Phoenix Rising: (54 page)

Chris was told to be at the Coffee Cup café at exactly 0800 where he would eat breakfast. As soon as he entered, he saw a big man with a full head of white hair, standing just outside the kitchen. “Have a biscuit!” the big man said and Chris had to react quickly as a biscuit came sailing across the room to him.

“Biscuits! Who wants a biscuit?” the big man shouted.

“I do!”

Chris stood there for a moment as he watched biscuits sailing across the room, the big man throwing them to customers.

“Find a table and have a seat!” the big man called out to Chris. “We don't stand on ceremony here at the Coffee Cup.” He threw another biscuit toward Chris who caught it, even though he wasn't expecting it.

As Chris walked toward an empty table, another customer came in.

“Oliver Deermont,” the biscuit thrower said. “Come on in, come in out of the cold.”

“Cold?” Oliver said.

“Oh, I don't mean cold weather. I mean the coldness of an indifferent society. Nothing like that here, in the Coffee Cup.”

“I guess not,” Deermont replied. “You never shut up long enough for anyone to be indifferent.”

The others in the café laughed.

Chris's instructions were to turn his glass upside down, and lay his spoon across the top, and that's what he did. He had been told by Joel that if he did that, he would be contacted by Harold “Curly” Latham. Chris did as directed, then he pulled the menu from between the napkin dispenser and the sugar, salt, and pepper shakers.

Chris was dressed in coveralls and wearing a cap that read “Gristo Feeds.” He looked like any other farmer in the café, including the man who, less than a minute after Chris took his seat, stepped over to the table. This had to be Curly Latham, who, evidently, was already in the café waiting for Chris. Curly was not wearing a hat, and he didn't have curly hair. In fact, he had no hair at all.

“Hello, Chris, I'm glad you could take breakfast with me,” Latham said. “I know you are on your way to Memphis, and I wouldn't want to hold you up.”

“No, that's quite all right, you aren't holding me up, my meeting in Memphis isn't until this afternoon,” Chris said, smiling up at the man. There was no meeting in Memphis, in fact until Latham brought it up, Memphis hadn't even been on his mind. But Chris picked up on it, and followed the conversation. Neither Chris nor Latham had ever met before but if anyone in the café happened to overhear them, they would think the two men were old friends of long standing.

“Oh, Jill said to say hello to Alice and the kids,” Latham said.

“I'll do that.”

There was neither Alice nor children, but like the small talk about Memphis, Chris responded appropriately, in order to maintain the façade of two old friends greeting each other. They continued to talk about such things as hunting, the weather, and children's illnesses. As they were talking, Latham put a piece of paper into the napkin dispenser. A moment later, Chris removed the paper. Nothing of any importance was said until finally, at the end of breakfast the two men stepped up to the cash register to pay for their meal.

“Take care,” Latham said as they started out. “And don't forget to tell Alice that Jill sends her regards.”

“I'll do that.”

Chris waited until he returned to the car before he read the note.

Chris decided that Merlin Lewis would be his first target. He did nothing until dark, then he waited behind the café between the Dumpster and the brick wall of the building. When Lewis came out of the café that night, Chris raised a CO
₂
pellet pistol, aimed and pulled the trigger. The sound was no more than a quiet puff, but that was all that was needed to send a curare-tipped pellet into Lewis's neck.

Chris watched as Lewis reached up to grab his neck, then took two more steps before he fell. Then, using a pair of tweezers, he extracted the pellet from Lewis's neck and dropped it into the trash Dumpster.

Chris waited two more days before he went into the SPS headquarters building.

“Yes, what do you want?” the desk sergeant asked.

“I, uh, wonder if there is a reward if I report something,” Chris said.

“What do you have to report?”

“Is there a reward?”

“That's not for me to say. That's for Captain Mahaz.”

“May I speak to Captain Mahaz?”

Chris well knew who Mahaz was. Unlike many of the SPS and Janissaries, Yusef Mahaz was not a recent convert to Islam. He had been a lifelong Muslim who had been given a commission in the pre-O army, precisely because he was a Muslim. It was believed, by the army, that Mahaz would be a good liaison officer for them. His duty assignment had been to teach the other soldiers about the Muslim culture to “engender an understanding” between the religions.

But one day Major Mahaz showed up at a processing center in Fort Eustis where he began shooting. He killed thirteen and wounded twenty-nine others. Not until he ran out of ammunition did he stop shooting. Then he lay down his weapons and put up his hands, shouting
Allah hu akbar
as he was taken into custody. One of Ohmshidi's first acts was to grant Mahaz a complete pardon.

Chris waited for a moment, then the clerk came back. “The captain will see you,” he said.

“What do you want?” Mahaz asked, sharply, when Chris stepped into his office.

“A friend of mine, Merlin Lewis, told me that I should come see you,” Chris said.

“How could Merlin Lewis tell you that? He is dead.”

“Yes, I heard he had a heart attack out behind his place,” Chris said. “And that's too bad, because he promised to introduce me to you. He said that you would pay money for information.”

“Sometimes I will. It depends on the information.”

“I know where a group of Christians will be having a worship service.”

“Nonsense, all the churches have been closed,” Mahaz said.

“Ah, but this isn't in a church. It will be held in a tent in a field out of town.”

“When and where is this to be held?” Mahaz asked.

“Is this information worth money to you?”

“One hundred Moqaddas,” Mahaz said.

“Only one hundred? I was hoping for more than that.”

“One hundred now, and if we find the Christians having a service in a tent, it will be worth four hundred more afterward.”

Chris smiled, and nodded his head. “Yes, yes, five hundred Moqaddas. That is very good. Shall I come here for the money?”

“Afterward,” Mahaz said.

“Yes, afterward,” Chris agreed.

“Now when and where is this to be held?”

“Go west of town, to E. County Road, 180. You will see a tent, just to the left of the road. That's where they will be. The service starts at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.”

Mahaz nodded, then counted out the one hundred Moqaddas. “Come back tomorrow afternoon and I will give you the rest of the money.”

“Thank you,” Chris said. “Thank you very much.”

 

 

It took Chris the rest of the day to get everything set up. First he had to erect the tent, and because it was a relatively large tent, it was no easy job for one man. He had to do it by himself though, because he couldn't take a chance on using anyone else. There would be no cars parked around the tent and he was a little concerned about that, but he realized that anyone who actually would attend such a service wouldn't want their cars there so that they could be identified.

When the tent was erected, he set the Claymore mines all the way around the perimeter of the tent, rigging all of them to be fired by a radio signal. The last thing he did was put a CD player in the tent, and set it so he could turn it on by radio signal. He returned early the next morning, and waited.

At about eight fifteen a car and an army truck arrived. He saw Mahaz get out of the car, then twelve men, all dressed in the black and silver uniforms of the Janissaries, climbed down from the truck.

Chris hit a button to start the CD playing.

The sound changed then to a hymn, being sung badly, and without music accompaniment.

Mahaz held his finger to his lips, then signaled to the others to completely surround the tent. All the while they were getting ready, the singing from inside the tent continued.

“Now!” Mahaz shouted, and he and the 12 black-clad men with him, begin firing into the tent, with their weapons on full automatic.

Chris let them fire for fully ten seconds before pushing the button on his remote. The button triggered sixteen Claymore anti-personnel mines, critically arranged all the way around the circumference of the tent, to detonate as one. The sound was earsplitting, and thousands of steel balls tore through all four sides of the tent, slamming into the flesh of the twelve janissaries, ripping their bodies into bloody pulps. All twelve Janissaries, plus their leader, Mahaz, died instantly.