The Grail (Area 51 series), page 12
Che Lu considered Mualama. “Are you certain you trust what Burton has written?”
“There’s no reason not to,” Mualama said.
“There’s really no reason to, either.”
“Why would Burton lie?”
“Why does anyone lie?” Che Lu did not wait for an answer as she supplied her own. “To advance their own cause.”
“What cause could Burton have had?”
“That is the question we need an answer to,” Che Lu said. She stood and walked out of the room, Mualama’s dark eyes following her.
AVEBURY, ENGLAND
The Atlantic crossing had taken less than an hour at the extreme speed the bouncer was capable of, but right now it was barely moving as they drew closer to Avebury. Through night-vision goggles, Turcotte could make out the rings of stone that surrounded the area, monoliths raised by ancient people, most likely as warnings against approaching Silbury Hill, as the Moai statues had been carved and placed on the shores of Easter Island.
Looking ahead, Turcotte could see the dark hill rising like a cone out of the middle of a large field. There was no doubt it was an unnatural formation, given the smoothness of the sides and symmetry of form.
“Are you ready?” he asked Yakov.
The Russian shrugged. “No. But that won’t stop you.”
“We grab the first person we see and take their ring. It’s simple.”
“Simple,” Yakov repeated. “Nothing is ever simple.”
They were about a quarter of a mile from Silbury Hill, still approaching at the same steady rate. Turcotte grabbed the shoulder straps, buckling them securely over his chest. Yakov did the same. The pilot lined the bouncer up with a very slight depression near the top of the hill on the western side.
The bouncer was now fewer than a hundred feet from the depression. Turcotte looked about, but there was no sign of activity. The closest lights were from a house over two miles away. The depression in the side of the hill was slightly larger in diameter than the bouncer, which fit with Turcotte’s idea that it was similar to the one in Qian-Ling.
The forward edge of the bouncer touched the hill. It was a question of an irresistible force against an immovable object and which would give first as the pilot tweaked the controls. Turcotte had faith in the strength of the bouncer after seeing how little damage had occurred to one that crashed.
The pilot used the craft’s edge as a large spade as it dug into the depression. Dirt and rock fell away, tumbling down the hillside. There was a loud screech, and the pilot paused as they all looked forward. A line of metal had been uncovered.
“Airlia,” Turcotte said.
“Now the real test,” Yakov said. “I think those inside have heard us knocking now.”
Turcotte shrugged. “What are they going to do about it?”
The pilot lined up once more, placing the edge of the bouncer against the metal door. He increased pressure on the controls. It was an eerie contest of power played out in silence, as there was no sound of an engine from the bouncer’s system.
“It’s giving a little, I think.” Turcotte was watching forward when Yakov grabbed his arm.
“There!” The Russian was pointing to the right. A Land Rover with its headlights off had appeared from out of the hill itself, racing off into the darkness.
“Like rats off a sinking ship,” Turcotte said. “Go after them,” he ordered the pilot.
The bouncer easily closed on the Rover, still blacked out but visible in their night-vision goggles. There was a flare of red as the driver braked, then spun a turn onto a dirt road that ran between two lines of trees.
“What now?” Yakov asked. “They will be in town shortly.”
“Land on top of it,” Turcotte ordered the pilot.
“What?” The pilot wasn’t sure he had heard right.
“Bring your craft down on top of the truck and stop it,” Turcotte said. “Crush it if you have to.”
“Mike—” Yakov had his hand on Turcotte’s arm.
“They destroyed our shuttle,” Turcotte said. “They tried to kill Mualama. They’ve been playing their games for a long time, and the game is over.”
The pilot went ahead of the Rover, then turned back, coming down the road toward it just above the trees. The bouncer’s edge lowered, clipping through the trees like matchsticks. Yakov and Turcotte couldn’t help but flinch as they saw the shattered trunks and tree limbs slide along the side of the craft.
The driver of the Land Rover slammed on his brakes as the bouncer approached, then threw it into reverse. The forward edge of the craft was just above the hood of the truck when the pilot slammed down on it. With a crumple, the Rover was pinned to the ground, stopping abruptly.
Turcotte was already on the ladder and out of the hatch. He slid down the skin of the bouncer, right onto the windshield of the Rover, weapon ready. There were two men inside, dazed from their impact with air bags. Turcotte rolled off the windshield onto the ground. He ripped open the door and dragged the driver out.
Turcotte pressed the muzzle of the MP5 against the chin of the man. He could see the large ring on the Watcher’s left hand. His finger touched the trigger and began to pull, when Yakov’s large hand grabbed the muzzle and pulled it up.
“Get the ring,” Yakov said. “That’s what we came for.”
Turcotte reached down and started to pull it off. The man curled his fingers into a fist, and Turcotte overcame that impediment by digging his thumb into the man’s elbow, pressing down on a nerve junction. The hand flexed open as the man gasped in pain. Turcotte slid the ring off. The other man was opening the door on his side, and Yakov fired a round, causing the man to duck.
“Come.” Yakov was on the edge of the bouncer, reaching down for him. Turcotte took his hand as Yakov lifted him onto the craft. They raced up the side and into the hatch. They were airborne before the Watcher was on his feet.
DIMONA, NEGEV DESERT, ISRAEL
Simon Sherev believed in the sanctity of the state of Israel much more than he believed in God. In fifty-two years of service, he had conducted countless undercover operations as a member of the Mossad and fought in four wars as a reservist assigned to the paratroops. He had killed men, women, and children when it was called for, in order to accomplish the mission, and the mission always supported the sanctity of the state.
Sherev was a realist, a man who saw the world for the brutal place it was. Power mattered. Nothing else. When he was a child, his father told him the story of Archimedes, the Greek who had claimed he could move the world if he had a fulcrum point and a long enough lever. Sherev never forgot that. He also never forgot that Archimedes, while coming up with a good theory, had been spitted on the end of a Roman sword while absorbed in his calculations. Ideas were never enough.
Sherev’s corner office on the top floor of the administration building inside the Dimona compound sat on top of Israeli’s ultimate power—two dozen nuclear warheads, safely ensconced in a bunker half a mile underground. The existence of those warheads was one of the best-known “secrets” in the world. Sherev had been part of the team that had “leaked” information about the bombs—after all, there was no point in having such fearsome weapons if no one knew you had them. They were the reason—beyond the pressure of the Americans—that Saddam Hussein had never turned his tanks west toward Jerusalem, and Sherev was in charge of making sure those twenty-four reasons remained secure. Even a madman like Hussein had understood the concept of power and leverage. In fact, Sherev often contemplated the advantage men like Hussein and now Ahmadinejad in Iran—men with no conscience—had in the world of power struggles. Nice guys did indeed finish last, in Sherev’s experience.
The underground complex below the nuclear plant also contained the archives for the state of Israel. With Jerusalem such a volatile location and not far from the border with Jordan, those items deemed valuable were sent to Dimona to be secured.
Now he was facing a delicate situation that had just been presented to him by the man sitting on the other side of his desk, concerning two items in the archives. Hasher Lekur was a powerful man in his own right, a member of the Parliament, who had consolidated many of the right-wing groups into a strong political movement. The fact that he had been granted access to see Sherev on such short notice, here in highly classified Dimona, said much about his connections.
“I don’t understand,” Sherev said. “What is the importance of these two stones, the Thummin and Urim?”
“They will help us get rid of a major problem.”
“What problem?” Sherev asked.
“Ahmadinejad.”
“How?”
“We give my contact the stones, he ensures Ahmadinejad dies. That is the deal.”
“When will this occur?”
“It is already occurring.”
“How are you sure your contact will keep his end of the bargain?”
“That is his business,” Lekur said. “He is a man of great means, and his reach is long.”
“Who is this man?”
“I cannot tell you that.”
“Why does he want the stones?”
“That is not our concern.”
“It is my concern,” Sherev said. “I am responsible for the Archives.”
Lekur steepled his fingers. “The deal is already done. The Premier approved it two hours ago.”
“You made a deal, but you don’t know what you bargained away, do you?”
TEHRAN, IRAN
The daily intelligence briefing was a requirement, but the time and the location were always changed, to keep the Western intelligence agencies from being able to pinpoint the president’s location.
Farik Hassid sat in the same spot for over three thousand of these briefings. Because of his service, he had a favored status on the intelligence council. As the chief of staff for intelligence, he had learned long ago to walk the fine line between giving actual intelligence and telling the president what he wanted to hear. He focused more of his efforts on rooting out internal dissension than on external threats to the country.
He was irritated when his aide-de-camp—a young man also from his same village, the son of an old friend—entered the conference room while the head of the secret police was giving his daily assessment.
Hassid leaned back in his chair as the aide leaned down, lips close to his ear, and whispered, “You have a call.”
Hassid turned in anger, but the next words froze his heart.
“It is a message from a man named Al-Iblis. The caller has the proper code.”
Hassid swallowed, willing his heart to start. He stood, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, and followed his aide out the door. He took the cell phone the aide had hidden in a pocket.
“Yes?”
“Al-Iblis requires your services.” The voice on the other end was cold and flat.
“Verify that you speak for Al-Iblis.”
“Tark.”
The word hit Hassid’s chest like a knife.
“Fana.”
The second code word was the twist of the knife. Abandonment and annihilation. The man spoke for Al-Iblis.
Hassid forced his throat to work, his lips to move. “What is required?”
The order was short and to the point. When the man was done, Hassid could no longer feel any part of his body. He was numb.
“You will comply.” It was not a question. The phone went dead.
Hassid slowly dialed the number he had been given. A voice answered in English.
“My name is Farik Hassid. I am the chief of staff for intelligence for the state of Iran. Stay on the line. It will be worth your time, I assure you.”
The voice demanded to know if this was a joke, but Hassid ignored it and placed the phone in his dress uniform breast pocket, still on, facing outward. He turned to his aide. “You are dismissed.”
“Sir?”
Hassid ignored him as he walked to the conference room door. He pulled it open and entered. As he walked past his seat, every eye in the room turned to him, wondering what urgent matter could have pulled him out of the meeting.
Hassid went to the end of the table where the president leaned back in his seat, awaiting his report.
Hassid felt nothing. He was past feelings, past any concern of life. He lifted his left hand as if he had something to say, while his right jerked his pistol out of the holster. Ahmadinejad’s eyes grew wide, his eyebrows raised in shock, as Hassid pointed the gun directly at the president’s face. He pulled the trigger, a blossom of red appearing in Ahmadinejad’s left cheek. Hassid kept firing until all but one round was gone and there was nothing left of the president’s head.
“Ahmadinejad is dead!” Hassid yelled in English. Then he placed the hot muzzle against his right temple and pulled the trigger as the rest of the staff rushed toward him.
DIMONA, NEGEV DESERT, ISRAEL
Lekur checked his watch and pointed at the television mounted in the corner of the room.
“Turn on CNN.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Sherev bristled at being ordered about in his own office, but he pressed the button on the remote. It was the top of the hour. And the lead headline was the apparent assassination of Ahmadinejad in a suicide attack in Tehran by a member of his inner military staff, less than two minutes ago. A tape of a phone call to CNN headquarters was played, the sound of gunfire, yells in Arabic, and a voice saying in English that Ahmadinejad was dead.
“How did this happen?” Sherev turned back to Lekur. He wondered how CNN could have received the report so quickly and if all of this was a setup.
“I told you my contact’s reach is long. He has fulfilled his half of the bargain, trusting that we fulfill our part. Bring me the stones.”
Sherev leaned back in his hard chair. “The stones have been examined several times by scientists. They are not natural. Do you understand what that means?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “They were manufactured a long time ago. And now we know who made them—the Airlia. The United Nations Alien Oversight Committee has queried every government for Airlia artifacts. Of course, like us, no one has been forthcoming, willing to give up whatever pieces they have. Now you want us to turn these two stones over to some mysterious contact you have?”
“What can you do with the stones?” Lekur asked. “What have you done with them other than lock them in a vault and let them gather dust? Religious icons.” The politician shook his head. “What a waste. I am not concerned with the Airlia. I am concerned with the safety of my country, and the largest threat to that safety has just been killed. I consider the stones a small price to pay for that. I don’t care what my contact wants them for. They were worthless to us; now they have become valuable.”
Still, Sherev hesitated. He knew it was indeed a great coup for Ahmadinejad to have been killed. The Mossad had tried to accomplish the very same thing, without success. So had the Americans. Now it was done.
Sherev turned it around. If this contact of Lekur’s could get to Ahmadinejad, then he could get to anyone. There was an underlying threat to this deal that Sherev felt sure Lekur had not seen yet.
“My assistant will take you to the Archives.” Sherev spun his chair about, looking out at the desert. He heard the door close behind Lekur. Then he turned back to his desk once more and picked up the secure line to Mossad headquarters.
AREA 51
“What is it?” Che Lu had just walked into the conference room and caught Mualama staring off into space.
Mualama was startled. He tapped the manuscript. “Burton discovered the truth about Ngorongoro.”
Che Lu sat down across from the African. “I noted that no one asked you what you were supposed to be covering when you were a Watcher. Was it Ngorongoro?”
Mualama nodded. “I told you we were second-echelon Watchers, recruited by wedjat. So much was lost over the years. I think the core of the Watchers no longer trusted those in the second echelon. And”—he pointed at the screen—“now I know why they never contacted me, or my father, or those before us.”
“What do you mean?” Che Lu asked.
“What we were watching.” Mualama shook his head. “It is best if you read it.”
BURTON MANUSCRIPT: CHAPTER 3
The Horus-Guides ruled Egypt for over a thousand years. The Stone Sphinx grew to be an enigma among the people of Egypt, the reason for its existence—to mark the location of the Hall of Records below—forgotten. The “gods” were remembered but became myth, a religion, not the reality they were. It is the same way we view the legend of Atlantis in our modern world.
The peace did not last forever, though. It was time for The Ones Who Wait to take action, and when they did, the reaction from Aspasia was fierce and deadly. I have seen with my own eyes the results.
Their base was eventually discovered by the Watchers. It was in a mountain, part of a pair known as the White Sisters, in central East Africa. At first, I thought they might be speaking of the Mountains of the Moon, the Ruwenzori, which I have searched for myself—legendary mountains said to be covered in snow and hidden in clouds, even though they lie on the equator.
But in an old church in Somaliland, I saw etched in the wall the image of two massive peaks, both snowcapped. I recognized one of them to be Kilimanjaro, the queen of all African mountains. The other was a mystery to me, because although there are other peaks near Kilimanjaro, none come close in height, yet in this drawing, the other was just as tall. So I traveled south to that land, taking scrolls with me.
From one scroll, I learned there was a Watcher who traveled to the same place, around three thousand two hundred years before the birth of Christ, acting on the report of a traveler who had come down the Nile River with a strange tale of a black metal forest growing out the side of a tall mountain. The tale was strange enough, but the reference to black metal much like the b’ja made it worth investigating.
I can only imagine how difficult that trip was for him, as over five thousand years later, I encountered so much trouble getting there. He traveled across Europe to the Middle East, and then into Egypt. The Horus-Guides still ruled there, but he made safe transit with the assistance of other Watchers already in place in that kingdom. He then traveled along the east coast of Africa and suffered much until he arrived at the place where he was to strike inland. It did not take him long to see the first of the White Sisters, Kilimanjaro, covered in snow, far on the horizon. Soon he saw the second, farther west, the one the base was located in where the strange forest grew.
