Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (10 page)

He bent down, unscrewed each of the tops, and then set the tops on the ground. One by one, he dipped the bottles into the Golden Horn, filling them. Once filled, he secured the tops and placed three of them back in the zippered pouch, and then stood. Holding the fourth bottle up against the blue sky, he examined its contents. Unlike when he envisioned being a child and playing along the shores of the Golden Horn when its water was clear and fresh, it was now polluted from industry, shipping, and waste. Now, instead of a clear liquid, it was dark-brown, almost black. Millions of unidentifiable particles swam in the bottle. The disgusting filth of the water angered him. He viewed it as a sin against his beloved mother.

He carefully placed the last bottle into the pouch with the others, zipped it closed, and tucked it into his pocket. He then stooped down, scooped up a palm full of the murky, brown liquid, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. He rose to his feet and stared out at the river. “I must leave now, but soon,” he said, “things will be as they once were, I promise. This time, I will not disappoint you.”

CHAPTER 11

Sausalito
,
California

Tuesday
,
May
27th

Samael and Usman arrived at the San Francisco airport at 4:35 p.m. They traveled light with one carry on each, as they planned to return to Istanbul in a matter of days. Samael had booked a hotel in Sausalito, a small community in Marin County on the north side of the San Francisco Bay. While in San Francisco, they planned to purchase the needed equipment and supplies for the mission. Prearrangements had been made with black-market suppliers for certain controlled narcotics and drugs.

As the cab made its way through San Francisco and toward Sausalito, the iconic, orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, draped with massive steel cables, came into view. Standing tall, like a sentinel guarding the San Francisco Bay, the magnificent bridge was not only a concrete and steel path across the strait, but a monument of American pride.

Samael’s face reddened with anger as the view of the bridge filled the taxi’s front windshield. The twin towers pierced the blue sky like minarets. Once on the bridge, he laughed with delight, knowing that within a few, short days, the disgusting mockery of his dear mother’s name would be buried in the depths of the sea.

Usman craned his neck out the window of the cab. “Amazing!” he said, the wind muffling his voice. “It’s much like our Bosphorus and Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridges.”

“Older,” Samael said with disgust in his voice. “As far as suspension bridges go, the main span of this bridge is only a few hundred feet wider than ours. It’s basically a piece of junk ready for the scrap yard.” The cab driver shot Samael a piercing glance in the rearview mirror. Samael snapped at the defensive San Franciscan, “What are you looking at?”

Within five minutes the cab turned onto El Portal Drive in Sausalito, and wheeled up in front of the Hotel Sausalito. Samael and Usman exited the cab and met the driver at the rear of the car. In his early to mid sixties, the long-haired, bearded, tattooed, love child quickly removed the two bags and said, “That’ll be—”

“This should cover it,” Samael said, having made note of the fare on the meter before exiting the cab. To avoid unnecessary conversation with the driver, he handed the man double the amount of the fare, then lifted his bag and headed for the hotel entrance. “Let’s go,” he ordered Usman, who quickly followed without a word.

Built in Mission-Revival style in 1915, the sixteen-room, waterfront hotel was rumored to have been a bordello during the era of Prohibition, an emotional escape from the drudgery of life for many railroad workers, seafarers, writers, and passing travelers. After an extensive renovation in 1996, its décor presented a flavor of the French Riviera. Strikingly accurate renditions of Matisses and Monets lined the hallways. Hand crafted furnishings, stained glass windows, and views of the park and harbor accentuated the hotel’s international flavor. Samael found the quaint feel of the hotel pleasing.

The desk clerk greeted Samael with an uncomfortable stare, “Checking in?” The clerk’s voice sang with femininity. His movements were laced with twirls and twists that sickened Samael. However, unlike most that saw Samael for the first time, the clerk appeared unfazed by Samael’s size and appearance. Living in the epicenter of liberalized thinking, the city had obviously conditioned him to accept the most freakish forms of humanity without casting judgment.

Samael said, “S. Jones and U. Smith. Two rooms.”

The frail, young man flipped through a file box behind the counter with the most delicate touch. “Ah, yes, here we go.” Inspecting the reservation card as he lifted it from the box, he raised an eyebrow and brought his index finger to the corner of his lip. “Hmm.” Glancing in Samael’s direction, he said, “Mr. Jones?”

“Yes.”

“Both rooms appear to have been prepaid.”

“That’s correct. Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. I think it’s marvelous. Here are your keys.”

Samael took both keys, handing one to Usman.

“Ah…Mr. Jones. I almost forgot. You have a package.” The clerk placed a small, brown envelope on the desk and slid it toward Samael. The label read ‘Samael Jones’. Samael took the envelope.

The clerk said, “Will there be anything else?”

“No,” Samael said.

“Well then, enjoy your stay and give me a buzz if you need anything or have any questions.”

Samael thought of the many guests who had stayed in the hotel since the bridge opened on May 27, 1937. Until then, the only access to Sausalito from San Francisco had been ferries or long drives around the bay. It pleased him to think that the people of Marin County and the sleepy, little town of Sausalito would soon thank him for ridding their community of nosey tourists.

In the hallway, before entering his room, Samael turned to Usman and said, “There are plenty of restaurants down the street, but I suggest you avoid the public. I’ll meet you in the morning.”

“What time?”

“I’ll knock on your door at 5:00. Be ready.”

“I’ll be ready,” Usman said.

Expecting the next two days to be emotionally demanding, Samael needed his rest. Tomorrow night they would stay in Sausalito, and then drive to Southern California the following morning.

After undressing, showering, and praying, he opened the envelope that the desk boy had given him. The contents included $20,000 in cash, a remote entry car key, and a one-way ticket from Los Angeles International Airport to Ataturk International Airport, Istanbul, departing at 9:55 a.m., on May 30th. Only one ticket was required, as Usman would not be making the return trip.

CHAPTER 12

Wednesday
,
May
28th

Instead of the cry of the muezzin’s call to worship, Samael woke to the sound of fog horns in San Francisco Bay. The unfamiliar sounds caused a momentary disorientation but quickly cleared.

He smiled.

In little more than 48 hours, he would be on a flight out of LAX headed back to Istanbul, his mission complete.

Sleep was a wasteful necessity of the body that, like a thief, robbed him of valuable time. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He rubbed his eyes and searched for his glasses on the nightstand. The green glow of the digital clock read 4:15. He stood and walked to the window, peeling back the curtains to reveal the black of morning. No cars on the streets. No people strolling by in the park. The ferry landing was quiet. It would be at least an hour before the sleepy town came to life.

He pulled the curtains closed and walked naked across the room to the bathroom. After switching on the light, the horrid image of his reflection met him in the vanity mirror above the sink, an image he’d been forced to live with for thirty-three years. His lean, muscular physique was the only thing in which he took pride. He had the face of a monster but the body of a warrior, partly due to genetics from a father he’d never met, and partly due to a rigorous exercise program. His disgust turned to focused strength as his thoughts were refreshed with the task before him and the tattooed letters across his white chest: KEROESSA.

Once he had showered, dressed, and prayed, he removed a satchel from his suitcase, unzipped it and transferred the money into the bag. Next, he took the pouch containing the four bottles of water from the Golden Horn River, carefully removed the bottles, lined them up on the dresser, and removed the tops. He then removed the blade from his disposable razor and drew it across his thumb, squeezing five drops of his blood into each bottle. He then secured the bottle caps, returned the bottles to the pouch, and bandaged his thumb.

Now
we
are
one
—
my
blood
and
yours
.

Ensuring the DO NOT DISTURB sign was on the doorknob, he left the room, crossed the hall and knocked on Usman’s door. The door opened within seconds.

“Good morning,” Usman said. He was clean shaven and dressed like an American tourist, as Samael had instructed. Without his beard and mustache, he looked like a child.

“Let’s go, there’s much to do.” Samael hurried down the hall. Usman followed close behind. After exiting the hotel, Samael stood on the sidewalk, pulled the car key from his pocket, gazed into the dark, and pressed the UNLOCK button. A chirp broke the silence, along with a flash of yellow taillights. A black, Chevy Suburban was parked on the curb.

Samael smiled.

He tossed the satchel into the front seat and switched on the car. “Today,” Samael said, “you will see with your own eyes the purpose for our lives. Before the sun sets on this day, all of your questions will be answered.”

He pulled away from the curb, turning left onto Bridgeway Road with the San Francisco Bay to their left. As they drove clear of the small town, the sight of the orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, draped with its sweeping cables, pierced the morning sky. Passing under the highway leading to the bridge, they followed Conzelman Road up the twisting incline to the vista points on Hawk Hill. The location offered the most dramatic views of the bay and bridge from the north.

Usman looked back at the bridge showcased against the deep-purple, morning sky as they ascended the hill to a height equaling that of the towering 746 foot spears of the international orange towers. “Is that it?” Usman said.

“If you are referring to our target, yes, that’s it.” Samael pulled off at a vista point. With the Suburban facing the spectacular view of the bridge, city, and Alcatraz, he switched off the ignition. “Chrysopylae,” he said.

“What?” Usman said.

“You’re looking at Chrysopylae.”

“Isn’t that Greek?”

“Yes. In December 1845, Captain John C. Fremont and a force of thirty men arrived in the Mexican province of Alta, California, with the intentions of mapping the West Coast area. While exploring the upper coast of California, he came upon what is now known as the San Francisco Bay. Having previously traveled to Istanbul, when Fremont first saw the three-mile-long strait leading into the San Francisco Bay, it reminded him of our glorious Golden Horn.

On June 5, 1848, Fremont submitted his
Geographical
Memoir
to the U.S. Senate. About this place, he wrote, was
called
Chrysopylae
(
Golden
Gate
)
on
the
map
,
on
the
same
principle
that
the
harbor
of
Byzantium
(
Constantinople
afterwards
)
was
called
Chrysoceras
(
Golden
Horn
)….”

“I had no idea the bridge was that old?”

Samael turned his head, giving Usman a disgusting stare. “Not the bridge! Fremont named the strait! The name
Golden
Gate
was officially applied to the entrance to San Francisco Bay on June 5, 1848—the same day Fremont submitted his
Geographical
Memoir
to the U.S. Senate. The bridge wasn’t completed until 1937.” Samael’s jaws tightened. “Fremont said he was
inspired
by our glorious Golden Horn—Chrysoceras.” The sound of his own words caused his heart to race and his skin to tingle.

Usman remained quiet, obviously sensing Samael’s change in countenance.

Samael took his wallet from his rear pocket, opened it, and removed a small antique-looking black and white photo. The photo of a man had been Xeroxed from a picture he’d found in an encyclopedia at the library.

The droopy-eyed, bearded man in the photo looked to be in his early thirties. His wavy, dark hair was parted in the middle and combed down over his ears. He wore a double-breasted coat with an extremely large bowtie. The young man was John C. Fremont.

Samael crumpled the paper up into a small ball and stuffed it into his mouth. After chewing on it for a few seconds, the watery mixture of secretions from salivary, mucous glands in his mouth lubricated the paper sufficiently allowing him to swallow it into the depths of his stomach.

Samael turned and gazed down at Usman, his eyes filled with bewilderment. “This monument was built by the infidels as a mockery to our beloved Chrysoceras. The journey of my soul will finally be complete once it is removed. I failed on July 11, 2002, but with your help, I will not fail again. Let’s go. We have one more stop to make.

Samael descended from Hawk Hill and parked the car at the vista point on the north side of the Golden Gate Bridge. He unzipped his satchel, retrieved the small pouch containing the four vials of water and blood mixture, removed one of the vials, tucked it into his pocket, and returned the pouch to the satchel.

“Get out, we’re walking across,” Samael said.

“The bridge?” Usman said.

“Yes. There’s something I must do.”

He slipped on his protective wrappers, pulled his hood down snug over his head, and walked briskly toward the sidewalk leading to the pedestrian footpath spanning the east side of the bridge. Usman followed, working hard to keep pace with Samael’s long strides.