The Great Deception (14 page)

Each car had its seating configured to face
each other, like in a limo. And entertainment options straddled the
fence between virtual reality goggles or an old-fashioned
tablet.

...

The best dressed passenger in the
AirTaxi
wore a three-piece suit--brown, with a red pocket
square, starched dress shirt and chinos. The other three men were
in business casual.

The man worth a bundle normally sported a
well-trimmed beard, but today he groomed himself, opting for the
clean-shaven look instead. The interior of the car smelled of
strong men's aftershave.

"Rehan Kahlil himself has requested to see
you?" one of the passengers abruptly inquired of the good-looking
man of importance.

"You sound so surprised," he replied with a
tinge of annoyance.

"Well, yeah! The king doesn't agree to see
just anyone."

That statement rubbed him the wrong way, his
pride offended. "I have news for King Kahlil he cannot miss to
hear. It's about the Muahammad al-Mahdi."

"What about him?" A different man asked
this time, his voice high with excitement. "He has returned."

These words wildly excited the devout
Muslims in the car. Now they had more questions for the one who
broke the news than he could answer.

"Gentlemen, please," he used his hands to
make a motion to calm the thrilled passengers down. "You'll know
more in the coming days. I've already said too much." "At least
tell us where the promised one is currently."

It was a fair question. Even though the guy
knew the answer, he didn't look so willing to cooperate.

"The Mahdi is from Iran of course," he lied.
Luckily for him, the royal residence wasn't too far away. He
didn
’
t know how much more of this he could
take. He did have a choice though
—
not to
tell the men that rode with him the real reason for his visit.

--

Barcelona, Spain

Tonight would take care of itself. Alfonso
didn't anticipate anything that might put a wrench in the works on
rounding up the two Germans. Then again, if something could go
wrong, it would. He wasn't a pessimist. Yet the world he lived in
frequently abided by that rule.

The politicians would have their date, go on
their own merry way, then be confronted by men who looked like they
were hired killers. That's how it would go down. Not too
complicated.

...

Storm clouds rolled in from the southwest
bringing with them the promise of swells. The air had a certain
humidity to it that came before storms. Throughout it all the sun
battled for supremacy in a tug-of-war affair with the gray masses.
It was fair to say the sun wasn't winning.

A steady stream of red taillights and white
headlights going the opposite direction painted a scene of gridlock
below. Up above the sky highways were less congested, albeit less
traveled, too.

The concrete jungle sparkled in all its
majesty. Red lights on tall antennas sitting atop the skyscrapers
of the Barcelona skyline blinked intermittently. Then the first
drops began to fall at will. Bystanders on the city streets who
weren't armed with an umbrella used anything at their disposal to
temporarily shield themselves from an impending deluge. But their
best bet would be to get to shelter and not fight it.

That's what Amalia Eichmann scurried to:
shelter. Which so happened to be where she'd share a drink with her
date that night. When she walked into the impressive lobby of a
four star hotel located in a very happening neighborhood in the
city known as 22@Barcelona, that's when her thoughts turned
introspective. She wondered what he might think of her all gussied
up for the occasion.

Her destination? The sky deck where a world
famous chef played in a gourmet kitchen. But what she really came
for other than a plate of some of the prettiest looking food you'll
find in Spain served on fine china was the robust bar with a whole
bevy of drinks on the menu.

The click-clack of her three inch heels drew
the attention of some of the bellhops and other employees in the
area. And it wasn't just a glance, more like a lingering stare.

At thirty-five and in the prime of her
career, Amalia dressed well and purported herself in such a way
that communicated to those around her just how much of a catch
she'd be.

The elevators weren't hard to find. They had
their own little hall with over twenty doors, all going up. She
chose the last one on the right and stepped into the box. After the
doors closed the elevator made little noise as it climbed with
gusto. Amalia eyed the panel with all the little circles one could
push for different floors. The display that normally conveyed the
floor count didn't even register the progress. Which only meant one
thing: she was going fast.

After thirty seconds she figured the ride to
be almost over.

He better be here already,
Amalia
hoped as she stepped off.

The entrance to the restaurant grew closer
and closer. The doors were already open. Through the opening she
could see a man in a white dress shirt with a black bowtie waiting
to seat her. The decor of the place looked expensive.

She read the sign please wait to be seated,
but her roving gaze caught sight of a handsome gentleman seated at
a table for two towards the back of the restaurant near the
bar.

It was him.

Amalia felt like a runway model as she
walked. She knew the trick of going faster to create her own wind
to blow her hair about in a desirable way. Very striking. Even the
old men in the establishment noticed--they weren't dead, yet.

Two hours later after painstakingly fighting
her lank hair and split ends with a curling iron, a trip to the
salon for a manicure, and extensive time with makeup in front of
the mirror, Amalia now enjoyed a transformed appearance.

Wendel waited until his date entered the red
zone; only then did he get up and smile big at the approaching
woman. His first act of chivalry was to pull her chair out for her.
A waiter buzzing around at the fringes wasted no time to swoop in
and be helpful. His manner bordered pleasant and over the top.
"Hello my name is Manfred, I'll be your server tonight. How are you
two doing this evening?"

Amalia put down the centerfold with the wine
list long enough to acknowledge with a short answer. "I'm fine,
danke
."

"Can I start you off with drinks, perhaps?
Or do you think you'll need another minute...." Wendel ordered a
dark lager, a German beer, while Amalia went with a white wine.
Manfred told them he'd be back with the drinks soon and some hot
bread.

"Have you walked over to the windows yet?"
Amalia asked.

"Yes, the view is simply marvelous."

"But it can never beat what I wake up to
everyday in the heart of Berlin," she said, believing every word of
it.

Wendel smiled kindly. "My apartment sits
along the bank of River Spree. There's been a lot of development in
the neighborhood lately too. Kind of noisy though." "Ah, that's a
shame. The price you have to pay living in an urban environment;
you have to share with others."

Wendel selfishly grinned. "I don't like
sharing..."

Amalia laughed a good deal at his comment.
"Sharing is caring," she joked.

"Do you like storms?" he said while watching
nature
’
s display out the windows.

Forked lightening streaked across the sky.
The tall steel skyscrapers made great targets for Zeus, the Greek
god of storms. The bright white flashes of light occurred with
greater regularity. The thunderous booms that followed were
amplified inside the cluster of close buildings in Barcelona.

"They're really soothing," she answered.

"Kinda makes me wanna take a nap." "Not
here, I hope," he teased.

A cutting board with scrumptious looking
sourdough and pumpernickel bread promptly slid across their table.
A very traditional beer stein was offered to Wendel which he gladly
accepted. The waiter then placed a fluted glass with white wine at
Amalia's place. Manfred took out a notepad with a stubby pencil and
asked if they were ready to order. They weren't in Berlin anymore,
hence the abundance in Spanish dishes on the menu. Nevertheless,
the restaurant didn't forget the fact that Spain belonged to
Germany now. The addition of staple German foods underscored that
fact.

Wendel looked to Amalia to have the honors
and order first, but she deferred it to him.

He stumbled over his Spanish pronunciation,
but Manfred understood the man had an appetite for skewered pork
marinated in a wine sauce with spicy Spanish rice on the side.

"
Tapas
, appetizers for you, sir?"

Wendel waived him off, not looking to eat
too much on a date.

The waiter nodded and turned his attention
to the fair lady. Her astral eyes and long eyelashes made him a bit
uncomfortable. "I have a German appetite, through and through. No
sense of adventure when it comes to food," she explained after
ordering rouladen.

"You can't go wrong with tenderized choice
beef tenderloin with bacon and caramelized onions," the waiter
affirmed her meal choice.

The evening passed in a blur. When the
plates were cleared Manfred eagerly asked if either one desired
desert. Both declined.

Wendel hoped dinner would lead to more.

"You wanna go for a walk?" he asked her.

Amalia hastily tossed her cloth napkin on
the table and responded, "Where do you wanna take me?" Her eyes
shone brightly, hopes high. "No museums though." She had to throw
that caveat out there. Wendel looked up at Manfred who reappeared
for the last time. The German promptly received the black leather
book for his payment. He then slipped a hand into an incognito coat
pocket to produce a billfold. Even though DigiCoin prevailed as the
most common tender, it made him look good to throw down some bills
to pay for dinner. Wendel hurriedly made the handoff to the
lingering waiter before answering Amalia, "Museums are out?" he
laughed and faked his disappointment.

"Yep!"

"Tell you what, how 'bout a trip to a
magical fountain instead?"

Wendel studied her face for a reaction. She
didn't give him the idea he had hit a home run with the suggestion,
nor did it come as a letdown either. He raised an eyebrow and a
corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile in anticipation of a
yes.

She got up from the table and grabbed his
hand. "So where is this 'magic' fountain of yours?"

"Follow me!" Wendel excitedly swung her
hand. A promising look of adventure dwelled in his eyes.

She trusted him to lead the way.

…

It had stopped raining by now. The steady
slosh of tires driving through the puddles filled the night air.
And horns. The scenery was colorful to say the least.

The damp, muggy air clung to them like a
parasite. But at least the floodgates of heaven had closed.

The couple exited the tower together, Amalia
leaning into Wendel in the enchanted moment. Pity the date couldn't
go on as planned.

Three agents crouched with their weight
resting on the balls of their feet. The targets would come to them.
Steam poured out from a sewer like a boiling hot pot of soup,
adding to the ominous details of the moment. The temperature had
dropped significantly as dusk gave way to the impending blackness.
The men lying in wait could see their breath. A rat with a big tail
scampered back into a storm drain. Seconds went by before the
shadows of two Germans approaching came into view. At the right
time, the Mossad men dressed in black suits, their faces obscured
by masks, jumped from cover and snatched the unsuspecting lovers
off the street without a noise. Any screams or protestation were
muffled by gags stuffed into their mouths. The strong men had no
problem marching the victims over to their waiting ride that would
launch up to the skies.

--

The Basement: Honolulu, Hawaii

When the president and his cabinet put the
wraps on Operation Switchblade, so began another one: the quest to
get Damion Westover. President Toporvksy had asked Director Demsky
of Sentinel to work with Mossad to get a better understanding of
Scorpion's end-game plans.

…

The director of Sentinel felt like a hamster
on the wheel spinning round and round with no stop in sight. Alfred
rested his elbows on his desk's ink blotter. His left toe tapped a
couple of times. He groaned and clutched his stomach. The drawer
slowly opened. His hand blindly felt around for the familiar
bottle. He twisted the tamper-proof lid once he found it.

Two tablets dispensed for him. Alfred
spotted a nearby water glass he would use to rinse down the antacid
meds. He licked his upper lip and loudly exhaled. Twenty seconds
later he was in the right frame of mind to make a phone call,
albeit reluctantly. He lifted the black plastic phone from its
cradle and stretched the ancient corded device to his left ear
while he reached across with his free hand to dial a number. It
rang twice before he reached the operator. "This is Alfred Demsky,
director of Sentinel, may I speak to the prime minister please?"
One moment sir.

A moment later, just as promised, the leader
of the Labor party and the current Prime Minister of Israel
answered.
"Ken?"
Yes?

"Erev tov Prime Minister Elkin, ma
shlomcha?"
Good evening Prime Minister Elkin, how are you?

"I speak English Alfred, and I'm fine,
thanks."

"Is it a bad time to talk?" Alfred wondered,
staring at his clock on the wall with the hour hand barely past
five...in the morning.

"It's the dinner hour here in Jerusalem,
Mr. Demsky. So no, you're not interrupting anything. I don't have
much of an appetite anyway."