A vehicle emerged from the dust—a late model limousine that pulled over to the shoulder of the road and parked. The driver scurried out to assist his passenger—an old man dressed all in black with a mane of silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His name was Abraham Metcalf. Aboud recalled that the old man’s followers referred to him as “The diviner.” In addition to being the head of a strange cult called the Blessed Nephilim, the old man was also a prophet of sorts. It was said that he spoke directly to God—like Mohammed had done.
Aboud allowed himself a brief smile at the fanciful notion. God, if he existed at all, spoke only through science. That was the sort of religion which Aboud could respect. Facts could be proved or disproved. Nothing was left to chance or the sloppy sentimentality of belief.
The diviner picked his way carefully through the furrows and ruts left by the backhoe. It was surprising that for a man in his seventies his gait still resembled a military march.
Aboud made no move to greet his visitor.
Metcalf held out his hand. “Doctor Aboud.”
Aboud did not take it. He merely gave a stiff little bow in return. “Mr. Metcalf.”
The diviner looked around the field with an unaccountable expression of satisfaction. “Our work is progressing well,” he observed.
Aboud stared at him is disbelief. “You consider this progress? A hole in the ground?”
Metcalf drew himself up in wounded dignity. “I do indeed. You have no idea how difficult it was to arrange the manpower for this project without attracting attention.”
“Two months have gone by and all I see here is a hole.”
“You need to have faith,” the old man countered.
“I need to see results,” Aboud shot back. “You promised me a staff of laboratory assistants. Of course, it is no matter that you have not produced them since there is no laboratory in which they can work.”
Metcalf’s face turned purple. Clearly, he was not used to being challenged. “You seem to forget your place, sir.”
Aboud was not going to be intimidated. “I do not forget the promises you made that brought me to this country.”
“Those promises are being fulfilled even as we speak.” The diviner stepped in closer. He was several inches taller than the doctor and apparently thought that this action would intimidate him.
Aboud merely raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I respect only facts, Mr. Metcalf. All else is illusion.”
Metcalf seemed taken aback when his bluster had no effect on the foreign man. He moderated his approach. “The construction crew will be out here tomorrow to continue excavation. Is that fact enough for you, doctor?”
Aboud gave a slight nod. “Yes, that is a sign of progress.” He paused to consider his next words. “Mr. Metcalf, you should be aware I have had other offers for my expertise.”
“What!” the diviner stormed. “You would dare to shop your wares in the public marketplace when we already have an agreement?”
“I have not shopped my wares like a common street merchant,” Aboud countered. “A man with my skills does not go unnoticed wherever he travels. Some very powerful organizations found me.”
“And what did you tell them?” There was no mistaking the menace in the old man’s tone.
The doctor shrugged. “Nothing. I said that I was unavailable.”
Metcalf relaxed slightly. “Then no harm has been done.”
“However, the status of my availability could change if my laboratory continues to be no more than a hole in the ground.”
Metcalf gave a cold smile. “Holes in the ground have many uses. Sometimes they turn into laboratories.” He paused and leaned in again. “And sometimes they turn into graves.”
The doctor felt his own temper flare. “Is that a threat?”
“Oh, yes. And a promise should you fail to keep your end of the bargain.” The diviner glanced briefly at the pit in the earth and then back at Aboud. “Excavation will continue tomorrow, doctor. The use to which the cavity will be put remains entirely up to you.”
***
Chopper Bowdeen wasn’t given to fits of the jitters. He prided himself on projecting a stoical calm in the face of life’s many storms. That said, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from pacing back and forth like a carnival duck in his now empty shooting range. He had dismissed his pack of trainees early and was waiting tensely for one final interview with the man who had hired him—the man who had built a state of the art weapons training facility out in the middle of nowhere for a purpose Bowdeen could only guess at. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Metcalf should have been here by now.
Whipping these guppies into shape had been an aggravating ordeal. At least in the military, you were dealing with kids who had grown up around guns. These bible thumpers didn’t seem to know which end to load and which end to shoot. But you couldn’t fault their enthusiasm. They were on a mission—their mission being to do whatever crazy ass thing their diviner told them to do. That thought gave Bowdeen the willies. The whole reason he’d quit taking assignments in the Middle East was to get away from religious zealots. From what he’d seen in the past couple of months, these Nephilim boys could give Al-Qaeda a run for its money in the Suicide for God game.
Chopper wanted out. He was just here to collect his pay and get as far away from the compound as possible. After that, he’d look up his old army buddy, Leroy Hunt, and punch him in the nose for recommending him for this gig. How that jackass ever got mixed up with this bunch of weirdos was beyond his comprehension. He just hoped that Hunt had gotten shed of them by now as he hoped to do shortly himself.
“Mr. Bowdeen.” A commanding voice addressed him.
The hair on the back of Chopper’s neck stood on end. He hadn’t realized somebody just walked up behind him. That’s
