Then as Baghdadi arrived at a building structure in the middle of nowhere, the Metsada team pulled their convoy of three vehicles to the side and waited for data regarding the site of the presumed safe house, from the directors at the Comm Center.
From the cab and from a distant well beyond the eyeshot of the structure, Efrayim Leibowitz waited with saintly patience. Less than three minutes later, his radio broadcasted white noise before a voice from the Comm Center team relayed the necessary data to press on. Though the building had been abandoned years ago, it appeared fortified with two guard towers. It was further indicated by infrared means that these towers were also manned, presumably by armed gunmen. This was all Leibowitz needed to formulate a plan.
When the contact with Tel Aviv was severed, Leibowitz, who was inside the forward truck, led his elite unit to the safe house that was in the middle of nowhere.
* * *
The safe house smelled like something the Man from Paris had never smelled before. It was the smell of a goat roasting upon a spit, the meat somewhat gamey in its scent. As the Man from Paris walked by the person who operated the handle to turn the goat, he looked upon the face of a boy who was on the cusp of becoming a teen, perhaps twelve or thirteen. The boy gave him a neutral stare, whereas the others in Baghdadi’s squad, a total of twelve men, presented him with looks of measurable disdain, their sneers easily read. Beside each man was an AK-47.
The Man from Paris visibly swallowed with his throat going dry. He could also feel an uncomfortable crawl in his groin, the man succumbing to a gripping fear that he was not going to survive this mission. The hatred he felt was that palpable and the weight upon his shoulders suddenly real. He was in the middle of hostile territory, alone, a mercenary who unknowingly had within his possession the power to crumble a kingdom.
When they reached a room at the far end of the structure, Saheem Baghdadi pointed to a soiled mattress lying close to the wall inside an empty room with the exception of a kerosene lamp.
“Your room,” was all Baghdadi told him. “It’s late. Get some rest. Tomorrow we will go over the plans to get you within range of your target in Tel Aviv.” His voice was stern and clipped, that of a man who sounded marginally upset.
The Man from Paris simply nodded, stepped inside the room, and looked at the glowing lantern. The flame within had cast an odd shadow along the wall, his shadow, something that flickered in a funhouse sort of way. And then the door closed softly behind him with Baghdadi gone.
Exhaling, though the tension remained high, the Man from Paris placed the suitcase on the floor. In the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, the numbers six-six-six appeared to waver at the jump of the dancing flame, giving the numerals life.
Six-six-six, he thought as he traced his fingertips over the numerals. The mark of the Antichrist. Though not a religious man, the Man from Paris knew what the numbers represented in religious lore. They were the numeric symbols that marked the rise of the Beast in the New Testament that was mentioned in Revelation 13:17–18 about an antagonistic creature who appears as the architect for an apocalyptic vision.
In the dim lighting, the Man from Paris patted the suitcase. Though he knew it was an explosive, he was not informed of its capacity for damage. In his mind, he thought it was simply a device powerful enough to take out a few walls—perhaps in a statement that was a precursor to something much larger that was coming down the pipe. And while the dancing flame continued to create eerie shadow shifts along his features, he whispered, “Is that what you are? An architect for the apocalypse?”
Then as fatigue started to take hold, the Man from Paris blew out the flame and laid on the mattress that smelled pungently of mold and mildew.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rome, Italy
It was late in the evening when the woman finally received the phone call. Stamping out her cigarette in an ashtray that overflowed with butts, she picked up the phone and answered it with that infamously gravelly voice of hers. “You’re exceedingly late with your call,” she said.
“We followed Cohen for the past two nights and noted her habits,” Mannix returned, “which appear routine. She exited the embassy at approximately the same time and took the same route to her residence.”
“And the one she’s with? The Vatican Knight?”
“He arrived approximately one hour later, on both nights.”
“Then that’s when you will take the woman, tomorrow night within that one-hour window of opportunity.”
“Why not wait and take out the Vatican Knight when he arrives at the apartment?”
“My handler wants this done away from Rome to assure that the Vatican Knights will not run interference, and to keep authorities from involving themselves in subsequent investigations. Our targets are to completely disappear off the grid without leaving behind evidence, as though they had never existed at all.”
“A complete sanitation order, then?”
“Precisely. Their bodies are never to be discovered.”
“Understood.”
The two then spoke about the time necessary to perform the dispatching and the subsequent burial of the bodies. In fact, it would be wise to pre-dig the sites to expedite matters. So, the plan had been a simple one. Take the woman, lure the man, terminate the two with extreme prejudice, then pitch them into a hole deep enough that dinosaur fossils could be found.
“I don’t care if you have to dig all the way to China,” she told him. “No . . . shallow . . . graves.”
There were additional discussions regarding a successful operation with no mishaps since everything depended on fluidity. Once the matter
