PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (6 page)

There were two new messages. Bishop’s mood improved instantly as he opened one from his father. His parents had arrived safely in Tel Aviv and were visiting friends. In just over a week they would meet him in Spain, his mother’s birthplace.

The second email was from Mirza Mansoor. Ever since the incident in Sierra Leone four years ago, the two men had remained in contact, sharing emails and letters. Mirza had gone on to work with the Special Frontier Force, an elite special operations unit of the Indian Army. Bishop’s career on the other hand, had been sidelined. His otherwise perfect record marked with a single count of insubordination.

 Bishop opened the email:

I hope you are making the most of your holiday, my friend. Make sure you are taking the time to relax and enjoy life outside of the army.

I have started a new job with a contractor based out of India, good money but a little boring. Thanks again for the job reference. Hope you visit sometime soon.

Mirza

He typed a quick response and hit send. Gathering his belongings, he paused at the counter to settle the account

“Ah, are you Mr Bishop?” asked the pimple-faced youth behind the till.

 Bishop looked over his shoulder, quickly scanning the other users in the room. None of them looked familiar or particularly threatening. He turned back to the attendant. “I might be. What do you want?”

“A man left this for you.” He handed over a crisp white envelope.

Bishop opened it and pulled out a business card.

He looked around the room again and out the window to the street.

“Who gave you this?” he asked.

“An older man: big Black-American.”

“When?”

“Umm, hour ago, maybe more. He said to give it to Mr. Bishop, with the brown jacket.”

Fuck,
thought Bishop. Is this a scam? How the hell does he know my name? He looked back at the card. It resembled a military patch, the sort of thing US Special Forces sometimes wore. Sometimes the answer can be found in a book? It felt like a puzzle, a clue to some sort of treasure hunt.

He took the card back to an Internet terminal and punched the address into Google Maps. It was close, not more than a few blocks away. He rocked back in the chair, trying to make sense of it all. He knew there was no way he could turn his back on this. He threw a few coins on the counter and left the café.

Walking out onto the busy footpath, he joined the throngs of tourists, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder, searching for a tail. Nothing, no one seemed to be paying even the slightest attention to him.

Hauling a battered Lonely Planet guide from his leather satchel, he thumbed through the pages. He briefly read the description of
Barri Gotic
, the gothic quarter of old Barcelona. The route seemed simple enough; a long, pleasant walk through the ancient streets.

 Although Bishop had been staying in Barcelona for a number of days, he hadn’t made any effort to explore the city. So far he’d either been thrashing himself with his vigorous exercise regime, drinking in dimly lit bars or surfing the Internet. Maybe it was time to stop dwelling on things he couldn’t change and make the most of his holidays. At least the cryptic card had given him something to break the self-destructive pattern he’d fallen into.

Strolling through Barcelona, Bishop began to see the city in a new light. The sheer magnificence of the architecture enthralled him, the ancient buildings steeped in over two thousand years of history. He wandered absent-mindedly, forgetting his mission, drawn away from the traffic-lined roads into the quiet cobblestone streets.

When he finally remembered to check his map, he had been walking for nearly thirty minutes. He looked around to gain his bearings. The streets were old and narrow, hemmed in by ancient sandstone walls. By pure luck it looked as if he had stumbled into the Barri Gotic
.
He checked the brass plaques that announced the names of the streets, searching for his destination. Bingo!
Carrer de Cervantes
, the street he was looking for.

The ancient alley narrowed, the old buildings closing in on both sides. Stones underfoot were worn smooth by centuries of pedestrians. Bishop could almost hear the cries of medieval street merchants hocking their wares. He paused at a small doorway cut into the sandstone wall. An ancient sign that hung from rusted chains proclaimed, ‘Libreria de Viejo’.

A brass bell jingled as he pushed open the sturdy door. He inhaled the musky smell of gently aging books. A weather-beaten man perched behind an antique cash register beckoned him in, smiling.

Bishop gave the old man a once over, scanning the rest of the shop for any potential threat. It looked empty, the narrow room heaved from ceiling to floor with leather bound books and manuscripts. Several rolled parchments gathered dust on the highest shelves, evidence that the annals of this establishment had graced Barcelona for more than a few decades.

“He said you would come.”

The voice startled Bishop and he turned back to the man. “Excuse me?”

“Your friend, he said you would come.” The old man had left his stool and was hobbling towards Bishop, a book tucked under one arm.

“I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

The shopkeeper laughed. “He said that a lost soldier would come. You have the presence of a soldier, but you wander like a man with no path.”

“I used to be a soldier, but that’s another story. Tell me about this man. What did he look like?”

“Like you: once a soldier, always a soldier.”

Bishop’s eyes narrowed and he handed over the card from the Internet café. “Have you seen this before?”

The old man adjusted his glasses and studied the card intently. “This writing, it is Latin.” He ran a finger along the script that crested the shield embossed on the card. “Justicia ex Umbra. It means Justice from the Shadows.” The shopkeeper handed the card back. “I have never seen a card like this, but those words—I have seen those words before.”

“Justicia ex Umbra?” Bishop queried. “Where?”

The old man handed Bishop the book he was holding. “In the book your friend sent you to find.”

Bishop took the battered text from the old man and studied the cover. A single world was embossed in the wrinkled leather:
Susurro.

“Your friend is wise. Books do have a way of finding those they will help the

most,” the shopkeeper said as he turned and hobbled back to his stool.

Bishop followed him to the counter. “Sometimes the answers we’re looking for can’t be found in a book.”

The old man frowned as he sat, his features disappearing into a landscape of crevices. He spoke quietly, “There is always someone who has walked the path before you, my friend. In books they leave their lessons for those who are wise and lucky enough to find them.”

Bishop considered the comment. The old bugger has a point, he thought as he opened the yellowed pages of the book and scanned a page. How many soldiers have doubted their cause over the years? How many have found themselves at a crossroads? He closed the book and placed it on the counter.
“Are you sure you don’t know anything more about this so-called friend of mine? Or this card?”

The old man stared back blankly and shook his head. “But you can have the book; it is already paid for.”

“Thanks.” With a sigh, Bishop stuffed it in his satchel and pushed open the door, returing to the cobbled streets of ancient Barcelona.

 Lounging in bed that evening and aiming to read a couple of chapters before hitting the nightlight, he became so engrossed that when he finally put it down, the faint glow of dawn lit up his hotel window.

The book was the history of a secret society known as
Susurro
: the whisper. It existed outside the law, a private army using clandestine methods to protect the people of Valencia from the horrors of the Spanish inquisition. Bringing justice from the shadows.

The concept resonated with Bishop. Now there’s a worthy cause,
he thought. Fighting for the weak! Bringing some justice to the world!

For the next few days Bishop continued to explore Barcelona. The book never left his mind, nor the means by which it had entered his life. Despite his training, he never identified a tail; he never felt like he was being watched. Slowly the suspicion began to ebb.

A week later the book was a distant memory as Bishop travelled by high-speed rail to Valencia. Even though his grandparents were no longer alive, it was still a favorite holiday destination and he missed his parents.

The train sped across the Spanish countryside and Bishop relaxed, gazing out the carriage window. Suspicion and unease were chased away by memories of childhood vacations and old family friends. Finally he’d left behind the worries of the world and was starting to enjoy his holiday.

Chapter 7

El Al Flight LY395, Tel Aviv to Barcelona, 2004

Mark and Estela Bishop boarded the Israel Airlines flight eagerly. After a pleasant few days visiting old friends, they were flying from Tel Aviv to Spain to spend a week with Aden. One short week: not nearly long enough. It had been six months since they’d last seen their son.

Despite the years of separation imposed by military service, the bond between the Bishops and their only child was strong. They tried to talk to Aden at least once a week, no matter what far flung country he was stationed.

Estela hated the photos of him with guns and riding in tanks; Aden was her little boy, her adorable, mop-headed angel who’d clung to her on his first day of school.

Mark always remembered him as the young officer in his ceremonial uniform. Nothing had made Bishop senior more proud than the day he watched his son graduate from military college.

The Bishops still traveled regularly, despite retirement. Years of working as journalists had gifted them with friends to visit all around the world. As the 737 took off, they relaxed, used to the cramped economy seats. They laughed as they scrolled through photos on their camera, Estela’s head resting on Mark’s shoulder.

In the cockpit the pilots bantered with the flight engineer as they monitored the autopilot guiding the aircraft towards its 35,000 feet cruising height. The skies over the Mediterranean were clear; it was going to be a pleasant flight.

As the jet passed through 10,000 feet, the tranquil silence of the cockpit was shattered by a blaring alarm. Red lights flashed across the flight controls and the pilots stared at each other in disbelief. The plane’s missile warning system had detected a launch!

Far below the aircraft, a predator had initiated its hunt. Like the nose of a wolf, a thermal seeker sniffed out its quarry. The missile leapt into the sky, accelerating to three times the speed of its lumbering prey.

The aircraft’s automated system reacted instantly, forcing the aircraft into a tight turn and throwing flares from a dispenser in its tail. Burning at over a thousand degrees, the flares hung under parachutes in an attempt to confuse the heat-seeking warhead.

The hunter couldn’t be fooled; a sophisticated computer identified the flares and discarded them as targets, locking back onto the signature of the engines.

It took five seconds for the shoulder-launched missile to cover the distance from the firing tube to the aircraft. It detonated in the jet’s right engine. The warhead’s explosive sent fragments slicing through the 737’s thin aluminum skin. White-hot shrapnel shredded hydraulic cables, fuel lines and flight surfaces.

The unmistakable sound of the high-explosive detonation jolted Mark Bishop in his seat. Estela’s head smashed into his shoulder as the plane banked. Oxygen masks jettisoned from the ceiling. He glanced out the window and knew it wasn’t turbulence. A jagged piece of the wing was missing, the engine ripped from it’s mounting.

 “Everybody remain calm and stay in your seats,” transmitted a voice over the speakers. ”We are experiencing some unexpected technical difficulties that have forced us to take emergency manoeuvres. Cabin crew prepare for an emergency landing.”

The plane pitched forward, causing screams and panic. A baby shrieked. White-faced flight attendants clung to the headrests and tried to reassure passengers. Vibrations shook overhead lockers open and baggage lurched out of the compartments, crashing into people as the plane flipped through a series of evasive maneuvers.

“Crash position! Crash Position! Brace! Brace!”

Heads whipped down, 132 passengers bracing themselves in prayer, some silent, some not. All far too late.

Mark whispered into Estela’s ear. Her fingers dug into his hand, her eyes clenched tight, an attempt to shut out the fear.

The aircraft plummeted.

Across the aisle someone retched.

Mark held his wife tight. “I love you—”

The 737 didn’t have a chance. Eight minutes after taking off from Ben Gurion International Airport, flight LY395 hit the ground and exploded.

In the largest single terrorist attack in the history of Israel, 132 people were killed. The nation wept in shock and Aden Bishop lost both the people he loved most.