The Hand of Christ (2 page)

The sailors nervously looked at one another, but not one of them moved. From the corner of his eye, the Captain eyed another sailor who appeared as if he was readying to step forward. A silent message between the two; the man didn’t move.

After a few moments, and giving no warning, the pirate extended a weathered and darkened hand that was attached to a thick, rippling forearm. He roughly grabbed the bound sailor by the back of the neck; with the rod expertly gripped in his other hand, the pirate slowly inserted it into the lower back of the enslaved crew-member and smiled with each crawling inch of inflicted agony.

Skillful and deliberate, a forceful push agonizingly worked the rod through the base of the sailor’s back until it emerged from between his shoulder blades; the Arab purposely avoided contact with any of the bound man’s vital organs. He did not want the sailor dead –
yet
.

His shipmates stared upon him in unspoken horror.

Some fell to their knees.

Others looked to their Captain for guidance.

Of course, there was nothing that the Captain could do.

The Arab stood powerfully with his chest thrust forward. He wanted to remind his captives of his superiority over them, that they were merely slaves to him, and should dare not continue to disobey his demands for such an act is merely a wasted effort.

The impaled American sailor uttered nothing more than a guttural exhalation that was simultaneously coupled with the expulsion of what little that had remained in his bowels.

The Arab let him go and the American fell heavily to the desert floor.

Turning to the frightened American men – sailors of the gunship Philadelphia commanded by William Bainbridge, the same careless commander who was once humbled in battle aboard the George Washington – he said:

“
The authority of every Muslim is written in the Koran for all to see. It is our right and duty to make war upon every sinner, to make every infidel our slave. Each Muslim that perishes at the hands of any infidel will surely be welcomed into Paradise. Your very existence on the soil of the Prophet is an act that requires your perpetual servitude to Him. Escape will lead to your death, to which I will grant to each of you with deep pleasure.”

The Arab’s angry stare amplified, and then he ferociously shouted, “You have stolen from Islam! Give me what I seek and I will spare the rest of you; withhold it and you will all perish, slower and more painfully than this man!”

Again, no one moved. The air was thick with the insolent silence of the American sailors.

The pirate resorted to one last attempt, and declared, “Whoever among you that has what I want, step forward now. I will pay you your weight in gold and offer you safe passage from our lands.”

Slowly, the sailor with which Captain Bainbridge had exchanged glances moved forward. The Captain wanted to stop him, but knew that he would certainly die if he tried. All that the Captain could do was to curse the man underneath his breath and watch knowing full well that the sailor’s life would soon end.

Whispers of traitor could be heard, but it mattered not to the man. His actions were guided, in part, by greed, but more so by the incessant screaming inside his head that yelled at him to live.

As he approached the Arab, the sailor opened his tattered and battle worn coat. The corner of a single piece of paper poked out from the inside of his jacket. The Arab snatched the piece of paper from its place.

Through his dried and cracked lips, the sailor weakly asked the Arab, “When will I get my gold?”

The Arab looked at the paper and instantly knew that this was not what he sought; crumpling it, he threw it angrily to the ground. He peered at the sailor, smiled, and answered his question, “When you meet God!”

Swiftly, the pirate pulled the scimitar from the belt around his waist; with the same movement that unsheathed the long, curved blade he sliced through the air at the sailor’s throat. With two thuds, one heavier than the other, the sailor fell to the ground. His head was lying next to him.

Fool!
Bainbridge grimaced.

Each American sailor nervously stood silent and readied for his own demise. Collectively, each sailor of the Philadelphia prayed for a miracle.

It was at that moment as the prayers of the remaining 305 men drifted to the heavens that fast-moving, ominous purple and black clouds inexplicably surrounded the depth of the day’s sun.

An ear-splitting clap of thunder sharply disrupted the silence.

The Arab looked to the sky with confused eyes and dropped his long blade to the ground. He felt a pain welling in his chest as if it were readying to split his breast open. He let out a loud, curdling scream and then fell to his knees. The sailors of the USS Philadelphia were startled at what was transpiring before them and stared upon the Arab unclear about what was happening.

But the Captain was not.

The Arab grasped at his desert clothes and ripped them from his body; he clawed at his chest in agony. All of the men stared on in horror as the pirate dug his powerful fingers into his breast as if trying to rip the flesh from his body. The pirate began to convulse, his body contorted from his pain.

As quickly as it began, the entire episode was over.

The Arab’s body fell awkwardly and next to the beheaded American: He was dead.

Captain Bainbridge placed his hand over his coat. There, he could feel the single page of vellum from the book that he had sewn inside of his coat’s lining.

He thought of the poison that he had put on the other pages sewn into the lining of some of his sailors’ coats.

Silently, the Captain mouthed his only thought,
the Hand of Christ
.

He dropped to his knees and prayed.

PART I

Chapter One – Present Day

The Grand Mosque of Umayyad

Damascus, Syria

CIA Officer Dr. Michael Sterling entered the large great room of the centuries old Grand Mosque.

Impressive slender columns topped with ornate capitals of the Corinthian order flanked the great room’s entry; colorful mosaics on the interior walls depicted Paradise.

Normally, he would have taken the time to enjoy their craftsmanship.

Today wasn’t a normal day.

Michael wasn’t supposed to be there.

Scanning the large room, it only took him a moment to see Yousef amidst the small gathering of ambassadors and their assistants.

Michael moved slowly while carefully studying the man’s body language. Yousef Malak Aramasu is with Syrian Intelligence and Michael’s counterpart. Yousef is also Michael’s asset, a long-time source of intelligence on Islamic activity in the Middle East.

Yousef wasn’t hard to spot: short, thickly built, and bald; he was a fit and fiercely intense man for his age. He carried himself with well-earned authority and confidence. Michael often referred to him as a Syrian bull.

Besides his unique appearance, Yousef often compulsively rubbed his bald scalp – a nervous habit he had picked up when they both were graduate students at Georgetown fourteen years ago – and was doing it now.

It had been some time since Michael was forced into the field for a covert mission. Over the past three years, his expertise on Middle East relations and policy allowed him to keep his talents cemented in the US instead of conducting paramilitary operations overseas. It was a change of pace that he needed and welcomed.

At 38, Michael’s short wavy blond hair had been spared the thinning consequences from a career of immense demands, but had suffered in other ways. The small wisps of silver along the edges of his hairline were nearly indistinguishable, but had prematurely crept higher with the years. This trip would add to that movement. It annoyed him to be in Syria.

Yousef was on the far side of the great room and politely chatted with the Syrian and Lebanese delegations. Michael easily picked up on subtle signs from his asset, and could see that his old friend was unapologetically preoccupied and not really digesting the conversation.

Both the US and Israeli counterparts to the Lebanese and Syrian delegates anxiously waited to begin the secret negotiations. They were in the middle of their own muffled conversations on the side of the room adjacent to Yousef. Without any doubt, every government representative in the hall was going over one last time the tactics they would use during the talks.

An unnecessarily large, yellow-marble table separated the men – men who were born into their hatred of one another and enemies for more than fifteen centuries. Slightly oval, the table nearly ran the length of the hall. It was mesmerizing; the highly polished surface of the marble reflected a kaleidoscope of colors from the ornate tiles that lined the walls of the hall. The table’s well-designed effect was almost hypnotic.

Spread about the center of the table was treats of karabij – a local specialty – and cherry topped baklava. Pretentious, heavy silver trays had been ceremoniously placed on both ends of the long, polished marble slab, holding the required number of ceramic demitasses for the Turk kahvesi. Thick copper pots with long wooden handles sat atop each tray, steaming a sweet aroma laced with cardamom into the air. Michael loved Turkish coffee; his jet lag could really use a cup of the dark concoction right now.

Yousef looked up as many in the room sensed Michael’s entry, not unusual given that Michael’s tall, broad-shouldered athletic frame and classic American good looks stood out in a room full of short, dark-haired Middle Eastern men, and one bald one.

But a few of them stared more so for his reputation.

In most intelligence organizations – foreign and domestic – Michael was considered the best.

The two intelligence officers caught each other’s glances; Yousef offered Michael a slight and respectful smile. The Syrian Officer barely nodded, but Michael knew Yousef well. The signal was clear, and told him to move to the corner of the room. Yousef wanted to speak with him, and he didn’t want to wait. Understanding the silent message, Michael quickly paid his regards to the US and Israeli Ambassadors and then circumambulated the large table that separated him from Yousef whilst nodding a respectful hello toward the Lebanese and Syrian delegations.

As the two officers approached one another safely away from the curious ears of the others, the old friends warmly clasped hands. Yousef spoke first and said, “It is good to see you, Michael. I was extremely pleased that you could make it on such short notice.”

Michael’s response wasn’t as courteous, and he quietly snapped, “You didn’t give me much choice, Yousef. You contacted me through the Director; you used an obsolete dead drop. You know that I am no longer in the field. What in the hell were you thinking when you did that!”

Yousef had taken some real liberties with his methods.

“
Please, Michael, I can see that you are displeased by my actions. I was left with little choice. I couldn’t reach you through unsecured channels and you had to be here, I needed you here.”

“
Here, in a Mosque!” Michael’s voice rose just enough to draw the slight ire of the US Ambassador. Aware of his minor faux pas, Michael led Yousef by his elbow further from the prying ears of the delegates.

“
You have taken a big risk, Yousef. An American and Syrian intelligence officer meeting during Middle East peace negotiations in a mosque isn’t so subtle.”

“
Michael, Mosques have long been the place that Muslims work to settle disputes, even with non-Muslims. You, of all people, should understand that. Given the scope of these talks, being here is comforting to many in attendance. I offer you my apologies for my methods, but as I said, I needed to reach you.”

Michael knew that Yousef had something important for him; the break in protocol was unprecedented. “I couldn’t be reached for good reason. Yousef, tell me what’s going on, it’s not like you to go outside of the rules.”

Lowering his voice to a raspy whisper, Yousef surprised Michael when he said, “For quite some time, I have been tracking an organization that has infiltrated my government and yours as well as others. Michael, this organization has been in existence for centuries, and operates under a charter with only one goal.”

Yousef stopped speaking and glanced around the room, making sure that he couldn’t be heard. Michael wasn’t quite sure how to react to what his asset was telling him, and decided to stay quiet and listen.

“
Michael, they are planning to…” Yousef stopped mid-sentence, one member of the Syrian delegation was moving closer.

Yousef stepped closer to Michael and said, “We can’t talk here; let’s get some lunch when we are finished. I have something important for you to see, and then you will understand. Meet me at the usual place, one hour after we conclude.”

A member of the Syrian delegation interrupted the two officers, “Gentlemen, shall we take our seats?” It was more of a statement than it was a question. All of the men knew that what they were about to discuss had historic repercussions; few wanted to wait.

Indeed, there would be repercussions to their meeting, but not for the ones they had hoped. Unseen to the men outside of the mosque the streets were atypically quiet: the stifling noise and choking smog of the incessant traffic was absent; the vendors that lined the streets were not there; the beggars that clawed for spare change were missing, and the heavily garbed women that used the morning to make their way to market were all gone.