The Ragnarok Conspiracy (17 page)

John Savas awoke to sunlight and a cool breeze blowing in through an open window. He lay on his back; Rebecca's head nestled into his chest, her arm draped over his right shoulder. Her breathing was soft, a rising and falling cadence that stirred him deeply. He raised himself slowly, carefully, afraid to wake her. He wanted to see her face, see that haunting beauty that he now let himself admit he had desired and fought against for years, see it as she slept and in the morning's fresh light.

“Finally awake?” she said, one eye half open like a cat, a playful smile on her face. She rolled off his chest and snuggled into the pillow behind her. He rolled onto his stomach toward her, gazing up into her brandy eyes.

“Yeah, getting old, I'm afraid.”

Savas looked at her face, beautiful, and sad, a distant look in her eyes. He thought back over the years and realized that he had been blind to so much.
Blinded
, he corrected himself.
Consumed.

Cohen turned and tried to laugh. “Now, if you were rich, my inner
shadchan
would be pleased, but I have to quiet her, as things stand.”

“Shadchan?” he asked.

“Jewish matchmaker. Think Yente from
Fiddler on the Roof
.”

“Ah, OK.”

“But in the real world, it's just my dad now. I think he'd be happy that I'm interested in any biped with a Y chromosome. Even you.”

Savas smiled. “
Thanks.
Breakfast? I might have something you can stand to eat.”

She smiled. “A coffee would be great, actually.”

Savas grabbed a shirt, slipped it on, and went into the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rebecca climbing out of bed. He pushed the button, the clashing sound of beans on metal filled the apartment, and the fresh smell of ground coffee struck him as it always did in the morning.
Smells better than it tastes
, he thought once again. He caught another glimpse of her in the bed. By that point, she had started combing out her hair.
I could just watch her all day.

She left the comb on the dresser and walked over to the kitchen. The gurgling of the coffeepot was loud now; the pot filled with warm brew. She put her hands on his shoulders. Standing five-foot-five, she was nearly half a head shorter than he was, and as she kissed him, she rose up on her toes.

“Good morning,” she said. “I forgot to tell you.”

“It's the best morning I've had in a long time, Rebecca. I mean that.”

She squeezed his hand, and he embraced her. For several moments he held her close to him. “So,” she said, stepping back, “how's that coffee?”

“It's ready.” Savas grabbed two cups, quickly checked them to make sure they would pass some minimal health inspection, and, satisfied, filled each about three-quarters. “How do you take yours?”

“Black,” she said.

“Me, too.” He smiled back at her.

“Let me see what you have in this refrigerator of yours.”

Savas thought to dissuade her of the action but changed his mind.
She might as well see that, too.
He sipped at his coffee and walked over to the window, gazing outside and upward to the rising sun. The light was warm, the air fresh on his face. He felt something inside of him, an emotion long forgotten, crushed by years at NYPD, banished by the loss of his son. A feeling he immediately associated with his childhood, nearly excitement, washed through him now as it had not for long decades.

But inside, another voice arose in challenge, from a darker place, a buried place, and for a moment it seemed that the light outside faded and a chill had come into the air. He knew this voice, because he had
listened to it for many years now. There was anger in its cry, a hatred that refused any solace or sense of peace.
Leave me alone. For today, let me be.

He placed the coffee cup on the windowsill and turned to look at Cohen, bent over, head invisible, blocked behind the refrigerator door.

“Oh,
wow
, John. This is worse than I thought.”

He smiled, and for the moment, the angry voice was silenced. The older feeling swelled within him:
Hope.
That was the feeling. Simple hope. Could it last? The thundercloud deep inside waited, and he knew it would not be denied. He ignored it. For one day at least, he would remember what it was to hope.

Arab nations and their organizations issued multiple statements today condemning the string of Muslim-targeted terrorist attacks and threatened Western nations with economic repercussions if these attacks did not end and the responsible parties were not apprehended.

The Arab League issued a terse statement accusing Western governments of “complicity” and a “willing inaction” in stopping the attacks and finding those responsible. Two hours later, OPEC followed suit, threatening “economic hardship” to any nation “supporting Western terrorism against Muslims.” One high-ranking official who spoke under conditions of anonymity said that “Muslims are furious. This has brought even sworn enemies together to fight their common foe. This will blow up in the faces of infidel nations. This will make the oil crises of the last century seem like a celebration.”

Spokesmen from the European community in Brussels sought to stave off the controversy, indicating that all possible investigative organizations were active and working diligently to address Muslim safety in Europe and apprehend the terrorists. A White House spokesperson stated that it was counterproductive to threaten the United States when it was itself involved in efforts to solve these crimes. “These attacks have also occurred on our own soil, and we wish justice done as much as anyone,” said the press secretary.

The source responded to these remarks. “Words are not enough. It is time for the Western nations to practice what they tell Muslim
nations—to stop terrorists. Unless these murderers and destroyers of Muslim holy sites are caught and executed, the West will be held responsible. I tell you now, Allah will rain suffering on your people.”

Traffic on the FDR northbound was unusually bad. It was a constant stop-and-go, intermittent motion turning quickly into what looked like a frozen river of vehicles. Tugboats on the East River pushing box-laden barges overtook them on the right. A cabbie darted left directly in front of Savas, pushing his way into the middle lane and forcing him either to slow down or to plow into the yellow car. He felt the symptoms of road rage coming to the surface, but with Cohen riding shotgun, he sighed and let the taxi have its pointless lane change.

After nearly forty-five minutes, they reached the Sixty-Second Street exit and pulled off under the FDR, past a gas station, and onto York Avenue. They found a parking garage on Sixty-Third Street, then walked the five blocks to New York Hospital. Passing the small green oasis of Rockefeller University on the right, the pair turned down Sixty-Eighth Street toward the hospital. Within ten minutes, they were in a recovery room staring down at Husaam Jordan.

Savas's first thought was that he looked well. He had clearly lost some weight from his once hyper-muscular frame, and his right leg and shoulder were still bandaged, but he was alert. His eyes were bright, and he was reading a set of newspapers draped over his legs. As they walked in, he looked up and smiled. His basso profundo boomed throughout the small room.

“John. Rebecca,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Here to rescue me?”

Cohen smiled. Savas just shook his head. “Agent Jordan, from what I've heard, you do a good enough job of that sort of thing yourself.”

“‘Good enough' is a relative term.” His smile faded. “It was not good enough for the men I took with me. Good men, who have served this nation well.” Jordan gestured to his arm and shoulder with his left hand. “More personally, it was not enough from the point of view of my leg and arm. They have been reminding me of this frequently.”

“I've heard that you will be released soon,” Cohen said.

“Yes, next week if I have anything to do with it. I have a very aggressive rehabilitation program planned, and I can't wait to start.”

A nurse dashed into the room and took the lunch tray he had cast to the side. “Well, you won't be doing anything
aggressive
as long as you are on my floor,” she scolded, giving him a disapproving glare. She looked over at the two visitors. “He's been nothing but trouble since he got here.”

Savas suppressed a laugh. “Yes, well, ma'am, he's been a load of trouble for a bunch of folks. But I think his heart is in the right place.”

Jordan looked directly at Savas, who returned his gaze. It was the closest he felt he'd ever get to admitting that he had changed his mind about the man. The nurse just grunted and took the tray out of the room.

Jordan changed the subject. “So, I hope you have brought me some news finally. After two surgeries, three hospitals, and a week under sedation, I'm trying to figure out where the world is again.” He held up a newspaper that showed schematics of the Martyrs Monument and an analysis of how it had collapsed. “I don't suppose our friends from Valhalla have blown anything else up?”

Savas shook his head. “Thank goodness, no, although given what's happened so far, we're all waiting for this month's attack.”

“Yes, so am I,” said Jordan.

“So is the rest of the world,” interjected Cohen. “The president has called a special meeting with representatives from the Arab League at Camp David. The Muslim world from Africa to the Middle East to Southeast Asia is in chaos. Conspiracy theories abound.”

“Has anyone warmed to your crazy theory?” Jordan asked.

Savas shook his head. “No. But the CIA death squad idea is slowly dying. They've rounded up most of those who participated. You can count on one hand those remaining.”

“Certainly they can begin to see the pattern? The similarities in the assassinations and the bombings?”

Cohen laughed. “Our governmental agencies might not, but the
Muslim world sees the connection. They are blaming the Western nations. Prominent leaders in the major oil-producing nations are calling for an embargo unless this terrorist group is found and caught. OPEC has signaled that it is considering several of these ideas. The world financial markets are in complete turmoil.”

Jordan smiled. “Well, I guess I'll be trading in my Hummer for a Chevy Volt.”

Savas smiled as well, but Cohen frowned. “It's not just about gas. Few people realize how completely dependent modern society is on oil. Did you know that, at minimum, four out of every five calories we eat come from petroleum?”

Uh-oh
, thought Savas,
she's in Berkeley mode
.

Cohen did not disappoint, launching into a lecture about the fragility of the modern fossil fuel economy. It amused him to see her take on the airs of a college protest leader. But her passion was always real, and he had learned to
never
challenge her facts. He also had to admit that she often had a lot to teach him.

Savas was curious. “What's food got to do with oil?”

Cohen sighed. “Food
is
oil, John. At least in this day and age. We have to plow the land to plant, water our crops, fertilize the ground, harvest the crops, process the food, and package and distribute it all over the country. Oil's the primary energy source for all of this. It's the basis for the entire modern world. Now the US and Europe are scrambling to ensure an uninterrupted flow of oil. China and Russia are turning paranoid fast about this.”

Savas nodded. “That's for sure. I've already heard talk about using military force to secure our supplies. We're still the biggest kid on the block, but things have changed.”

Cohen looked at Jordan. “This is quickly becoming one of the most dangerous situations in international relations in a long time.”

Jordan whistled. “So what are you two doing here visiting me? Don't you have some important work or meetings to be getting to downtown?”

Savas nodded. “Well, we did, but Rebecca insisted we come.”

“I know your wife and sons were here, but I thought that it was shameful that no one from the FBI had visited a hero after his return home,” she said with a smile.

Jordan bowed his head. “A noble woman, John. Don't you forget that,” he said, and Savas wondered if it meant more than it seemed on the surface.

“We have a big meeting with the CIA tomorrow,” Savas spoke over his own thoughts. “They will present to us the analysis of the shipping records you obtained in Dubai and Sharjah. I'm hoping something useful will come of that.”

Jordan gestured again to his wounded limbs. “You aren't the only one.”

Savas was silent on the drive back from the hospital. As they crossed the Queensboro Bridge, the falling night in front of them was offset by the skyline of Manhattan behind them, a view always particularly spectacular when driving the opposite direction on the bridge. They were headed to a Greek seafood place he knew in Astoria, but he could not relax for an evening out. Too many things were burning in his mind as he drove. How came to be this man, Husaam Jordan, who practiced, even celebrated a religion that had spawned such hatred and monstrosities? How could any of them stop this new diabolic force that was shattering lives and peace across the globe before the stability of the world itself was threatened?

Not realizing what he was doing, Savas found himself taking the well-known streets in Astoria, but not in the direction of the restaurant. Instead, his car weaved its way to park beside the dome of the Church of the Holy Trinity. He stopped the vehicle and shut off the engine.

“We're walking from here?” Cohen asked.

“I thought we'd make a quick pit stop to see someone first, if it's OK.”

She looked over at him quizzically. “OK, who's that?”

Savas sighed. “Thought I'd see that priest I told you about. Father
Timothy. You know, the one I almost shot during church service,” he said dryly.

Cohen stared at him seriously. “OK, John. I'd like to meet him. Anyone who can welcome you back after that is worth meeting.”

He laughed so hard he thought he might break a rib. “Yes, I suppose. He's the only one of the congregation. I tend to make secretive visits to this place.”

She nodded. “I can see why.”

They stepped out of the car, and Cohen followed him toward the church and up the stairs. Inside, it was mostly dark, the shadows deep in the dim candlelight. Holding her hand, Savas led Cohen through the church. It was completely empty and silent. She gazed with interest at the large mosaics of saints and biblical stories spread across the walls. As they passed the icon of Saint Nicholas, Savas whispered, “Santa Claus.”

“What?” she asked, confused.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling, “I'll tell you another time.”

He walked up to the left side of the iconostasis and knocked on the door. After several tries without an answer, he turned to Cohen.

“He must not be here.”

“Home?” she asked.

“Maybe. But he might be around back, in the garden. Want to go check?” She took his arm and smiled up at him. “Sure.”

He led her out of the church and down the steps again, turning toward the right and heading around the building. At the back, a fence ran around the church, perhaps eight feet high and made of metal. Apartment buildings stood on the other side of the fence. Planted at the base of the fence all the way around the church were rows of different kinds of plants—flowering bushes, grasses, even some vegetables. At a point opposite the front doors of the church, directly behind the building, lay a large stone slab with a stone cross at its tip. In front of the slab, on his knees with head bowed, was Father Timothy.

Savas stopped as soon as he saw him, hoping to turn around and not disturb the priest. But the old man had noticed them and stood up
immediately, if slowly and painfully, brushing the dirt off his cassock. He looked up and smiled, walking toward them.

“Father Timothy, I didn't mean to bother you…. I can come back…” Savas began.

“Nonsense. John, good to see you,” the priest said, putting a hand on Savas's shoulder. The old priest looked toward Cohen.

“Father Timothy, this is Rebecca Cohen. She's part of my team at the FBI.”

“Pleased to meet you, Father,” she said, smiling.

“You two working so late?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“Ah, well, actually, we are done for the day, and Rebecca had heard me talk about this seafood place, Elijah's Corner, and…” He stumbled over the words.

“Well, I insisted that we go tonight to see if it's all that he bragged about,” she finished for him confidently. Savas looked gratefully toward her.

“Yes, yes. The best Greek food is in Astoria,” said the priest.

“So, I don't want to bother you…” Savas began again.

“No, no. Just praying at the grave of an old friend,” Father Timothy said. “Did you know Brother Elefterios?” Savas shook his head. “He was the priest of the church before I came here. He died nearly ten years ago. He was a monk and lived in that old shack there,” he said, pointing over his shoulder.

Savas had always wondered about that small shack as a child. It hardly seemed able to keep the garden tools dry, let alone house a human being.

Father Timothy sighed. “Even after he got too old to run the church and I was brought in, he asked to continue to care for the garden. I said yes, of course. Over the years, this small old man would come out here every day, into his late eighties, tending this garden lovingly. I got to know him well, and came to miss his presence here after his death. Many times when there were problems in the world, or inside the church, I would come and speak to him. He seemed to have this stunning peacefulness about him, born out of prayer or temperament, I will never know.”