of the first two books in the PROJECT series, WHITE JADE and THE LANCE, have helped me improve my writing. Thank you, readers, you make it worthwhile.

Thanks to Gloria Lakritz. Gloria is one of my "Beta" readers. She provided great support while I struggled with the last few pages.

Thanks to Mike, Lee, Amanda, Rick.

Thanks too to Justin Dunne, who believes.

The PROJECT Series:

Book One: White Jade

Book Two: The Lance

Book Three: The Seventh Pillar

Book Four: Black Harvest

Part One:

Africa

CHAPTER ONE

Twelve stood motionless, invisible in a world of soundless gray. Thick London fog cloaked him like a whisper from the grave. The fog smelled of old, unpleasant things, of the polluted waters of the Thames not far away.

His body hummed with energy. Every bead of moisture on his skin was anticipation, every sound seemed amplified ten fold. He sensed footsteps coming. A man dressed in a dark topcoat and hat emerged wraith-like from the gray curtain, swinging an umbrella at his side. Two minders walked behind him, as always. This man was never alone.

The assassin drew an ancient dagger from his sleeve as the man passed by. He stepped from the mists and thrust the blade deep into the notch at the base of his target's skull, then turned with practiced ease and snapped the neck of the first guard. A quick blow to the throat sent the other to his knees, a dead man trying to breathe.

Twelve reached down and wiped the blood from his dagger on the dead man's expensive coat. He took a small object from his pocket and placed it on the body. It bore a curious design.

The sign pointed the way but led nowhere. It would confuse those who would come. Confusion was good.

The assassin melted back into the silent fog. His Teacher would be pleased.

CHAPTER TWO

If Nick Carter needed a reminder of how much things had changed in the past weeks he only had to look at his phone. It was black and shiny and had a lot of buttons. There were buttons for the White House, the Seventh Floor at Langley, the Director of National Intelligence, the Joint Chiefs, NSA, DIA and a half dozen more he hadn't figured out yet. 

At least it isn't red, he thought.

The phone came with his new job as Co-Director of the Project, along with a new office. The office came with a big flat screen monitor on the wall, brown leather chairs and a thick carpet. There was an impressive desk with an encrypted computer linked to the Cray mainframes downstairs. There were two windows. One looked out at the hall. One let him see across a common work area into Stephanie Willits' office.

Stephanie ran the Project on a day to day basis. Nick ran field operations, in charge of tactics and strategy and getting in and out of places no sane person would ever want to go. Together the two of them reviewed intelligence briefs sent from the big three letter agencies to the President. Sometimes they pointed out that the Emperor wasn't wearing any clothes, which made them unpopular in the US intelligence community.

Carter got up and poured a cup of dark coffee from a gleaming chrome machine. He went back to the desk, where a manila packet waited patiently for his attention. Steph had handed it to him with raised eyebrows when he'd come in. Raised eyebrows meant his day was about to get complicated.

He sipped the coffee, opened the packet and took out the contents. Reports and pictures. The first picture showed a man lying on a wet sidewalk. His eyes were open and expressionless, blue. There was blood pooled under his head.

Carter set the photo aside and began reading. Scotland Yard, MI-5, CIA. The dead man was Sir Edward Hillary-Smythe, the British Foreign Secretary. A powerful man, a hawk, a strong advocate for harsh sanctions on Iran and military action against the Tehran regime if needed.

The only thing worse would have been the assassination of the Queen. Sir Edward had been a popular and controversial figure, a likely successor to the big job at No. 10.

Stephanie came into his office. "Ten to one we hear from Rice before noon."

James Rice, President of the United States. An election was coming up. Not even Christmas yet, and the political rhetoric had already turned brutal.

"No bet, Steph. But it's a British mess. MI-5 is pretty good."

"They weren't good enough to stop him from getting killed."

"What was he doing walking in the fog?"

"Sir Edward liked his evening constitutionals."

"Nobody heard anything?"

"Have you ever been in London in really heavy fog?" Stephanie sat down in one of the brown leather chairs. "You wouldn't hear a bomb go off two blocks away. Besides, the killer used a knife. No noise. He took out two MI-5 agents at the same time."

"A pro."

"Yes. In and out, terminate, no muss."

"Anyone have an idea who's behind it? Anyone claim responsibility?"

"No and no."

Steph was in her mid thirties. Her dark hair was cut half way to her shoulders. She favored long gold earrings and gold bracelets on her left wrist. She had full lips and wide cheekbones and dark shadows under dark eyes.

Looking at her, you might think of cocoa and cookies and a warm bed on a cold night. You might think she drove a van to the soccer field a few times a week. You would be wrong. Steph could place thirteen rounds in the black from a hundred feet in under thirty seconds. She was a genius with computers and could hack any firewall in the world. She'd been married and divorced. Now she lived alone in her Washington condo. Along with Nick, Stephanie ran one of the most secretive counter-terrorism units in the world. Carter had no idea what she did when she went home. He didn't need to know. He trusted her and that was enough.

Carter looked at the photo of the dead man and felt a headache starting. He picked up another picture from the packet, of an object inscribed with an odd design.

"What's this?"

"The killer left it on the body."

"A message?"

"Must be."

"It's some kind of writing. Let's get Selena to take a look."

"She's down in the computer room. I'll page her."

Selena's gift for languages was world class. If anyone could figure out the writing, it would be her.

A few minutes later Nick watched her come through the door. The way she moved reminded him of a cross between a ballet dancer and a sleek jungle cat, all grace and feral beauty. She was five-ten, shorter than Nick. She had high cheekbones and a natural beauty mark over her lip. Her eyes were an unusual violet color. Her hair was reddish blond.

She wore a tailored gray suit and a lavender blouse that picked up the color of her eyes. She had a slim gold watch on her left wrist and simple earrings. Not everyone could make a Glock .40 in a quick draw holster look like a fashion accessory, but Selena pulled it off.

When people saw them out on the town together it confused them. No one would ever call Nick handsome. Hard, perhaps. Rugged. Tense, with intense gray eyes that never stopped moving. Women might say not bad looking, maybe a little scary, someone to keep an eye on. Never handsome. Selena was another story. She came close to beautiful.

"What's up?" She sat down next to Stephanie.

"Someone killed the British Foreign Secretary this morning and left this. Can you make anything of it?"

Nick handed the picture across.

She studied the photo. "It says 'Muhammad and Ali'. The writing is Arabic. It's an ambigram, a calligraphic mirror image with multiple meanings."

"What's this one about?"

"This is a Shia ambigram. One meaning is that Ali is the rightful successor to Muhammad, the one appointed by Muhammad and God to lead the Muslim community."

"So?"

"Ali was Muhammad 's cousin. When Muhammad died, Ali claimed rightful succession by divine decree. Sunni Muslims say that Abu Bakr was the lawful successor. The Shias say Abu Bakr was an opportunist who seized power. Islam has been fighting about it ever since."

She frowned at the picture.

"I've seen this before, I just can't remember where. It'll come to me."

Carter tugged on his ear. "You think of Shia Islam and terrorism, you think of Tehran. Sir Edward was a firebrand when it came to Iran. Maybe the Iranians are behind this."

"That's jumping to conclusions." Selena smoothed a wrinkle on her skirt. "I wonder why he was killed?"

"We figure out who did it, we'll know why."

He changed the subject. "Steph, you hear from Ronnie and Lamont yet?"

"Two hours ago. So far there's only routine activity. They should update any time now."

CHAPTER THREE

Ronnie Peete and Lamont Cameron sat in a battered blue Toyota pickup under a relentless African sun. The temperature was over a hundred, the door handles hot enough to burn. The heat didn't seem to bother Ronnie. Sweat ran down Lamont's brown face, followed the ridge of scar tissue across his eye and nose, dropped onto his sand colored robe. He looked over at his partner.

"How come you don't sweat?"

"This isn't hot. You ought to try a sweat lodge sometime. That's hot."

Ronnie was Navajo, raised on the reservation before he'd joined the Corps. He'd been Recon, in the same unit as Nick.

"A sweat ceremony might last three days," he said. "Course we could go outside and cool off once in a while."

"You got a ceremony for shade?"

Ronnie smiled.

Lamont lifted his binoculars. "Something's happening."

He focused on a low cement structure two stories high, flat roofed, surrounded by a fence topped with razor wire. It was whitewashed and dirty and uninspired. Lamont passed the binoculars over.

"They're loading something onto the truck."

The truck had shown up yesterday, along with a man with a full white beard and a green turban surrounded by armed guards. Lamont had taken three quick photos and sent them on to Stephanie. The truck was like ten thousand other trucks in Africa, used for hauling everything from goats to troops. There were no markings on it. It had Sudanese plates. Since they were right outside Khartoum, that wasn't surprising.

Five bearded men with AK 47s stood by, looking tense. Two others lifted an olive drab metal container about the size of a footlocker up to someone inside the truck. Two white Toyota pickups mounted with belt fed Degtyaryov machine guns waited nearby. The Russian guns were popular in this part of the world.