Brink of Chaos (17 page)

At the outdoor café Ethan was tilting up the little cup of Turkish espresso to catch the last drop, but in the process he caught a mouth full of grounds. He made a face as he swallowed them, then took a swig from his water bottle. “Josh,” he said, “I know there must be a way to drink that stuff without swallowing the grit, but I still haven’t learned it.”

Joshua pointed to his cup of tea. “I’ll have to convert you to this stuff, just like Abigail did for me. I used to be a coffee addict, but Abigail kept after me — even from the other side of the planet — to change my diet, food, drink, everything. I think she wants me to live to a hundred! Frankly, I think I won’t make it — because I have the feeling Jesus is coming any day now.” He swallowed the rest of his Madagascar tea, set down his cup, and pointed a finger at Ethan. “And when that happens, if you haven’t put your faith in Christ, while I’m up there with Him, you’re still going to be down here picking up the pieces — living in a shattered world that’ll be run by the Devil himself. Something to think about.”

Ethan tossed his boss a halfhearted smile. By now he was used to Joshua exaggerating about religious stuff — particularly the “Jesus is about to rapture his church” bit. Since they were both living in a kind of exile now in Israel, at least until Joshua’s legal case got straightened out, it was almost a daily occurrence. Something was constantly grabbing
Joshua’s attention — a news item in the online
Haaretz
or
Jerusalem Post
or an archaeological discovery or just the sight of some tourist spot ‘where Jesus once walked’ — that’s all that it would take to launch his mentor into a full-length sermon. When Ethan accepted the offer to work as the personal assistant to Joshua Jordan — world-class spy-plane pilot, engineering genius, and American hero — he never expected to be accompanying a traveling evangelist.

But that wasn’t the only thing on Ethan’s mind. As Joshua got up and rather stiffly reached his arm around to grab his wallet and pay the bill, Ethan was struggling with something in his own head.
Maybe this gig isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve been in Israel for months. What am I really doing here? My job description changes every day. It’s almost like Josh wants me close to him, but why, I don’t know. Okay, so maybe he has to stay here because he’s got a hairy criminal case hanging over his head. But not me. I’m free to go back — anytime I want to
.

I wonder if it’s time to head back to the good old U.S.A. Spruce up my résumé. See if Raytheon is hiring again. I’ll think it over. Start breaking it to Josh slowly
.

Joshua pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket with the same rigid movement that Ethan knew well — the shoulders seemed to limit his movement. “My grocery list,” Joshua said waving the emailed note. “Abigail’s got me on this Mediterranean diet of vegetables and fruit. Says she thinks maybe it’s going to help my headaches and the other stuff.”

Yeah, Ethan had witnessed the “other stuff.” The injuries Josh had received at the hands of his sadistic Iranian captors two years before were still apparent.

“Let’s head over to the Souk,” Joshua said, pointing across the street to the Mahame Yehuda Market. “I’ll pick up some veggies.”

“Just don’t invite me over for dinner,” Ethan said. “I’m still a meat-and-potatoes guy. And I’ve developed a taste for Argentinean beef over here.”

As they approached the entrance of the open-air market, flanked by trucks that were unloading, Ethan’s Allfone vibrated. It was a text. He opened it up, surprised to see that it was from Deborah Jordan.

“Huh,” Ethan muttered under his breath as they walked. Joshua gave him a quick glance but didn’t ask about it. Ethan slipped the Allfone back in his pocket. Ten seconds later, it vibrated again. Was this another message from Deborah?
Man, she must really be thinking about me
, Ethan thought.

As the two of them entered the noisy crush of local shoppers meandering through the long single aisle of the outdoor market with food stands on each side, he read the newest text. But it wasn’t from Deborah.

Ethan pushed the tab on his Allfone for a special application and turned on the function that said, “All Sender Data Fields.” But the screen read:

At the vegetable stand, Joshua had a plastic bag in his hand and was putting an eggplant and a few green peppers in it. Ethan stepped up next to him, his heart pounding and his adrenaline pumping.

“We got to get out of here, Josh,” he said quietly.

“What’s the problem?”

“Just keep cool. I got a text from an anonymous source, telling me two agents from Shin Bet are coming to arrest you, to extradite you back to the U.S.”

“Must be a mistake —”

“I get the feeling it’s not. And it’s my job to protect you.”

“But my relationship with the Israelis has been good here.”

“You mean — like the meeting you told me about with Prime Minister Bensky, when you insulted his favorite peace plan right to his face?”

Joshua stepped over to the vendor and paid him a couple of shekels. Ethan scanned the market in all directions. “Let’s not take any chances. Okay? Gotta go now. Quickest way is the entrance we came in.”

But as they turned, Ethan spotted two broad-shouldered men in sunglasses, one a bald guy wearing a black T-shirt and a tan suit, and the other, a muscular guy in jeans and a tank top. He turned to Joshua. “I think I’ve spotted them. They don’t exactly look like French chefs doing their grocery shopping,” Ethan whispered. “We need to get down to the other end — fast.”

Joshua tried to look casual as he picked up the speed, but soon he and Ethan were jostling customers as they made their way through the congested market.

“Switch on the afterburners,” Ethan grunted, “they’re getting closer.” Ethan half-glanced to the side and noticed that the men were about twenty yards behind them, coming straight in their direction. “Run!” Ethan yelled. They sprinted down the aisle toward the daylight at the end of the market ahead of them. Ethan could hear the commotion behind him as Ram and his other Shin Bet agent were barreling through customers, knocking them to the ground and tipping over trays of spices and tomatoes as they went.

The two agents were now ten yards away and closing fast. Ethan spotted a truck at the end of the market, just beyond the big metal door that was being rolled down by a food manager. Next to that was a small entrance doorway leading to the outside. A forklift was parked out front.

At the end of the Souk, Ethan shoved Joshua through the open doorway and turned to look behind him. He caught a glimpse of a young female in a green grocer’s apron and a scarf wrapped around her head. She looked so familiar he could only ask in that instant —
Could it be?

The woman was carrying a large tray of fish heads swimming in
juice. She tossed the slimy contents onto the ground in front of the two agents. Their feet flew up into the air as they landed on their backsides on the slippery walkway.

Outside, the engine of the produce truck revved up, and Ethan pointed to the empty cargo hold in the back and yelled to Joshua, “Jump in!”

While Joshua climbed stiffly into the back of the truck, Ethan hopped onto the forklift, hit the start button, shifted it into gear, and rammed it into the door opening, blocking it completely. Then he sprinted after the truck as it started to rumble down the street. Joshua was holding on to the metal tie-off loop on the side of the truck with one hand while leaning out of the back of the truck with his other hand outstretched.

He was yelling to Ethan. “Faster!”

Ethan was pumping his legs like a machine, until he reached out and felt Joshua’s hand. Joshua yanked hard. Ethan pulled himself up into the truck while Joshua bit the side of his lip and gave a wincing grimace of pain. They pulled the two canvas tarps down over the back of the truck and peeked out through the space between them.

Ram and the other Shin Bet agent had rolled up the big metal door by then. They were now standing in the middle of the alley staring at the truck as it picked up speed and headed out onto Jaffa Street, in the direction of Allenby Square.

On a folding chair on the driveway, on the other side of the door leading into the market where the two angry agents had now disappeared, a food vendor was taking a break. On a table he had his tiny wireless Internet TV tuned to the news. A reporter was standing outside of the Knesset building in Jerusalem. The man turned up the volume. “It was just announced today,” the reporter said, “that in a show of political brinksmanship, Prime Minister Sol Bensky has mustered his coalition behind the multifaceted United Nations peace plan for Israel, the Palestinians, and the Arab states. The treaty will be signed tonight in an historic ceremony in the prime minister’s residence …”

The reporter glanced down at his notes, raised his face to the camera again, and concluded. “United Nations Secretary-General Alexander Coliquin has said that the signing of his treaty proposal by Israel marks a new era of peace and prosperity — not only for Israel — but for the entire planet.”

Bishop Dibold Kora was at the podium in the outdoor arena, just off of the Royal Mile and within a stone’s throw of Edinburgh Castle, the dark medieval structure perched up high on a solid rock cliff, overlooking the city.

On the dais behind him was the Archbishop of Canterbury and the head of the Church of Scotland, along with the young Dalai Lama, two Hindu priests, a special emissary from the Vatican, an American Indian chief, the president of Wiccans International, several representatives from tribal South American and African religious groups, and the Chancellor of the Gnostic Church of the European Union. Seated directly behind the podium was the head mufti of the Waqf, the Islamic trust that had, up to that day at least, exclusively controlled the Temple Mount plateau in Jerusalem.

The arena was filled. Special box seats had been constructed for royalty from Jordan, Saudi Arabia, England, Morocco, Belgium, and a dozen other nations. The international press was granted access to the first ten rows. Two television platforms had been set up to accommodate the Internet television coverage that was being disseminated, live, over every network on the globe.

Kora, the special advisor to Coliquin, was finishing his introductory comments.

“Last night, Israel signed the historic peace treaty that has been painstakingly forged by my hero and my good friend — Alexander
Coliquin, secretary-general of the United Nations. This was an astounding achievement of historic proportions: Israel, the Palestinian Authority, and the entire Arab League, all in agreement, all in good faith, walking together, into a future of peace. But as significant as that is, the Charter of Common Belief signed here at Edinburgh Castle today is equally monumental — a document that will go down in history as a stunning, evolutionary development — a Magna Carta, if you will — of jointly held values. A pledge of the world’s religions to preserve earth from the ravages of carbon emissions that cause global warming; to insure the rich will be held accountable to provide for the poor through an internationally uniform system of enforced cooperation and equalized property ownership; to oppose the spread and dissemination of absolutist religious dogmas and rigid doctrinal beliefs that damage the spiritual harmony of our world; and most importantly, to rejoice because we have discovered a common god that everyone, everywhere, can now worship in peace and tranquility.”

After the echoes of the ovation in the arena ceased, Bishop Dibold Kora motioned for a priest from the New Aztec Tribal Union to approach the podium. The priest lit a “unity” torch and waved its flame back and forth in front of him as he chanted.

The crowd, excited by the idea of a new world dawning, rose to its feet and cheered — and kept cheering for several minutes, clapping and voicing their approval in a sea of many languages.

At the SIA headquarters, Jeremy, the night-data manager, had just sent an insta-memo to the assistant managing director for the Division for Exigent Requests for the TagWatch Surveillance Program. Jeremy knew his boss was at home, probably finishing his dinner, but this was urgent. The message simply said:

Jeremy’s line rang a minute later. The assistant managing director said, “What’s this about a Red Notice?”

“Yes sir. Signed by Attorney General Hamburg.”

“Homeland Security wants this too?”

“That’s what it says.”

“Who’s the subject?”

Jeremy hunted for the name on his screen. “Female. Married. U.S. citizen. Abigail Jordan.”

The assistant director took a moment to respond. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“All right, then. Start trolling. When you get a good fix, alert the SIA agents or maybe the FBI for an apprehension.”

Jeremy clicked off his Allfone and whirled in his chair until he was in front of another screen. He placed the palm of his hand on the screen for two seconds until a green light lit up in the corner. He typed the Red Notice case number and Abigail’s name, date of birth, social security, driver’s license, and passport numbers into the blank. Then touched the screen where it said Extrinsic Data Location Commencing.

After thirty seconds, he received a message that read, “Subject’s Last Verified Location — Mayflower Hotel, Washington, D.C.”

“Okay,” Jeremy said to his computer screen, “let’s go trolling.” His screen lit up with ten smaller screens arrayed along the margins, five on each side. Each image was in grainy black and white, the kind produced by remote video cameras.

A female face appeared in another small box on the screen. It was the District of Columbia Sector clerk Speaking. “Jeremy, this is the D.C. Sector here. We’ve got a black vehicle we believe to be a private limo — Lincoln Navigator — driving the subject down Constitution Avenue. Video will follow.”

“Copy that,” Jeremy said.

Inside the Lincoln Navigator, the driver, silver-haired attorney Harry
Smythe, glanced up at the green light of the traffic camera that had just captured the image of his vehicle as it passed through the intersection. He spoke aloud but didn’t turn around to his occupants. “Abby, after all these years you’ve known me to play it close to the vest, cautious, careful, I bet you’re shocked to see me aiding and abetting a public enemy like you.” He guffawed. “I read your affidavit from Harley Collingwood. Finally I told myself, that’s enough. The Gestapo kind of tactics I’ve seen from the Tulrude administration is the last straw. So — I guess I’ve just become an honorary member of your Roundtable.”

In the rearview mirror, Harry could see Cal turn to his mother and say, “Deb said they probably located you at the Mayflower Hotel through the extrinsic data system … public records, like hotel registrations. So we can assume they’re already following us with the traffic cameras here on Connecticut Avenue.”

Abigail looked ahead, and Harry followed her gaze to the sign for the National Zoo on the right. “Harry, try going in here,” she said, pointing to the sign. He took a sharp turn into the zoo entrance.

Moments later, Harry was wheeling the Navigator back onto Connecticut. After several miles, he turned sharply off to the right, heading toward Rock Creek Park. But the cameras at the intersection caught the vehicle again.

At SIA headquarters, Jeremy spotted the image of the Navigator speeding through an intersection, then turning toward the park. He touched the SIA agent button on the screen and then the FBI button. A message flashed: “Closest agents — 35 minutes.”

So he touched the Metro Police square on his screen. The message flashed — “5 minutes.” Jeremy touched the button on the screen that read: “Authorize Metro Police Stop.”

Four minutes and twenty seconds later, a D.C. metro police car, with its blue lights flashing, pulled the black Navigator over.

Two patrolmen with their guns drawn ran up to the car, yelling for the driver to put his hands up. When Harry Smythe calmly lowered his electric driver’s side window, one of the officers screamed, “Hands up where I can see them. Step out immediately!”

Harry stepped out of the car, and the officer slammed him face forward against the side. The other officer was already on the other side to arrest Abigail. As he swung the passenger door open with one hand, grasping his sidearm in the other, he screamed into the vehicle, “Come out with hands raised — now!”

A few seconds passed. From the driver’s side, the officer who had Harry Smythe pinned against the car called out to his partner. “Officer Baker, confirm that you have the subject in custody.” Several more seconds passed, and the first officer repeated, “Officer Baker, confirm apprehension!”

The other officer appeared at the driver’s side now with his revolver holstered. “No subjects in the car, sir.”

The officer stepped back, and Harry Smythe lowered his arms and brushed off his silk shirt. “Do you know who I am, officer?”

“I was about to ask for your driver’s license —”

“No need. I’ll tell you. I’m a lawyer who has personally represented two former presidents and half a dozen U.S. senators and congressmen. I’ve also had one other client you ought to know about — your boss — the chief of police of the District of Columbia.”

The officers gave each other a quick look. Then they tipped their hats and began to walk away. One of them added, “Sorry to have troubled you.”

On a bus that was now leaving the National Zoo, Abigail and Cal sat next to their suitcases on the bench seat in the back. They glanced up at the camera above the driver’s head. Cal whispered, “In two blocks we’d better hop off, get a cab. I don’t think they’re all equipped with cameras yet.”

At SIA headquarters Jeremy was on the cell phone with his boss, explaining that the apprehension had not been successful — yet.

“I wouldn’t worry sir,” he said. “We’ll get our subject eventually. First, she’ll hit the trip wire of our BIDTag scanners and register a nontag alert. Then she’ll be tracked with facial recognition cameras in every public place — restaurants, gas stations, airports …”

“Yeah, yeah,” the assistant director bulleted back. “I help run this outfit, remember?”

“Just saying,” Jeremy replied, “she’s in the matrix now. Just a matter of time.”