Edge of Apocalypse (12 page)

"That's just a minor issue. Joshua Jordan will be forced to comply. You needn't worry about that."

"Just one final suggestion," Demas stated as he walked his guest through the cavernous living room to the front door of the villa's private quarters. "I hope you don't consider me arrogant in saying this, but you may want to modify Secretary of State Danburg's speech slightly."

"Oh? How?"

"I would make your intentions at sharing weapons technology even more ambiguous. Not quite so obvious. That might give me more leverage in my private negotiations, behind the scenes. Just a thought."

Mr. Burke acknowledged the request with a nod of his head.

As soon as Burke was gone, Demas immediately placed a call to an ocean shipping office in the industrial harbor of Rotterdam.

A phone rang in the small import-export office tucked among the miles of shipping docks and mammoth industrial loading cranes that stretched along the Dutch coast.

Petri Feditzch, the office manager, answered the phone.

"It's me," Caesar Demas began.

Feditzch was a good soldier in Demas's small army. He knew better than to interrupt. He waited for his boss to continue.

"You need to inform the messenger that our project has to be delayed temporarily."

"Should I give him a timeline? How long does he wait?"

"You will tell the messenger," Demas elaborated, "a few days, at least. Perhaps longer. Maybe permanently. Tell him to hold until he hears further. Is that clear?"

Petri Feditzch hung up the phone and wiped his mouth. He lit a cigarette. He would delay the call until he had finished his smoke. Feditzch's background as a former member of the Soviet KGB made him a tough customer.

But even with that, he was not looking forward to the phone call he now had to make.

NINETEEN

"So, you told him...Dad, I mean?"

"I did. Cal, he's your father. He has a right to know. You confided in me as your mother, and I'm glad you did. But your dad and I don't keep secrets from each other."

"So, whatever I tell you, you're gonna turn right around and tell Dad. Is that it?"

"Honey, God looks at your father and I as one. And you should too. That's just the way it is."

"Still, I don't understand why this has turned into such a big deal."

Cal Jordan was leaving the Demoss Learning Center at Liberty University with his backpack slung over one shoulder and with his Allfone plugged into his ear. In the distance he noticed Karen Hester with her friend Julie, crossing the campus. Karen spotted him and waved.

"Because you're in pain," Abigail Jordan replied firmly on the other end of the line. "That's always a big deal. If it hadn't been for the missile attack, we still wouldn't know you'd stayed in New York, would we? Besides, if it was such a minor thing, why'd you tell me?"

"I couldn't keep it in anymore. Missiles were flying. People were getting trampled. New York City was on every channel. And my father was the one right in the middle of the whole thing.
My father.
Not somebody else's. Mine! He's the big hero, but I couldn't even help a woman three feet away. I was frozen, scared to death. That's what I have to deal with."

"I know that had to be devastating--"

"It was..."

"But just put yourself in your dad's shoes. He thinks you're safely out of the city during a horrible disaster, and then he finds out that you weren't, because you'd lied to us about where you were and what you were doing."

"So this whole thing is just because I didn't give you guys the straight scoop? That instead of leaving the night before for school like I told you, I went up to New York City to be with Karen instead. Okay, so I didn't tell you the truth. Look, I know Dad doesn't like Karen. And I knew he'd blow a gasket about the two of us spending an overnight in New York--even if we weren't sleeping in the same room. I just can't believe how this is becoming such a big deal--"

"Cal, you know I expect you to be truthful. Because you're my son--"

"Sure, yeah, okay--"

"But even more important than that. You're a Christian. You made the same decision to put your faith in Jesus Christ that I have."

"Of course--"

"And because you're a Christian, then truth ought to be a priority--"

"Fine..."

"Isn't that right?"

"Yeah..."

"And in the same way truth is a priority to me."

"Right, Mom. Fine."

By this time, Karen was just a few feet away. Cal put his finger to his lips to keep her from saying anything. Her response was to put one hand on her hip and flash a pretend display of anger, almost making Cal laugh.

"And your dad considers telling the truth a big deal," his mother continued.

"No kidding," Cal shot back.

"So, then your lying to your parents
was
a big deal after all."

Cal mouthed the words
my mom
to Karen.

"Yes or no?" Abigail repeated a little more forcefully than before. "Yes or no, Cal, your lying to us was a big deal after all..."

"Mom, don't do the lawyer thing with me. It drives me crazy--"

"It's not a lawyer thing. It's a mom thing. Two very different things, Cal."

"Okay. So it was a big deal. I was wrong. Dad is ticked at me. Wow, there's something new..."

"Cal, I want you to listen carefully to me. He loves you. Your dad loves you so much."

Abigail's voice caught a little. Cal could hear that. He could hear the tenderness. It was the thing he loved most about his mom. And yet he hated it when it happened. When her love and passion got to the breaking point and the tears would start filling her eyes. Now he was starting to get teary-eyed himself. Cal quickly turned away from Karen so she couldn't see.

"You are
so
important to him," Abigail said. She was pacing her words, forming them in her mouth with an exquisite kind of care. Her voice was slow and soft. "He'd lay down his
life
for you..."

Cal didn't speak for a few seconds. Neither did his mother.

"It's just that..." Cal was trying to sound sure of himself. After a few more seconds he continued. "It's just that he's always on my back--about everything, all day, every day, twenty-four-seven--"

"Cal, you're going to have to love him the way he is," Abigail added. "I do. He's a wonderful man. He wants nothing less than the absolute best for you. That makes him demanding, I know. But cut him some grace, Cal. That's something you ought to know about..."

Karen had moved around Cal so she was facing him again. But this time no comic routine, no attempts to make him laugh. She could see what was in his eyes.

"Gotta go, Mom."

"Okay. Love you, Cal. So does Dad. Keep in touch.
Call
us..."

Cal clicked off his Allfone, then looked at Karen.

"Sorry about that..."

"Your mom?"

"Yeah."

"Sounded serious."

"Same song. Different melody."

"Oooh," she said breaking into a bright smile. "Nice metaphor. I thought
I
was supposed to be the music major and you were the art major."

He smiled and shrugged, then asked her if she wanted to catch a cup of coffee before the next class. Karen agreed and tugged at his arm as they walked together.

"So, anything you want to share?"

"Not really. Constant issues with my father."

"About New York?"

"Right."

"You in trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

"Now you
do
sound like your father."

"How do you know? You only met him once--"

"Twice. Remember the football game? Up in the stands? We all sat together."

"The point is--," Cal started to say.

"The point is," she said finishing the thought, "that maybe you are more like your father than you'd like to admit."

"So what, now you've switched from being a music major to a psych major?" he joked. Then he added, "Hey, I hope they've still got some of those sugar donuts left. I'd love to have a couple of those with my coffee."

"Nice move, Mr. Jordan. Trying to blow me off. Changing the subject."

As they walked together to the student cafe, Karen could see Cal was thinking hard.

Finally he let it out. "So, I've got a question for you. A serious one."

"Okay," she said. "What?"

He paused for a moment and stopped. She stopped with him and tilted her head a little, studying him closely. Then Cal asked her.

"Exactly who would
you
be willing to die for?"

TWENTY

The reporter was having a hard time keeping up with her interviewee. The subject of her focus, an impeccably dressed middle-aged man who hailed from Pakistan, was walking at a fast clip toward the diplomatsonly elevator inside the Davos Conference Center. The reporter was trying her best to get as many questions in as possible before Hamad Katchi disappeared into the elevator's sanctuary--beyond the reach of the press.

Twenty feet ahead, Katchi's executive assistant was holding the elevator door open for him.

"Mr. Katchi," the reporter continued, "you were at one time one the world's most notorious arms dealers. Supplying advanced weapons systems to a wide variety of countries, rogue nations, and terror groups--"

"Correction. I have never done business with terrorists," Katchi retorted with a smile. Now at the elevator's entrance, he paused, then turned. "Besides, I am now out of the weapons business completely--"

"I understand," she replied. "Still, there are many who believe your decision to align yourself with the Society for Global Change, the organization you cofounded with Caesar Demas, was to camouflage your past--"

"I am now fully committed to building peace, rather than expanding war," Katchi stated. "You may have heard the story already. How the death of my own brother was caused by one of the very same weapons systems that I had sold. Therefore, several years ago I chose to redirect my energies into humanitarian causes. Now, please, I am sorry, I have another commitment..."

Katchi turned again and, along with his aide, stepped into the empty elevator.

Both of them were quiet until the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors hissed open.

Waiting for them in the small hallway was Caesar Demas, flanked by two plainclothes security guards. Katchi and his aide stepped out to greet him.

"Let's take a walk alone," Demas insisted and motioned to Katchi to follow him down the hall while the aide stayed behind by the elevator. Demas waved a finger toward the door of a restroom. Then he blew through the door with Katchi close behind. The two bodyguards quickly took a position to block the entrance to the men's room.

Demas and Katchi began perusing the bathroom, flinging open every stall door to make sure they were alone.

Then Demas walked over to the two hand dryers on the wall and punched them both on until the sound of their roaring filled the room.

He leaned over to Katchi and spoke directly into his ear.

"I have given the order for the messenger to stand down. At least temporarily."

"Really? I would have waited. I know your reason. You are banking on the U.S. caving in. Well, maybe they will. And maybe not. I think you should have put the messenger securely in place first before delaying his mission--"

"Why? So he could be poised to grab the RTS information first? Then bypass us and sell the data directly to someone else? Hamad, I thought you were smarter than that."

"Even if the United States decides not to share the RTS specifications, then, per our plan, our man will still be able to get his hands on the designs anyway."

"Yes," Demas replied, "but by that time I will have my own people in place around him to make sure he doesn't go rogue on us..."

At that same moment, on the other side of the Atlantic, cars were stacked up in a long line at the Canadian-U.S. border. Those wishing to cross from Lacolle, Quebec, to Champlain, New York, could expect delays of up to forty-five minutes. The U.S. customs officers were carefully checking passports of all incoming drivers.

Behind the steering wheel of his rental car, the Algerian took a few moments to examine himself in his rearview mirror. He had Yergi Banica's passport open on the seat next to him. He glanced down at the passport photo and then up at his own face in the mirror.

It was a good match.

Zimler had grown a mustache to match Banica's. He had accomplished that even before he had murdered him. Funny, Zimler thought, that Yergi never even noticed the similarity before the zip cord was looped around his neck. Despite his academic prowess, Banica had failed to realize that his executioner had actually taken great pains to create a close resemblance. To complete his transformation into the middle-aged Romanian professor, Zimler had obtained a pair of spectacles and had tinted portions of his hair just slightly.

Now, all that was left was to slip through the border station without incident. And if that went well, then one of the world's deadliest assassins would be roaming free within the continental United States.

Zimler's Allfone started ringing.

He glanced down and saw the word "Restricted," but he didn't answer it. He had more important business right now. No suspicious movements. He was in plain view of the border guards with only two cars between his and the checkpoint.

No message was left on his Allfone. He muted the ringer.

Now just one car remained between Zimler and the border stop.

Zimler tuned the car radio to a French station playing classical music. He listened for a few moments, keeping the level down to a soothing volume. Had he heard this piece before? He thought it might be Debussy, one of his favorite composers. Perhaps it was the
Estampes
for piano. It was a pity, he thought, that the business of his "professional life" had frequently kept him from enjoying the truly finer things in life. Like the beauty and complexity of music.

But the music was not merely for pleasure. It would also help him focus. Lower his heart rate. Help loosen the facial muscles, creating a relaxed expression. Everything had to look normal.