Pandora's Ark (14 page)

The Devil’s Companion smiled in a way that was genuine,
which often ingratiated himself to be trusted just before he struck them dead,
and then clapped a hand on Levine’s shoulder, turning him away from the Comm
Center. “Be as it may,” he began, “Doctor Sakharov’s findings will be glorious.
And it will be your people who will destroy the Great Satan and the infidels of
Israel. And it will be done with the blessing of Allah.”

“I know not of a specific plan regarding my people.”

“Al-Ghazi did not tell you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then I will tell you this,” he said. “It all begins with
the relic below.”

Levine cocked his head questioningly. “Are you talking of the
holy relic?”

Al-Sherrod’s smile flourished, showing his irregular rows
of teeth, and nodded. “I’ve something to show you,” he told him. And then his
face beamed with the pride of a champion.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tel Aviv, Israel, Mossad Headquarters

Two days after the
Lohamah Psichlogit
lost communication with their operative working on the
terrorist front,
Yitzhak Paled sent a covert contingency force to the
Afghan region to team up with CIA operatives in order to reevaluate the
situation and retrace
Levine’s last position, since
he was a high asset to both sides.

It was later discovered that Levine did not make his
routine connection with his courier as scheduled; therefore, red flags
surfaced.

Satellites were immediately set to target over Afghan and
its hotspots, but the mountain range was too massive, the satellites failing to
pick up anything of significance other than insurgent squads walking
mountainous trails.  So after three days of searching, after three days of the
operative missing his contacts, it became clear to the principles of the
Lohamah
Psichlogit
that Aryeh Levine was missing.  

But to where? Was his position compromised? Or was he dead?
These questions worried Paled tirelessly since Levine was
an A-1 asset that took years to implement as a plant. Due to his solid and
consistent intelligence networking over the years, the thwarting of insurgent
missions on Israeli and American fronts proved successful on several occasions
with numerous lives saved. But with Levine missing and no intel serving as the
conduit to “
keeping your enemies close
,” both the United States and
Israel were gnawing on their proverbial lower lips in anticipation of what was
to come now that the window of collecting data had been abruptly closed with
Levine’s absence becoming critical in the wake of his disappearance.

Yitzhak stood still examining the wall-sized screen in the
Lohamah
Psichlogit monitoring lab. He stood there rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he
studied the many angles of the Afghan and Iranian Fronts, the satellite images
zipping from one picture to another while honing in on the coordinates of
Levine’s last points of contact.

But
this exercise of making a detection of any kind, he knew, was nothing more than
a futile attempt at serendipity.

The
voice beside him didn’t startle him like it would most people when someone
comes up from behind without sound or announcement. Paled simply stood unmoving
as the man spoke. “Anything?” he asked.

Yitzhak
Paled shook his head—a single nod really. “He missed his contact in Tehran,” answered.

“Aryeh
is exceptional at what he does. If he’s out there, then he’ll contact us.”
Benyamin Kastenbaum was a large man who had served on every level of Mossad
with the exception of the Director’s position, which he declined on more than
one occasion simply for the fact that he enjoyed his position as an
intelligence officer so much that there was little else he wanted outside of
what he already was. When he spoke he did so with a booming voice that rattled
the air around him, his bass so deep it seemed to stimulate the atmosphere. But
he was becoming old, his hair having gone gray a decade ago, his body having
grown soft from muscles that used to be rock solid. But his mind remained
clear, his memory forgetting little over the years.

Yitzhak
nodded. “If his position has been compromised, Iran will not hesitate to
execute him. I fear he may already be gone, Benyamin. And if that’s the case,
then we are surely crippled on the Iranian Front.”

“There
are others.”

“But
Aryeh was our deepest asset.”

“Then
we must take into consideration that Aryeh may be dead or captured and move on.
Let our sources maneuver into position to gather whatever information is
available regarding al-Ghazi and the Revolutionary Front. In the meantime, continue
to watch the Fronts if it soothes you. But remember this: It’s all right to
empathize, but never sympathize. Once you sympathize, then you will lose your
ability to lead. Personal emotions must be set aside, Yitzhak. There will always
be others who can take his place.” And then: “This is war. It always has been.”

Yitzhak
sighed. Kastenbaum was correct and his assessment was even more so. This was a war
that was unbridled and vicious, and most likely a war without end. But all wars
had their components when it came to winning or losing. Assets were a premium.
And Levine was one such asset.

“Maneuver
others carefully into red zones,” he said. “And maintain a vigil on both fronts.”

The
old man placed a soft hand on Yitzhak’s shoulder. “I know you’re friends,” he
told him. “And I pray for Aryeh. But if you don’t recognize that what we do
benefits the whole and not the one, then you will fail us all.” 

 “Although
I respect you, Benyamin, and love you like a brother, don’t you ever lecture me
again about my position here. I lead the Lohamah Psichlogit because I’m capable
of doing so. The loss of one man, even if it happens to be a friend, will not
deter me from performing my duties.” He turned to the old man whose face had
become crestfallen in surprise. “Is that clear?”

Benyamin
nodded. “I’m sorry, Yitzhak. You’re right. I was out of place.”

And
then Yitzhak spoke gently as if the matter was already forgotten. “Is there
anything else?”

“Just
one matter,” he said. “We received the data regarding the carbon dating of
Aaron’s staff.”

“And?”

“It’s
the real thing, Yitzhak. It’s been confirmed to be thirty-seven hundred years
old.”

Yitzhak
focused his attention back to the screen, his eyes glossing over. Then in a whisper
to no one in particular, he said, “Then it truly is the Ark of the Covenant.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Inside
Mount Damavand, Iran, The Alborz Mountain Range

Umar, or Levine, entered a chamber with al-Sherrod and the
two Quds officers in tow. The room was perfectly square, not too large, but big
enough to hold its prize. In the room’s center situated on a foot-high platform
was the Ark of the Covenant, which gave off a gold nimbus of light beneath the
conical beam of a lamp shining downward from above.

Slowly, the operative’s jaw dropped in typical awe. He knew
that the Ark in Axum, Ethiopia was a facsimile. But there was something about
this particular Ark, an emitting energy, something that was tangible and
intangible at the same time, something wonderfully magnetic.

“Do you sense it, as well?”

Levine ignored al-Sherrod and stepped closer with his hands
held outward with every intention of placing his palms against its surface. The
history behind this box, he thought, the power of its simple presence, was
overwhelming.

Slowly, he pressed his palms against the gold that shined
like the surface of a mirror—could see the color reflect off him as he stood
next to the precious icon. His clothes, his flesh, everything about him became
the color of gold within its glowing presence.

He did not feel the fatal electric charge that was alleged should
the Ark be touched by open hands. Instead, it was cool and smooth to the touch,
its texture like the even surface of glass. And then he grazed his fingers
gingerly over the golden seat, then over the cherubs facing away from each
other with the tips of their wings touching, then over the golden loops for the
carrying poles. Everything he laid a hand on rang of legitimacy. And in his
heart he knew this was the true Ark of the Covenant.

“Where did you find it?” he asked, tracing the tips of his
fingers over the shell.

“Does it matter?”

“What does this have to do with what’s going on here in
this facility?”

Al-Sherrod moved closer, the glow of the Ark now catching
him within its aura. “Al-Ghazi truly did not tell you, did he?”

“Al-Ghazi informs cells as to their directives. In order
for them to succeed he must keep secrets in case one cell is compromised, so
that others can remain ignorant in order to keep them from forwarding
information to the enemy. Even cells need direction from someone. And al-Ghazi
is that someone. He tells me only what he must.”

“But for him not to trust in you, Umar?”

“It’s not a matter of trust, but a tool of defense.”

Al-Sherrod circled the Ark and ran a slender hand along its
frame. “Do you know of the Ark’s tale? Of what the Christians believe will
happen should the cover be lifted?”

Levine stood silent.

“Al-Ghazi lifted the cover. And do you know what happened?”

More silence.

“Nothing,” al-Sherrod said. “Inside were two tablets of
stone, a golden bowl of manna, and an ancient cane.”

Levine knew the story of the dark angels within should they
be released from the Covenant, the demons hunting down those close by who were
filled with black wills instead of the Light of His glory, devouring them.

“It is nothing more than a box laden in gold and
superstition,” he added. “But the good Doctor Sakharov is going to change all
that.”

Levine turned to him, the features of his face already
asking the question:
How
?

Al-Sherrod smiled. “If al-Ghazi did not tell, nor will I,”
he answered. And then he grazed his palm lovingly over the structure, a gentle
caress.

“Will you destroy the Ark, then?”

Al-Sherrod nodded. “The Ark was given to the prophet Solomon
as a sign of His devotion to him. No, Umar, the Ark is only a vessel that is
finally coming into its own as something it was meant to be all along—a tool by
Allah to finally diminish the infidels given the prophecies. Once the lid is
open, then the demons will rush forward to destroy those not within Allah’s
grace.”

Levine suddenly felt his chest tighten.
A vessel of
destruction
, four words that caromed off his mind over and over again, the
words resounding in hollow cadence:
A vessel of destruction.

“Your role will be a prominent one once the good doctor has
completed his tasks to al-Ghazi and to Ahmadinejad. So you deserve to see it
this one time. But after today, Umar, you will not come near this chamber
again. Is that clear?”

Levine grazed his fingers over the cherubs golden wings.
“Clear.”

“Keep to your tasks by serving Doctor Sakharov, and keep
yourself to the areas classified as non-restricted.”

“Understood.”

Al-Sherrod smiled at him with those yellow teeth. And then:
“
Allahu
Akbar
.”

With
lack of commitment in his tone, Levine uttered, “
Allahu Akbar
.” And was
escorted from the chamber sensing that a bulls-eye was just drawn on his back
by the man they called the Devil’s Companion.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Las Vegas
,
Nevada

“I’ll do it.” The three words were spoken with little
conviction as Kimball stood before Louie’s desk in a quaint little office whose
walls were covered with corkboards, pushpins and memos that overlapped each
other. The blunt of a cigar burned in an ashtray that read WHAT HAPPENS IN
VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS, sending a corkscrew ribbon of blue smoke ceilingward.

“You’ll fight?”

“I need the money.”

“We all need money,” he said, smiling. Louie immediately
went to the phone and tapped in numbers on the keypad and fell back into his
seat. There was a look about him, thought Kimball, of victory due to the way
his mouth tilted with smugness, how the arch of one eye was raised higher than
the other.

“Yo, Mario, set me up for the undercard on Friday’s fight.
I got my boy wonder here to go a few with whomever you have available.” There
was a long pause as Louie nodded his head, imbibing every word Mario had to
say. And then: “Is he any good?” There was another pause. “Six fights and six
wins, five of them by knock out. Well, it seems that my boy here has his work
cut out for him then . . . What? . . . Yeah, Friday night . . . All right
then.” He placed the phone gingerly onto its cradle, grabbed the stub of his
cigar, and set it at the corner of his mouth while surveying Kimball with a
steady gaze. “Why the change of heart?” he asked.

“Like I said, I need the money.”

Louie shook his head. “I ain’t buying it.”

“I’m not trying to sell you anything. So either you believe
me or you don’t. I don’t care. If you want a fighter, then here I am.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, his smile growing into a wide arc. “I
got me a fighter, don’t I?”

“So I take it that I’m on the undercard on Friday night?”

Louie nodded. “You’ll be fighting a guy named Tank Russo—a
big mother from back east. New York, New Jersey—they’re all the same. But he’s
good, J.J. Five knockouts in six fights. And I mean flat out, star-seeing
knockouts that sent three to the hospital. This guy is up and coming,” he
added. “Another ten fights, he should be seeing rock-solid numbers from the
purse.”

“And how much will I get?’

“With my fifty percent—”

“Twenty-five,” he corrected.

“Thirty-three?”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty? You’re going the wrong way, J.J. When you
negotiate, you’re supposed to come to a happy medium. How about twenty-five
percent?”

“Twenty. You’re not the one going into that ring against a
wrecking machine.”

The smile washed away from Louie’s face, which had become
as sullen as stone. “All right twenty. But you better win, J.J. The purse for
this fight is one thousand for the winner and five hundred for the loser. If
you lose, I only get a C-note.”

“That’s not bad for a phone call.”

Louie fell back into his chair. “No, I guess not. But if
you lose, J.J., you won’t climb, especially coming out of the gate with a
losing record.”

“I won’t lose.”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“Sure enough,” he answered. And then: “How many fights will
it take to get to the top?”

“I’d say about fifteen, maybe twenty if you have a loss. It
all depends upon how exciting of a fighter you are. If you’re good, you move.
If not, then you’ll be trolling for trash as long as you work for this casino.”

“And the purses?”

“They grow as you do. Once you hit mainstream, once the
TV’s focus on you as a supreme fighter, then you’re easily looking at five to
six figures.”

Kimball couldn’t afford the television networks to reveal
his true identity. Should a government constituent recognize him, then his life
would be in jeopardy and he’d become the target of indigenous forces sent to
silence him for the black ops he once performed for them and the dirty little
secrets he held, including the sanctioned assassination of a United States
senator.

No, he told himself. He would only bankroll enough money
and leave Las Vegas before he made any type of impression with the network
brass. Perhaps to Montana and buy a small spread to get started, and then grow
from there. He would live a quiet life, alone, under a new name, a new
identity, and pay taxes. He would wake up to the colorful streamers of light at
dawn, then sit on the porch at dusk in a rocker watching the day’s light fade
to an obsidian darkness where the night sky sparkled with countless pinprick
lights as stars glowered against a most gorgeous canopy. A soft wind would blow
through the trees, the leaves singing in concert. It was all quite simple, he
thought. Ten fights, maybe twelve. Just enough to get him started.

And then he would once again try to escape from his true
nature.

“I knew you’d come around,” said Louie. “You can’t run away
from who you really are. I always told you that, didn’t I? I always said that
you were a fighter, J.J. I could see it in your baby blues.”

Kimball nodded.
You’re right, Louie. I really can’t escape
from who I really am, can I? A fighter . . . A warrior . . . And don’t forget
killer
.

“Take the rest of the day off,” said Louie, standing, the
cigar hanging precariously at the corner of his mouth. “Tomorrow, too. I’ll
tell the bosses you went home sick. But I need you rested. This fight ain’t gonna
be a cakewalk.”

Kimball left without a spoken word and kept to his ritual
as much as he could. He went and bought his parfait glass of shrimp and walked
beneath the overhang of the Freemont Experience. But it was still light and the
overhead was not activated. So he walked to his apartment passing the homeless,
the addicted, the forlorn and the wasted. He walked without a hitch in his step
and his head held low.

The homeless begged him for money, their bony hands greased
and caked with dirt held out for meager wages—a penny, a nickel, or perhaps the
jackpot of a dollar bill. But Kimball ignored them the same way he ignored the
lifeless looking nymphs who were ready to pleasure him for enough money to buy
a bindle of meth.

Montana
was looking better with
every stride.

When he got home he went to the bathroom and gazed upon his
features. He looked deep into his cerulean blue eyes, wondering what it was
that Louie saw. Did they have a certain look about them? Something that gave
insight to what he truly was? Were they the telltale signs of a killer in
dormancy?

He raised the tips of his fingers and brushed them against
the reflected images of his eyes—the blue eyes, so beautiful in their color, so
deadly in their meaning.

Kimball then went to the refrigerator and pulled out a
bottle of vodka from the freezer, sat on the edge of the bed, popped the cap,
and took a long swallow.

This is how he geared up for the fight, by first taking on
his own demons.