Indisputable Proof (28 page)

CHAPTER 46

September 14. Friday – 4:05 a.m. Egyptian Time (3:05 a.m. Oviedo, Spain)

5 hours 55 minutes until the start of the Feast of the Cross

Tolen kept the Cessna low over the water, flying south by southeast and eventually reaching the Egyptian coastline. The landscape below was bathed in the glow of the moon. From there, it was only a hundred miles more to the Sonali Giza Hotel. Tolen had requested that Director Vakind speak with President Fane to arrange unencumbered access to Egyptian airspace and landing at an airstrip near the hotel. Egypt had a formidable air force; the largest of all the Arabic nations. They remained technologically up-to-date, and their pilots were highly skilled. If the president was unsuccessful in her diplomacy, Tolen was certain to be intercepted and shot down within minutes.

When five minutes elapsed, and he was still airborne, he released a quiet sigh of relief.

As fate would have it, just then two Dassault Mirage 2000s swooped in on either side of him like hawks cornering their prey.

Tolen could feel his chest tighten. There was no going back even if he wanted to try. He was at their mercy.

His cell phone rang. It was Vakind.

“Morris, I hope you have good news for me. I have some visitors.”

“Those are your escorts. The president has spoken with the Egyptians, and they’ve consented to allow you access into the country, but you must follow them to the airfield of their choosing near Cairo. Do not deviate, Tolen. They’ve made it perfectly clear they’ll shoot you down. Tune to Channel 10 if you need to communicate with them.”

Tolen was thankful for the escort, but Egyptian interference was going to be problematic. They would try to accompany him, and that was simply unacceptable. If they knew he was going underground into an ancient, unexplored tunnel, the Egyptian Director of Antiquities would forbid it. He would need to break free from his escorts once on the ground.

Tolen flew inland, accompanied by the two Dassault Mirage 2000s for twelve minutes when the engines started to sputter. He checked avionics: there was plenty of fuel. The craft began to lose altitude, and one of the twin engines failed as a red warning light signaled its demise. He flicked off the light. The engine had most likely been damaged by gunfire from the Greek police. He could land on one engine, but he would be forced to slow his airspeed.

This gave him an idea.

He switched on the radio and turned to Channel 10.

“Mirage 2000, this is Samuel Tolen, over.”

He waited for a response. None came.

“Egyptian Air Force, this is Samuel Tolen in the Cessna Corvalis. Please respond, over.”

Still no response.

He repeated the call. Again, there was no response. He wondered if the radio had also been damaged in the ruckus on Patmos.

He tried once more.

“This is Egyptian Captain Khateeb. What is your request?” The Captain spoke English reasonably well.

“Captain Khateeb, I’ve lost one engine, and the second one is damaged. I don’t know how much longer I can fly. Request permission to land immediately.”

“We will be at the military airbase in ten minutes. You will land there.”

“I don’t believe you understand. The aircraft is damaged. I’m losing power. I must land immediately or risk crashing into one of the populated areas below.”

There was a momentary pause, then, “Very well. There is an abandoned airfield north of Giza at latitude 30.094049, longitude 31.174393. Please proceed to there, land, and wait inside the airplane. I repeat, wait inside the airplane. Our people will meet you there.”

Tolen finished typing the coordinates into the navigational computer. He was surprised to find out he was practically on top of the airfield. He made a subtle bank to the south. The two Dassault Mirage 2000s momentarily stayed with him then peeled off into the dark night without notice, their fiery thrusters slowly vanishing in the distance.

It was now a race. Tolen had to get the plane on the ground before the pilots were able to radio for the military escort to meet him there.

Even in the dark, Tolen could see the terrain below was a vast mass of flatland. He descended quickly. The moonlight provided enough light for him to make out the abandoned airfield. It had a long runway with two hangars at the far end. There were no runway landing lights, but avionics easily calculated the topography, and within minutes Tolen had the Cessna on the ground and parked near the first dark hangar. So far, he was the only one there.

The airfield was pitted at the edge of Giza, the town which separates the Giza Plateau—with its three famous pyramids—from the Nile. Tolen left the craft, passed through a rusty gate that threatened to collapse when he opened it, and began jogging toward civilization, in the direction of the Sonali Giza Hotel using the GPS coordinates on his iPhone. He crossed several hundred yards of sand before he reached the first building on the outskirts of town. As he ducked into the shadows of the dark structure, he saw the headlights of two vehicles approach the airfield from the west. The drone of the engines signified military jeeps. They were not going to be happy when they discovered he was gone.

CHAPTER 47

September 13. Friday – 7:19 p.m. Los Angeles, California (September 14. 4:19 a.m. Oviedo, Spain)

4 hours 41 minutes until the start of the Feast of the Cross

Vakind stood inside a small room next to FBI Special Agent Abel Connell. The two men were eyeing Nelson Whitacre through a two-way mirror. As usual, there was an air of reluctance any time the CIA and FBI were forced to work together. With time slipping away, Vakind was in no mood for posturing or interagency politics. And so far, at least, the FBI had been reasonably forthcoming since his arrival.

“We’ve had him in there for hours,” Connell said. “Between the FBI and Homeland Security, we’ve interrogated him nearly nonstop. Everything’s been captured on video. All the man will confess is that he is a member of the Flagellants, and they are about to ‘bring order back to the United States of America.’ Threats of imprisonment have had no effect.”

Vakind nodded. “He was arrested on the edge of Los Angeles, driving into the city, correct?”

“Yes, on I-15. We don’t want to create a panic, but we felt obligated to alert some of the larger parks and recreational areas in town of a possible terrorist attack. Based on their lack of sophistication as a terrorist group, the Flagellants would most likely go after a soft target—heavily populated—yet also something with symbolic significance. In this case, something with anti-religious significance.”

Vakind nodded his head again in agreement.

“We have agents canvassing his house. We should know soon if they turn up anything.”

Vakind had dealt with all types of terrorists, including some of the most deadly Islamic extremists, but he was not sure he had ever seen the type of morbid contentment Whitacre displayed. He smiled as if his world could not possibly get any better. He looked more like a man who had just won $100 million in the lottery than a man facing terrorist charges.

After reading the man’s dossier, the acting director of the CIA was about to get his crack at interrogating Nelson Whitacre.

As Vakind was preparing to go in, Connell’s cell phone rang, and he answered it. The FBI agent listened intently, replied with an affirmative, and then ended the call.

“A goodbye note was found in Whitacre’s house.” Connell looked at his smart phone screen. “They just emailed it to me. Here it is.” He turned the display so that Vakind could read:

The heathens of America spurned us into action.

By God’s glory, 21 in the fertile valleys out of 28 worldwide will be destroyed.

His wrath will be felt with a vengeance.

Point all fingers at the American Central Intelligence Agency for their wicked deeds.

Vakind reread the second line. “Any idea what ‘
21 in the fertile valleys out of 28 worldwide will be destroyed
’ means?”

“No, our analysts are working on it.” Connell gave Vakind a somber look. It was borderline remorseful. “My apologies, Director, but with this new information, I’ve been instructed to interview him again. You’ll have to wait your turn while I contact our interrogator and get him back here.”

Vakind wheeled on the FBI agent. “Connell, I don’t give a damn about jurisdictional protocol at the moment. The FBI, Homeland Security, CIA; somebody needs to interrogate this man now, and we’re losing time. I’m here and ready to go. I’m not going to risk the lives of untold numbers of Americans because of a pissing match.”

Vakind did not wait for a response. He leaned forward and hit the ‘record’ button on a low panel. He left the room and circled the corner to the interrogation room door. He stepped through it just as he heard Connell calling someone on his cell phone.

“Mr. Whitacre, my name is Morris Vakind. I am the acting director of the CIA,” he said, taking a seat on the other side of the table. Whitacre’s feet were secured to the base of the chair and his cuffed hands lay casually on the table before him.

“You,” Whitacre smirked, leaning forward, “you’re exactly the man I was hoping to see, Mr. CIA, currently ranked as the most blasphemous organization on the face of God’s earth.”

“Interesting,” Vakind said sedately, “I was at church last Sunday, and Father O’Hara didn’t seem bothered I was there.”

Whitacre’s smile widened, his eyelids twitched over brown eyes, but his words were acidic. “The godless often hide behind deception.”

Vakind leaned in. “We found your note at your house.”

Whitacre settled back in his chair. He stared hard at Vakind with a renewed grin but did not speak. Vakind knew the man’s smug demeanor was a testament to his twisted faith.

“I found it a bit vague,” Vakind continued. “If you want the newspaper and the rest of the media to run with this, to make you a famous martyr, you blew it. ‘
21 in the fertile valleys out of 28 worldwide will be
destroyed’? It reads like bad poetry.”

“Nice try. By the time it’s printed, everyone will understand. It’s only heathens such as yourself who can’t understand it.”

“I understand you allowed your wife, Shelly, to die.”

Whitacre’s eyes narrowed. His lips tightened together. He offered no rebuttal.

Vakind spoke nonchalantly. “My mother once had pneumonia. Unlike you, I took her to the hospital, and she recovered.”

“God’s will is not to be questioned. If He had wanted her to live, He would have cured her.”

Vakind pushed the issue. “Didn’t God also create the doctors, the men and women who could have cured Shelly? Didn’t He create the people who engineered the medicines and drugs which save people’s lives every day? Face it, Nelson. You didn’t want your wife to live. You wanted her to die so you could go out in a blaze of glory. You’re ready to hide behind your religious façade in order to perpetuate the ultimate swan song. Why, Whitacre? Why must tens of thousands die because you falsely blame the CIA for something that has not occurred?”

“Try 200,000 lives and billions of dollars in property damage!” Whitacre blurted out. His face had colored red, and he looked away, seemingly straining to keep quiet.

Vakind felt his blood chill. He knew the cache of munitions stolen from Canada had the capacity to do the sort of catastrophic damage to life and property Whitacre had just referenced. “Yet, you do so in God’s name: murder innocent men, women, and children?”

“We did not start this!” Whitacre erupted, his yell nearly deafening as his hands balled into fists so tight that the blood drained from his knuckles. His face was a solid mass of red. “Those who gamble…,” Whitacre paused, swallowed, and, remarkably, calmed before he continued. “Those who gamble with God’s will know exactly who they are. They made their choice. Now, they will suffer their fate and become the CIA’s martyrs. Trust me, Mr. CIA, they are
not
innocent people.” Slowly, Whitacre forced a smile back to his face. With an exhale, he again relaxed in the chair.

Vakind rose and left the room. Connell was waiting for him, along with a short, burly, bald man who Vakind did not know. He assumed it was the LA branch chief of the FBI.

Connell remained quiet as his cohort tore into Vakind. “Director Vakind, you were not authorized for that interrogation. Your superiors will hear about this. You did nothing but exacerbate the situation.”

“On the contrary, I believe he offered us a clue when he lost his composure. Let’s go back through the video and see what we’ve got.”

“You’re no longer a part of this investigation,” the bald man snapped. “You have no authority here.”

Vakind fixed the man with his eyes and removed a card from his coat pocket. “We don’t have time to dispute our professional differences, but feel free to take this card and call that number. It’s to my current superior. She lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. When you’re done, I’ll be waiting to review the video with you.”

CHAPTER 48

September 14. Friday – 5:28 a.m. Egyptian Time (4:28 a.m. Oviedo, Spain)

4 hours 32 minutes until the start of the Feast of the Cross

Samuel Tolen made his way through the quiet but well-lit streets of Giza. The air was hot and dry, as was to be expected at the end of summer. Tolen could feel the perspiration accumulating beneath his clothes as the first rivulet of sweat ran down his back.

To the west, the tops of the pyramids on the Giza plateau hovered over the skyline. Giza, along with the cities of Cairo, Helwan, and Shubra El-Kheima, form the Province of Greater Cairo. Giza is a thriving center of Egypt’s culture, past and present, with a population approaching three million people. At this early morning hour, there was little going on as Tolen passed blocks and blocks of silent buildings, schools, and residential neighborhoods. He had considered hailing one of the black-and-white taxi cabs sitting near the intersections but thought better of it. Not only did he not have any Egyptian pounds, he was reluctant to leave any trail for the military to follow.

Instead, Tolen continued to make his way down the still streets and side roads, keeping to the shadows when he could, ever watchful of the few passing vehicles. By the time he arrived at the Sonali Giza Hotel, he was drenched in sweat. He took a moment at the side of the building to gather himself and straighten his clothing.

The hotel was no different than one he might find in Washington, DC; a mauve-colored edifice six stories high in the shape of an open book with a ramped entrance at the crux leading to the second floor.

Tolen strolled up the wide outside stairs to the sprawling landing which led to the entrance. He passed through, barely looking toward the check-in desk on the right or the concierge stand on the left. As he hoped, the employees at both stations paid him little attention. Tolen stepped inside the elevator and rode up a floor. He got off, found the stairwell at the far end of the hallway, and proceeded down past the first floor to an unmarked door at the bottom where the steps came to an end. The door was locked. He had recalled from the newspaper article that, once the archaeological site had been shut down, the hotel had sealed the door and left the area intact.

Tolen pulled a thin metal pick from his coat pocket and had the door unlocked within a minute. He stepped into a spacious, pitch-black room with a bare cement floor. He searched for a light switch but there was none. Instead, he withdrew a flashlight and switched it on. The room was the breadth and depth of a basketball court with an eight-foot ceiling. In the back right corner, he saw cement chunks, some weighing hundreds of pounds, unceremoniously stacked in a pile of rubble. He wandered toward it, using the flashlight as his guide. The humidity down here was stifling.

In the corner, there was a gaping, jagged hole in the floor where it had caved in. He stood over it and shined the flashlight down. A horizontal tunnel continued out of sight, ramping down at a slight angle. He carefully dropped down the side of the cavity, spilling rock fragments into the hole with him. He cringed as the loose rock pressed into the cuts on his hand.

As Tolen moved forward into the tunnel, he was forced to crouch down nearly a foot to avoid hitting the stone ceiling. The smell of sand and limestone was thick. His lungs burned as he inhaled the chalky substance.

The passageway continued to decline gradually. After no more than 75 feet, he saw a wall ahead where the tunnel ended. This is where the archaeologists had abandoned their exploration.

Tolen retreated back up the hallway scrutinizing the wall on the left as he went. Then, he examined the right wall. A dozen feet before the dead-end, at the base on the right, there was an outline chiseled into the limestone 30 inches wide and 18 inches tall. Tolen bent down to examine it. He gave it a shove, and the rock slid back several inches. Someone had carved it loose.

Tolen sat on the stone ground and gave it a push with his feet. The rectangular block regressed. Several more inward shoves, and he was able to drop onto his stomach where he used his hand to push inside beyond the width of the twelve-inch wall. He scooted through, his face brushing against the block as he stood. On the other side of the wall, he resealed the plug into the opening.

Tolen shined the flashlight ahead into the dark void. He was at the end of a passageway that seemed to continue on indefinitely. He started forward, walking briskly through the carved tunnel. The ceiling here was higher, and he no longer had to stoop. Unlike the previous tunnel, which sloped downward, the floor here seemed perfectly horizontal. He shed his jacket and empty holster, allowing them to fall to the stone floor. They were of no use to him.

Tolen thought back to an old prognostication. It had been the American prophet, Edgar Cayce, who foretold the discovery of a chamber beneath the right foot of the sphinx in 1932. Remarkably, his words had come true, just not at the Great Sphinx on the Giza Plateau.