Mark of Evil (36 page)

He strode toward the front door, praying silently as he did.
God, John Galligher here. Thanks for saving me. You hunted me down and found me and then reminded me that Jesus died for my sins. Thanks again for that, by the way. I don’t thank You enough. Please keep Helen alive long enough for me to tell her about Jesus. Okay? She’s my ex-wife. But, yeah, well, I guess You already knew that.

As he stepped outside, Galligher glanced up and noticed that the sky was blue and clear. It reminded him of that movie where an Indian chief talked about it being a good day to die. Then he looked straight ahead and found himself staring down the long barrel of the cannon on the Alliance combat tank.
On the other hand, how about a good day to live?

The Global Alliance commander was standing up in his roofless Humvee. He leaned forward and touched something on the dashboard and there came a burst of electronic feedback. Then he started speaking. “Attention, hotel occupants. This is an official Global Alliance military action. Throw down your weapons. Give yourselves up. You will be treated humanely under the international articles of the Alliance War Crimes Act. You have ten seconds to comply or we will commence firing on you as enemies of the Alliance.”

Galligher wanted to say something, anything. Particularly something clever. But his mouth was dry and he had completely run out of his supply of clever. During his FBI career he had been in several gun battles with terror cells. But somehow this was different. Not just a battle against evil. His job now was to protect something infinitely good: a northern outpost that was somehow going to figure into the spread of the good news about Jesus over this entire sick, tired, beat-up planet.

He was about to say something, though he wasn’t sure what, when
someone answered for him. A shout came out from somewhere. “This is Captain Morganthau of the Canadian Mounted Police.”

Galligher looked over to his left. Appearing from around the side of the hotel came the mounted police officer he had met before—the one who’d drawn the ichthus in the dust of the furniture. He was decked out in his bright-red Mountie dress uniform and his wide-brimmed Mountie hat, and he was riding a big black horse. Then several more Mounties, all dressed the same, and all in the saddle, came up behind him and joined him on each flank.

The Alliance commander grimaced, and even from a distance Galligher could see how ticked off he was. “Retreat immediately!” he yelled. “Or you will be treated as enemies of the Global Alliance and will be shown no mercy.”

The mounted police captain shouted back, “And I am hereby ordering you to withdraw from this street and from this city. You’ve committed an illegal act of military occupation. Eight minutes ago the Canadian Parliament voted to withdraw Canada from the Global Alliance. Don’t you know that, aye? You have no lawful authority here. If you fail to withdraw I will make sure that several of our Royal Air Force jets are given orders to direct missiles onto your position.”

The top hatch of the Alliance tank opened and the head of one of the Alliance soldiers popped out. He looked frantically up toward the sky.

Galligher stood there slack jawed as he watched the Mountie, sitting tall in his saddle, practically daring the Global Alliance military to shoot first. It was
High Noon
,
The Alamo
, and half a dozen of his favorite John Wayne movies all playing out in front of him.

Galligher raised his .357 in the air. “And I am former FBI special agent John Galligher,” he shouted. “And I am prepared to make a civilian arrest of you, Commander, if these brave Canadian Mounties should fall in the line of duty.”

Somewhere, high up in the air, came the roar of a jet. Everyone on
that street jerked their heads up and searched the sky. But it was only a commercial jetliner.

Time passed in the standoff. Galligher didn’t know how long, but it seemed to go on forever. The Global Alliance commander was still standing up in his military vehicle and Captain Morganthau was still sitting high in his saddle. It was time for someone to blink.

Someone did.

“I am ordering my unit,” the commander finally called out over his loudspeaker, “to relocate to the other side of White Horse.” Then he added, “But we are not withdrawing from the city. You, Captain Morganthau, will be dealt with accordingly. That I can promise you.”

FIFTY

NEW BABYLON, IRAQ

Ethan March had been running for his life, trying to sprint, but he found it hard because of his dizzy spells. He had made his way out into a parking lot not far from the digital lab building. As part of the confusion created around the palace compound after the alarm was sounded, crowds of New Babylon officials and employees were now milling outside, and a few were sitting under the shade of the tall palm trees, waiting for the all-clear sign to return to their offices. Ethan slowed his pace so he wouldn’t stand out, but he was desperately searching for his next move while he walked. Then he saw it.

He noticed a white Range Rover with a Red Cross insignia on the side that was parked just outside one of the administrative buildings. A European-looking man in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled
up came striding out of a building carrying a briefcase and headed toward the vehicle. He tossed a look back at the administrative building, shook his head in apparent disgust, and then began to climb into the Red Cross vehicle.

Ethan stepped quickly up to the driver’s side window while the door was still open. “Can I ask you something?” Ethan said.

The driver eyed him suspiciously and nodded.

“Are you heading out of the compound?”

“Indeed I am,” the man said in a crisp British accent as he looked closer at Ethan. “You sound like an American.”

Ethan nodded.

The man glanced down at the ID badge Ethan had taken off the body of the big blond lab technician. “But your name looks Norwegian—Hans Jorgenson.”

Ethan tried to manage a smile. He wondered if there was still blood trickling down from his ears. He had tried to wipe it clean while he walked. But he couldn’t tell for sure. He began to pray silently.
Lord, tell me whether this man can be trusted.

“So is that your name, really?” the Englishman asked.

Ethan flashed a struggling smile. “What’s in a name?”

The Red Cross official suddenly broke into a smile and chuckled. “Right. ‘A rose by any other name’ and all that . . .” Then he nodded his head toward the sky, where the sound of a siren was still wailing. “Are you somehow tied into this mess?”

“Yes, in a way. It’s a long story.”

“Technically, I am not supposed to ferry passengers,” he said. “On the other hand, this is a bit awkward, because I am also supposed to be involved in humanitarian work. Which is bloody ironic, because the Global Alliance hasn’t the faintest idea what that word even means.”

Then he took a long look at Ethan again. “But I suppose as a staff technician with the Alliance, you couldn’t agree with any of what I just said.”

“You might be surprised,” Ethan said, moving closer to the open door of the vehicle.

The two men looked at each other for a few seconds. Then the British Red Cross worker added, “So . . . tell me something, Mr. Jorgenson. Would my driving you out of this compound constitute an act of humanitarian aid?”

“Yes,” Ethan replied in an instant. “Definitely humanitarian.”

The driver sighed heavily, as if he had a pretty good idea that this was not merely a matter of giving a man a ride, and that things were about to become complicated. Finally the Brit gave his decision. “All right, then. Climb aboard. Before I change my mind.”

Ethan scooted around to the passenger side and climbed in.

“Where are you heading?”

“Anywhere right now.”

The Englishman shook his head as he started up his car. “I was afraid you might say something like that.”

As they headed down the long drive toward the checkpoint gate, Ethan noticed now that Global Alliance security guards were starting to fill the parking lot and were approaching the staff members who loitered there.

“Anything you want to share with me?” the driver asked.

“For starters, you and I have something in common,” Ethan said.

“Oh?”

“I don’t trust the Alliance any more than you do. Probably less.”

“A strange thing for an Alliance staffer to say.”

“It would be . . . if I were one.”

The driver glanced over at Ethan’s borrowed ID and then gave Ethan a quizzical look. The driver ventured out a little in his next comment. “I had an appointment scheduled today. To ask the Global Alliance to stop blocking Red Cross aid in a number of countries. I thought at least I would get a meeting. But then I heard that our British Parliament just voted to exit this Babylonian atrocity called
the Global Alliance. And it’s about time, I must say. But in terms of my chance of doing any business here, that was the end of that. My meeting in New Babylon was abruptly canceled. I’m sure because of the vote in London.” Something caught the driver’s attention. He looked at Ethan. “You must have had a head injury. You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

Something must have sunk in, because then the driver added, “I’ll do what I can for you.”

That was good to hear. “My name is Ethan.” As he reached out and shook the Brit’s hand, Ethan suddenly started feeling woozy. He couldn’t afford to pass out. Not now. They were pulling up to the gatehouse. But the four guards didn’t wait for the Range Rover to pull up. They piled out of the little guard building, each with one hand on his side arm and the other up in the air, blocking the Englishman’s car.

One of the guards, who looked like he might be an Iraqi, stepped up to the driver’s side and motioned for his papers. The Brit handed them over. The Alliance guard took his time poring over them. Then he handed them back. But he leaned in through the window and nodded to Ethan. “Papers?”

The Englishman intervened. “This technician and I are on our way to an urgent assignment. We have to stay on schedule.”

“And where would this assignment be located?” The guard gave a quick glance over at the ID badge that hung from Ethan’s neck.

“Karbala,” the Brit replied.

The guard straightened up and chortled. “I don’t think you’ll be making your assignment today,” he said. “But you can try.” Then he waved them through.

Ethan leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes.

“You’re not well,” the driver said.

“It’s nothing. What do you think the guard meant by that?”

“I take it to mean they’ll be searching cars along the highway. Checking closely. We may have a problem getting you very far from
here.” That was when the Brit pulled the Range Rover over and turned it around on the highway.

“Where are you going?”

“If trouble is waiting up at Karbala, I’ll take you in the opposite direction. South, toward Al Hillah.”

Ethan relaxed just a little. It looked like God was supplying another miracle. He was feeling better and better about his chances of a clean escape.

Until twenty minutes later. That’s when the Englishman pulled his car over again to the side of the highway. He reached over and snatched up a pair of binoculars from the backseat and peered through them to get a better look at some activity up ahead on the highway.

“What is it?” Ethan asked.

“Not good. A roadblock. It looks like a large number of Global Alliance troops.” If the Brit expected Ethan to start coming unglued, he was about to be surprised. Ethan nodded in a matter-of-fact kind of way, with a strange kind of resolve. “The Lord has brought me this far.” He looked out the window to a strange collection of ancient ruins off to the side of the road and recited silently in his head a few verses from Psalm 46:

God is our refuge and strength,

A very present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change

And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea.

“Who are you, really?” the driver asked with an expression that was now full of searching and maybe even some deeper questions.

“Have you heard of the Remnant?”

“Ah yes, the Jesus followers.”

“I am a hunted man.”

“Do you have friends anywhere near here?”

“I don’t know,” Ethan said wearily. “But I’m hoping that some people from my group might be looking for me. Friends of mine.” He thought about the friends he had. Former Mossad spies, ex-CIA operatives, retired FBI agents. His voice took on an optimistic tone as he managed a smile. “On second thought, knowing them, I would say they’re probably mounting a rescue attempt.”

The Brit pointed over to the ancient stone ruins off in the distance. “For the time being, I suggest you stay over there.”

“What are those?”

“Uncovered not too long ago in an excavation after the Global Alliance moved in here at New Babylon. But Alexander Colliquin supposedly got nervous having archaeologists poking around so close to his government city, so he kicked them out. History says that King Nebuchadnezzar married the daughter of the king of the Medes, but his new wife was homesick for the lush gardens of her homeland instead of the harsh desert you see around you. So, as a compromise, he built a ‘middle ground’ for her—a lush retreat, right there.” And with that he pointed to the collection of tall, interlocking stone walls in the distance that formed a kind of labyrinth. “History calls them the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. These are the real ones.” Then the Brit added, “This can be your middle ground right now. You can hide behind those walls. Until help arrives for you. Let’s hope . . .”

They shook hands and the Englishman handed him an extra plastic bottle of water before he left.

Ethan had a final thought for the other man. “Keep an eye out for some Westerners who might be looking for me. If you do see them, please tell them where I am. And bid them Godspeed for me.
High
speed, if possible.”