The Ragnarok Conspiracy (8 page)

The drive to Queens became an exercise in patience in the face of panic. Law enforcement had locked down all of Manhattan—bridges, tunnels, airports. Getting on or off the island required long waits through the stalled traffic and repeated discussions with police and national guard personnel to achieve clearance. Miller drove, and Savas could only boil inside as he played through multiple scenarios—most ending up with the Sheikh dead before they could get to him. He also did not forget that they were heading into a covert war zone, where unknown ciphers were playing a deadly game of cat and mouse. He had two dead agents, and a growing list of downed assassination targets, to remind him.

He reached over and removed his pistol, placing it on his lap. In a quick series of motions, he lifted the weapon, pressed the magazine catch, and let the cartridge drop onto his legs. He pulled the slide back and inspected the chamber to ensure it was empty, then allowed the slide to spring forward. He pointed the gun toward the right side of the car and pulled the trigger. The click was clear, smart, and drowned by the sound of tires over the Queensboro Bridge.

“You planning on breaking it down on the way over?” asked Miller wryly, his eyes on the road, the speedometer approaching sixty.

Savas shook his head. “Figured we may be reloading today, Frank. Wanted to have a peek at things inside.”

Miller nodded. “Shot placement is everything. I've seen guys unload and hit an assailant with more than ten rounds in the wrong places. The man just kept firing. Even without drugs, a determined man can take a lot of incidental damage and fight through the pain. Got to unplug the battery—heart, lungs, major organs.”

“I know, Frank,” said Savas, but the ex-marine continued.

“In the war, in Afghanistan, I saw shit you wouldn't believe. I've seen a two-twenty-pound pile of Special Forces muscle drop dead from a piece a shrapnel no bigger than a needle. I've seen men drag themselves with half a leg blown off, still firing, screaming obscenities, until they dropped from blood loss. The worst are the religious nuts, the jihadists who believe every dead American is another virgin in paradise. I've seen those bastards filled with ammo, and they keep coming. Human, of course—just got to hit them in the right place.” He shook his head sharply, as if trying to shake the visions out of his mind. “Seen the opposite, of course—young Arab kids who take a shot in the leg and learn the hard way that their faith was abstract. Those fall fast. Bunch of bawling kids on the side while you deal with the maniacs.”

“Sounds like hell, Frank.”

Miller smiled sharply. “I've heard it called so. When you're there, it just is what it is.”

Savas's cell rang out, and he picked up.

“Rasheed? Where are you?”

Miller concentrated, trying to hear the words spoken on the other end. Savas continued. “OK, we're almost there. We're going to pull up near the Astoria line. You'll see a black town car, FBI written all over it. Yes, I know! But it's all we had access to! In case you didn't realize, all hell's broken out in the city today!”

Savas continued after the voice spoke for several seconds. “If you
are
being followed, we'll have you covered. Come up Thirtieth Avenue toward the subway line. We'll be hidden close to the station, near the car, but we'll see down the street for a long way. Anything suspicious and we'll move on it.”

Savas closed the phone.

“One of the subway stations, John? Kinda public for this.”

Savas paused a moment, deep in thought. “I know, but I needed a place he could identify and get to fast, without confusion. Also, it will be harder to pull anything off in a crowded place.”

Miller raised his eyebrows. “If they do, we could get some collateral damage.”

Savas nodded, his face troubled. He had accepted the risk but was burdened by it anyway.
The location—so close to the church.
Why did I choose to meet him there?

“He was clean?”

“Said he was using a pay phone.” He turned toward Miller. “I can't believe his cell was being tracked! Who has that kind of access, Frank?”

“Phone companies and select government agencies, John. You know that.”

“The CIA hit squads? Damn it, I don't believe that, Frank!”

Miller shrugged. “No one else could have that access, John. No one.”

“To pull off all these kills, they'd need worldwide access. It doesn't make sense.”

“Well, someone's tapped into US communication networks, all to track down this one guy. Either they really want him, or they have a kind of casual access that is frightening.”

“He's not that important.”

“Then we ought to be worried about who we are dealing with, John.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

The Sheikh was due to be on foot, moving up the street toward the station from the west. After checking the platform, Savas and Miller quickly descended from the elevated tracks above Thirty-First Street. Miller sat down at an outdoor café and was the perfect model of a relaxed two-hundred-and-thirty-pound marine enjoying the fine June weather. Savas took a more awkward position, slowly gazing over the newspaper stand in front of a deli. Soon, he had run out of papers to stare at and began to examine the produce out on display when he noticed a movement from Miller's direction.

The marine had spotted their quarry first and rose from his seat, heading toward the street crossing. Savas's cell vibrated as Miller sent an alert to his phone. Across the street and halfway down the block,
weaving erratically, was the harried figure of the Sheikh.
Oh, Christ!
Savas tensed instinctively as he realized that the man was nearly running. He and Miller locked eyes for a moment, the communication enough, then both began to cross the street in the direction of their informant. Savas reached down and felt for his gun in his side holster, hidden behind the side of his suit jacket. He continued to zero in on the Sheikh, while scanning the sea of people behind him.

The hunter was hard to miss. A tallish man rounded the corner at the far end of the block, and, like the Sheikh, he moved too fast, counter to the normal flow of pedestrians. Savas heard Miller shout from the right. Both men pulled their guns and began sprinting toward the Sheikh, who had nearly reached the corner. Several people began to scream, and Savas waved them out of their way.

“FBI! Everyone clear the way! Clear the way!”

The pedestrian traffic parted like the Red Sea, some people dropping to the ground, some rushing into buildings, most running either right or left of Savas. Savas saw the Sheikh and waved him down.

“Drop! Drop down!”

The Sheikh dropped. His action, and the parting crowd, exposed the figure pursuing him. A gun was in the assassin's hand. As the killer sprinted, he steadied the weapon, aiming it at the Sheikh.

Savas braced himself against a lamppost and fired. Gunshots exploded from his and Miller's weapons. People screamed. Bullets whizzed past him, sending shards of shattered concrete into the air.

The battle was brief, the assassin caught in an unexpected crossfire. Savas watched him stumble and fall backward. His weapon arm struck the sidewalk, sending the gun rattling behind him.

“Frank, the Sheikh!” screamed Savas. Miller dashed forward to the prone figure of their contact. Savas approached the downed killer, gun steadied in his hands and aimed forward. Four shots had found their mark: two in the chest, one to the gun shoulder, and the last either a graze or partial-penetration head wound. Savas knew the wounds were life threatening. But the man was
alive
! Miller came up to his side with the Sheikh in tow, who spat out curses.

“Shut it!” yelled Savas, as he pulled out his cell, mashing several buttons. “Getting medical help here as soon as possible. We aren't losing this bastard! He's our key, Frank. I promise you, one way or the other, he'll lead us to the truth.”

The man mumbled several words, then suddenly came to consciousness. For a moment he looked confused; then he seemed to place himself and his situation. Even seriously wounded, he managed to attempt an attack. Savas, uninjured, was more than ready, and he forced the man back down. The killer relaxed, having spent most of his available energy. Savas grabbed him by the shirt collar.

“Nice try, asshole. While you're awake, you should know that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?” The man whispered something Savas could not understand. “I'll take that as a ‘yes.'”

Suddenly, before Savas had even released his grip on the man, an impact blew open the man's forehead, showering the three of them with blood. Stunned momentarily, they didn't move. Then Savas turned quickly toward Miller.

“Get him down! Get him—” But it was too late. As Miller reached over to grab the Sheikh, a loud slap sounded, and their contact arched his neck, a shot blasting through his spine and brainstem. He dropped instantly to the ground, his vital processes immediately halted. He was dead.

“No,
damn it
!” shouted Savas, as he drew his fists up sharply and pounded the hard concrete.
The trap had been reversed!
Another assassin had been waiting or in pursuit. He finished the job on the wounded killer, then turned his sights on the Sheikh.

Guns drawn, Miller and Savas scanned the general direction from which the bullet had originated. No further shots followed. The second assassin was gone.

“He shot
him
first.” It was Miller's voice. The ex-marine was staring at the body of the dead assassin. “As much as they wanted your contact dead, they wanted more to make sure we didn't take that killer.”

Savas nodded, the implications dawning on him. He slowly stood up, his palms numb and clenched, one feeling strangely pricked. He turned his hand over and opened his palm. Gleaming yellow in the sunlight was a golden necklace, torn unintentionally from the dead assassin's neck. Fresh blood stained the gold links. At the bottom hung a golden pendant. It was a strange object, shaped like an anchor, and unlike anything Savas had ever seen.

The harsh face of a bird was carved in its side.

In the fading light of the June evening, John Savas watched the old women file out of the church in Astoria. A sea of black with gray caps, they walked or shuffled, some limping down the steps toward the streets. In the midst of the black tide, there were the more nimble steps of the young, small islands lit with bright colors in the midst of the older generation. Vespers was over, the last prayers of the day having been read. Soon, the cantor himself walked out into the falling night. Gazing up at the gold-painted dome and the neon-white cross, he lit a cigarette, crossed himself, and stepped down into the night. In seconds he was lost in the swirling currents of New Yorkers flowing across the busy streets.

After several minutes, when it was clear that the church had emptied, Savas stepped out of a black Lincoln Continental. His polished shoes slapped the pavement as he made his way toward the steps. He wore a black suit, formal yet unimpressive in its make. Functional. His shoes clacked up the stairs to bring him before the entrance, where he crossed himself and pushed one of the doors open slowly, peering inside. Satisfied, he stepped through completely and let the door close softly behind him.

Inside the church, a palpable stillness hung in the air along with the remaining incense. It was always like this, he thought, taking comfort from the fact. That period after the service when no other human being was around seemed to him the most holy, devoid of the voices and noises of men and women, yet still
full
with what he could only think of as the spirits of the worshippers, or the angels themselves still lingering. The space held a thoughtful, prayerful silence more pregnant than the chanting itself. He dropped several coins into the slot underneath the rows of beeswax candles, rows of varying lengths and thicknesses beside the icons at the front of the narthex. He took two candles and lit them from those already placed in the sand, thinking first of his son, then of his ex-wife. He crossed himself again, kissed the icon of Christ, and stepped into the nave.

The lights were very low, and the candles around the body of the church shone brightly. He could smell the incense now. Father Timothy was stowing away his vestments. He looked up, squinting at the visitor in the pews.

“John?” his voice echoed in the dim air between them. “John Savas?”

“Hello, Father.”

The priest smiled. “John! It's good to see you after all these years.”

“I wasn't sure that it would be,” he replied.

The priest frowned. “Of course it is! Let's not have any such nonsense from you about this.” The priest came forward. John Savas took his hand, kissed it, and crossed himself. The priest tried vainly to pull his hand back and wave the traditional gesture away, but he submitted to it in the end.

“Father Timothy, I've come for confession. That is, if you have the time tonight.”

The priest stood suddenly, still and serious. He gave Savas a long look. “OK, John, give me a second. I was just putting everything away. Please, wait for me in the corner, by the icon of Saint Nicholas.”

Savas nodded and walked over to the left side of the nave. There, from just above the floor to more than fifteen feet up the side of the wall, was the icon of the great ascetic from Anatolia, now western Turkey, his brown robes flowing from sandaled feet to the receding hairline at the top of his head. Savas always found it amusing how Western Christians had taken this harsh monk and dressed him up in a red suit, strapped him to a sleigh with reindeer out of the pagan Northern myths, and made him so fat it was hard to imagine him ever fasting. This was the man who had slapped a heretical bishop at the First Council of Nicea,
after all! As a child, Savas never quite felt like telling his friends that underneath the icon in his church, in a golden case about the size of a breadbox, were the bones of Santa Claus himself. It was likely that any explanations of the veneration of relics would have failed to bridge this cultural divide.

Father Timothy bustled over and laid a prayer book on a marble handrail. He gestured to a chair, but Savas shook his head. He'd been sitting too much, analyzing too much, until his eyes were blurry. He'd stand for this.

“Behold, my child, Christ stands here invisibly receiving your confession. Do not be ashamed and do not fear, and do not withhold anything from me; but without doubt, tell all you have done and receive forgiveness from the Lord Jesus Christ. Lo, He is before us, and I am only a witness, bearing testimony before Him of all things which you say to me. But if you conceal anything from me, you shall have the greater sin. Take heed, therefore, lest having come to the physician, you depart unhealed.”

It was a routine Savas had known since his days as an altar boy. Yet now it was alien, because he was alien, because he had come and gone through a place that had changed him. He did not know anymore who he was, or who God was. The priest sat down in the chair. He had aged significantly since John Savas was a boy, and it showed in his movements and in his stamina.

“I'll make this short, Father. Not that I'm happy with myself or anything. But there are things that are real and important, and I need to say them. Most important, I suppose, is that I don't know anymore if I believe in God.”

The priest showed no outward sign of surprise or dismay at this admission. He merely replied after Savas's long pause, “Go on, John.”

John Savas looked up at the icon of Saint Nicholas.
Who was he? Who am I?

“I'm serious about that, Father. I don't disbelieve. But I realized that the idea of God I had in my mind couldn't be real. I mean, the idea from my parents, priests, Sunday school teachers, friends, and family—
the myth we were all accepting, I just can't believe in that anymore. Whatever God is, it's not this simple, orderly, Father Christmas idea so many have. I really don't know if there is a God. I certainly don't know the nature of God. I don't know how to trust any man to tell me what the truth is.”

Father Timothy gazed at him in silence, impassively. After a few more moments went by, during which time Savas had not spoken, the priest nodded slowly, as if to himself.

“John, I'm not going to tell you to make a pilgrimage to the island of Tinos and crawl up the hill on your knees to the Church of the Megalohari. I will say that you are at a most dangerous, and yet promising place. Dangerous, because your soul stands on the edge of nothingness into which it might fall, forever to be lost. Promising because only there can you truly reach out to the Mystery that is God.”

“Father, I don't feel like I'm reaching out to anything. I can't see anything leading me anywhere. If there's a cliff, I won't know it.”

“John, you are reaching out, or you would not be here tonight. I would ask you not to turn away from prayer, if you can do that. That is your link to God.”

“OK, Father. I'll try. But I don't know who or what I'm praying to.”

The old priest smiled. “None of us truly do. When we do, we are either entering sainthood or staring at a false idol.”

The priest stood up from the chair and opened the small leather-bound book he had brought. Savas was surprised, as he had not expected the priest to accept his confession. But habit was long in him, and he knelt down before Father Timothy, who placed the stole over his head.

“O God, our Savior, Who by Thy prophet Nathan granted unto repented David pardon of his transgressions, and has accepted the Manasses' prayer of penitence, do Thou, in Thy love toward mankind, accept also Thy servant John who repents of his sins which he has committed, overlooking all that he has done, pardoning his offenses and passing by his iniquities. Unto Thee we ascribe glory, to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.”

The priest finished reading the prayers. John Savas stood and crossed himself. Father Timothy walked him to the door of the church.

“This week's events have brought you here, haven't they?” he asked.

John Savas stared up into the night sky, hearing the rushing sounds of the subway line behind them. “They were the trigger. My life has brought me here, Father. I just don't know where it's taking me next.”