Dark Rule (COIL Book 3), page 18
"You said you're waiting for intel from the island?" Heather looked from Brad to Walter. "You have someone there already? That's impressive."
"Yes, I sent him in several days ago." Walter collected his notes. "He'll make a quick assessment, hopefully locate the Jamison family, then notify me. There's no point going in blind, right?"
"Depends who the guy is." Clifford shook his head. "If he's a flunky, we could be just as blind as without him."
"I assure you, he's a professional." Walter didn't seem ruffled by their doubt, but Brad was feeling the tension. "Now, let's—"
"No," Clifford interrupted. "I want to know who this guy is. We're trusting our lives on some sort of . . . What are you, a high schooler?"
"Did you arrive from the States in a plane, Clifford?" Brad asked suddenly. He'd gone to public school, so he knew a bully when he saw one. Even if the man was a Christian, he obviously had a few personality flaws.
"Yeah. So?"
"And you trusted that plane to get you to Athens?"
"Of course I trusted the plane." Clifford scoffed again. "What does—?"
"Two years ago, Walter here designed and patented a safer combustion engine that burns less fuel." Brad smiled. "It hasn't been implemented in the US, but it's widespread throughout Europe. You look at him and you see a youth, a geek. I look at him and I see a genius who's so intricate in his planning that millions trust his design every day without even knowing it. You have already trusted your life in his hands. Why are you questioning his intel now?"
Clifford sank into his chair, defeated again. Jasper smiled, looking from person to person. Walter had told Brad that Jasper knew the Kassviney family well. Brad also knew Walter could take care of himself when it came to his wits, but sometimes Walter needed to be stood up for in other ways.
"Jasper charted a route from here to Zalzuna eighty miles away." Walter clicked keys on his calculator. "For the next day or two, until we get Zalzuna intel, we need to prepare for anything. Study the aerial photographs and analyze the public information I've already gathered. For instance, we can't parachute into the island without alerting the authorities. The Chinese installed a sophisticated land-to-air radar system. We need to prepare for a number of different approaches, and when we know more, we can focus on the most adequate to touch down closest to the area where the Jamison family is being held. That's subject to change, though. There are many variables."
"And what if they're already dead?" Clifford traced a finger across his throat.
"What do you mean if they're dead?" Brad fired back. He'd teach Clifford to shut his mouth one way or another. "So, what do you think? If they're dead, we go home. Did you want to hang around?"
"Look here, kid!" Clifford rose to his feet, fury on his face. His fists were clenched as he started forward.
But Brad was ready. He plucked a plum from a window basket and side-armed it into Clifford's forehead. If anyone else had thrown the plum, the impact would've only angered the operative. But since it was Brad the Major League pitcher, the plum exploded on impact and sent Clifford staggering backward to sprawl over his chair. Before Clifford could gather his senses, Brad plucked two more plums and braced himself for an assault from any other direction.
"That wasn't necessary." Heather looked critically at Brad, then at Clifford, who was now even more furious. "Sit in your seat, Cliff, and shut up. Unless we start acting like a team, I'm going home. Brad, Walter, you guys are young, so give us a break as we adjust, and we'll give you a break for your unprofessionalism. We're all Christians here, so act like it. Let's get the Jamisons out of Zalzuna. That's all that matters for the next week or two. Jasper? Can I have my usual forward cabin?"
"Absolutely," the old man said. "Just push the fishing gear under the bunk."
"There's one more thing." Setting the pillow-sized package on the table, Walter tore the wrap to expose a leather case. It opened like an accordion with tri-level foam trays that encased ordinary-looking devices. "This is a shipment from COIL, the missionary assistance organization. These are non-lethal weapons. Some of them, like these pens, are designed to be taken through customs as mere writing utensils. I know they're not the tranquilizer guns you're used to working with, but select one or two of these items for yourselves. I'll supply you with the specs for each item in the morning, if needed."
Clifford quickly reached into the case and snatched up one of the pens. It appeared to be a layman's calligraphy utensil. Removing the cap, he scribbled on a knee of his pants. Ink flowed normally. He inspected the ends, as the others looked on, fascinated. Plucking off the writing tip, he exposed a hollow tube the size of a .22 barrel. Carefully, he inspected it, but resigned with a shrug as he rested it on his leg.
"How's it—?"
Before he could finish, he looked up, startled, pale, and frightened.
"It . . . shot me!"
"See you in about twenty minutes." Walter checked his watch as Clifford fell over. He picked up the pen and smiled triumphantly at Brad. "Thanks to Clifford's live demonstration, let me explain to you all as to what happened to him. He accidentally pressed this tiny pinhole switch underneath the pen's clip. A water-soluble dart loaded with sleeping toxin shot out of the barrel, propelled by CO2, and it passed through his pant leg into his leg muscle. I'm sure it was intended to be used on non-team members, though."
Bruce, who'd been quiet until then, broke the silence with a breathless laugh. Soon, they were all clutching their stomachs in laughter, as Clifford slept unaware.
*~*
Chapter Twenty
Nathan Isaacson sat at one end of a large banquet table. He was the guest of honor, but not the only guest of General Jalway Yousef. Fredrick's giant frame leaned over the table, his elbows on either side of an empty plate, and one of his gnarled fists drummed the tabletop every few seconds as they waited for the general to arrive. Across from Fredrick sat a man and his wife who spoke excitedly in Greek about the invitation they'd accepted to be at the general's table. Beside and across from them were a number of Libyan, Cretan, and Turkish guests, men and women who seemed less enthusiastic—or perhaps were just hungry—about having to wait for the general, whose chair at the other end of the table remained unoccupied.
Soldiers stood along the walls, doubling as servers this night. Nathan had already surveyed their attire, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of them. The general seemed to favor the Cretans in his small armed forces, though the officers were mostly European—specifically British. The Cretans were recognized as a dark and fearless sort. They served the general with purpose and loyalty since the dictator had spared them from a life in the fields. Throughout history, they were known to be lively, warm-hearted people, but under such circumstances as these, their ruthless lust to feud was revealed—as much as their desire to prove their worth.
The servers were armed with both holstered pistols and short, ornamental swords, which they were certain to be skilled in wielding. Nathan had no wish to tangle with them.
An hour passed, which was obviously driving Fredrick wild. He kept knocking his knuckles on the tabletop and checking his watch. One other guest snored lightly. Nathan sat calmly, though inside, he was concerned about his mission. Intelligence gathering was never what one hoped. It usually didn't happen fast enough, nor was the information as thorough as desired. There was also the presence of danger, of course.
Though the world of special operatives believed Nathan was dead, he expected someday to run into someone from his past. How would he react? Would he be able to react?
Regardless of his own safety, his constant underlying directive was to spread the gospel of Christ. For this reason, he was unarmed when he infiltrated most countries. COIL supplied him with various tranquilizers and non-lethal weapons, but if they were discovered, his cover would be blown. Rather, he most often relied on the wits God had given him to get in and out of situations. Sometimes he used false identifications, but he always depended on the Holy Spirit to settle his temperament. If Nathan relied on his own temperament, he'd simply kill the enemy and save the good guys.
It was toward this lack of respect for his enemies that God had changed his heart. Nathan didn't hate Fredrick, General Yousef, or those who might be holding the Jamison family. He had to believe Christ had died for them as well, loving them beyond any sin they could commit, wishing they'd come to Him rather than perish eternally.
A fat man with heavy boots and a crisply ironed uniform marched into the room from the kitchen, and stomped his right foot sharply.
"Enter! General Yousef!" The man saluted, then sidestepped.
Behind the herald, a man entered clothed in battle dress, his military uniform sparkling with medals and bars and ribbons. The guests at the table rose to their feet and clapped, as did Nathan. General Jalway Yousef smiled and nodded, acknowledging his guests one by one. He appeared to be in his late fifties, a little shorter than Nathan, and had a beaked nose that would shame the boldest falcon. Sinister, though amused, eyes peered from either side of the monumental nose. When those eyes fell on Nathan, the man nodded extra-long, probably to show his gratitude to the alleged German for accepting a place at his table. But Nathan wouldn't miss such an opportunity to pry information from the general or the guests. Beneath the general's uniform, Nathan noticed a thin but rigid frame. COIL's own intel said the general was a Turk, though Nathan was certain the man had more European blood than anything.
As the general seated himself with his guests, the kitchen doors opened with a parade of platters.
"Mr. Dirk Salverskein!" the general called in accented English over the activity. Nathan decided the man had French heritage. The guests became silent. They surely wanted to know who the brown-haired stranger with the mustache was. "Your accommodations are satisfactory?"
"They are splendid. Thank you!" But Nathan had stayed in better suites in war-torn Serbia during the war. However, to an impoverished Zalzunian, the accommodations were splendid.
"I knew we had friends in Germany," the general said, referring to the socialist underground in Berlin. "It is pleasing to know I am not alone here."
"We are few, General, but we are mighty." Nathan raised his wine glass to salute the general. General Yousef returned the gesture. The servers placed a number of foods before Nathan. "Tell me, General, what is this we eat tonight?"
The general seemed pleased at the question, his eyes narrowing slightly, probably at Nathan's informal tact. Most often, Nathan guessed, those below the general accepted what they were given without question. But here was a foreigner who wouldn't know the customs. Nevertheless, Nathan sensed General Yousef had already taken a liking to him.
"You have two cheeses before you." The general pointed with a knife, his mouth already full. "The robust feta and manouri. The marida is the best here—better than in all the Greek Isles. It is fried fish mixed and basted in retsina, a wine native to the mainland. For dessert, we have baklava, the sweetest you have ever tasted. The honey is from our own bees, I must admit."
"It looks delicious, more than I could find on Friedrichstrasse." Nathan saluted the general again with a swig of wine. He didn't drink wine often, but he could hold his own. This wine was cheaply diluted to the point of tasting like watered-down grape juice, so he didn't worry that his senses would be blurred.
"Tell me," the general said, "it has been so long since I was in the Mitte. How is the city of twenty-three boroughs?"
Nathan smiled as he finished chewing a bite of cheese. General Yousef's question was a test, for which he'd been prepared. Though not a Berliner, Nathan had spent enough time in his cover-city to use it for that purpose: a cover. He knew the coffee shops, the main banks, the publishing houses, and largest stores.
"There are only twelve boroughs now, General." Nathan hoped his amusement was apparent. The general seemed to enjoy the sport. "Really, you should visit soon. It's been too long for you."
"You would be my host?" The general leaned forward.
"Me? No. I am merely a squire, General. My employers would gladly host you, with whatever entertainment you desire."
"Dirk, you are too modest. But tell me: your employers—when will I know the mysterious men in the shadows? Or are there women involved? I do not discriminate, but I do wish to know names."
"In due time." Again, Nathan saluted the man with his cup.
"Fredrick tells me you wish to tour my fine country."
"I do." Nathan took a bite of fish. "The idea of Zalzuna as a socialist state is much more significant than the reality I've seen. That's not meant to be an insult, General, but what I've witnessed thus far is not a country of wealth, but of poverty, with the exception of your residence."
With surprise on his face, Fredrick stopped chewing and stared at Nathan. No one dared speak such words to General Yousef, Nathan guessed. And he was certain Fredrick had killed men and women for less. However, Fredrick seemed not to know how to react—to attack or defend. The general studied Nathan's face. For the words Nathan had spoken, the general could've imprisoned him, but Nathan hoped they remembered their German guest had come with the impression of great riches. Money sometimes could buy a wealth of restraint.
"What do you propose, Dirk?" The general stabbed his fork into his food and left it there. "Your sponsors feel the same as you? That this is an impoverished country, and the idea is grander than the reality?"
"They do," Nathan stated, "but we hope to assist you with the development, though subtly, so as not to take credit ourselves, of course. It's your country and it has great potential. We don't wish to detract from this potential."
The general nodded briefly, relaxing some. Fredrick, however, had obviously taken the insult to heart. He glared with hatred at the foreigner, his bald head red with fury.
"How will you do it?" General Yousef resumed eating.
"You have a wealth of natural resources." Nathan felt in control again, but he had to be careful. "Properly managed, if you exported them to Berlin, we would pay exorbitant prices. The wealth would be shared with the citizens. There is also a need to improve living standards—sewage, electrical, and communication."
"Communication with the world of evil permits the errors of imperialism." Fredrick growled. "We will never allow it."
"No one will force you to compromise." Nathan ignored Fredrick and gazed at the general. "But you'll find with greater giving comes greater gratitude."
"Are you saying our citizens are not grateful?" Fredrick began to rise from his chair. "Ask anyone! They owe their lives to this administration! How dare—"
"Fredrick." The general held up one hand, calming the bald man enough so he relaxed in his seat a little. "Dirk, naturally, we welcome ideas. We welcome your financial assistance even more. However, I do not welcome your presumptions or your forced ideals upon my rule here. My people are comfortable. Yes, they are simple, but they live in a past you cannot understand. They love the past. I will not force them to change, nor will I allow them to change. Only I know what is best for them."
Everyone at the table had stopped eating, diplomats and guests alike. Now, they looked to Nathan for a response. He had hoped to make subtle suggestions, obvious imperfections within Zalzuna that needed improvement, but the resistance to change seemed immovable. Such was the communist mind set against the international community and its advancements socially, technologically, and medically.
"Of course, General." Nathan didn't mind giving a little ground. "We would never want you to force change. You have a fine island. Regardless of what you change, or do not change, because of the fact that your ideals parallel my employers', we will contribute to your efforts."
Frowning, Fredrick was apparently unable to follow the swing of conversation. But it was obvious General Yousef knew a politician's tongue when he heard one, so he nodded with satisfaction. Nathan enjoyed reading them as a cardsharp reads amateur card hustlers.
"It is for this wisdom we welcome you." The general initiated another solute with his glass of wine. The guests continued to eat, maybe a little disappointed the excitement hadn't continued. "Tomorrow, I will arrange a complete tour of the island. Fredrick? Can you spare the time?"
"Permit me to request one of your sergeants instead," Nathan said before Fredrick could respond. "I'm sure Fredrick has more important things to do than to escort me."
"I'll arrange a sergeant . . . gladly." Fredrick clenched his teeth, obviously unwilling to act as a tour guide for the arrogant foreigner. Nathan guessed Fredrick would restrict him from certain places on the island, whereas a sergeant assigned to the task would be less inclined to argue with Nathan's interests.
"Very well." The general slapped the table. "We will talk again tomorrow."
Though General Yousef had hardly eaten, he rose from his chair and walked around the table, shaking hands with each of his guests.
Nathan returned to his quarters, yawning often so the others would think he was suffering from jetlag and extreme exhaustion. In reality, he was waiting for his opportunity. Once inside his meager suite, he turned off the lights and dressed in baggy vrakes, which he'd found in a complimentary closet. While they may've been meant for pajamas, he intended to blend in with the locals. He donned a straw-woven hat, also from the closet, and stepped onto a small balcony outside his bedroom. It faced to the west, the volcano appearing as a shadow against the night sky. He looked over the balcony railing, then vaulted over.
Landing softly twelve feet below, he rolled once, and found his feet without pause. Two strides later, he was across an uncut lawn and stood next to a shrub as two soldiers walked past. As soon as their voices could no longer be heard, Nathan squeezed through the shrubs, climbed over the wall, and ran, limping down a cobbled pathway to the keep of the ancient fortress. Even in the darkness, he could see the low point in the eastern wall. He watched the keep for several minutes from the moon-shadows against the base of the battlements. There didn't seem to be guard dogs. The soldiers only wore sidearms since the threat of invaders was very low, but they were sure to have rifles in an armory somewhere. Since they were a police state, they expected no resistance to their overwhelming authority.
