The Ragnarok Conspiracy (34 page)

The new month began with hopeful signs across much of the world. The US government's dramatic thwarting of the terrorist plot to use a nuclear weapon helped to restore relations between Western nations and the OPEC countries. With the lifting of the oil embargo, stocks around the world recovered dramatically, and military buildup in the Persian Gulf was reversed, decreasing tensions in what had become a highly volatile situation.

Anger still boils underneath the surface in many countries, however, as leaders express dismay that the United States could allow a nuclear weapon to be stolen and not report the incident. With the explosion above the Gulf of Mexico, the current administration has been left scrambling to explain its silence, and congressional leaders of both parties have called for a thorough investigation.

Meanwhile, questions still remain about the mysterious terrorist organization called Mjolnir. The revelation that the terror group was headed by the internationally known businessman William Gunn has stunned people across the globe. His death at the hands of FBI agents has not calmed fears, however, that the organization has been defeated. “There are too many loose ends, too many unknowns,” said Congressman Derrick Cholon, chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee. “Gunn kept the governments of the world in the dark. He's dead, but is Mjolnir?”

The FBI has issued no comment on this topic, but anonymous sources report that there is concern that the terrorist organization will
re-form, and perhaps begin again its campaign against the Muslim nations.

For the moment, most nations seem to be breathing a sigh of relief that the attacks have stopped, and that the escalating crisis has been defused. Even Cholon expressed optimism. “For now, because of the brave sacrifices of so many, we have reason for optimism for the coming year.”

The cold December wind whipped through the coats and scarves of the onlookers gathered outside the mosque in Queens. The fading light of the day cast a grayish pall over the group as the sun plunged behind the cityscape. Several hundred people stood before a symbolic
kafan
, the ritual cloth folded neatly, the body of the deceased never to be recovered, vaporized by an atomic blast. An imam led the prayers, with the deceased's family, his wife and two sons, brothers and sisters and parents behind him, and friends and other relations behind them.

Savas stood close to Cohen in the sharp wind. For them, the service was also a remembrance of all those friends and coworkers who had died at the end of the last year. Near them were Rideout, Lightfoote, and Miller, along with several others from the FBI and the CIA who had known Jordan and had come to pay their respects.

They were not so far from Father Timothy's church in Astoria. Savas thought about the people around him—Muslim, Christian, Jew, black, and white—and he closed his eyes and said a prayer that this society might be given a chance to continue its mad experiment in tolerance. He opened them and listened to the words of the imam.

“It is said in the Koran: Every man shall taste death. Only on the day of resurrection shall he be paid his wages in full. No one knows what it is that he will earn tomorrow: Nor does anyone know in what land he is to die. Only God has full knowledge and is acquainted with all things. When the angels take the lives of the righteous, they say to them: ‘
Salaamun Alikum
, Enter Paradise! because of the good deeds
that you have done.' Today we pray for a man who has done great deeds and who offered his life for the lives of many—our brother, Husaam Jordan.”

There were muffled sobs and tears all around. Savas looked over and saw the two young boys, perhaps three and five. The older of the two was weeping; the younger appeared dazed and confused, afraid in this mass of strangers—his father nowhere to be found.
Sons taken from fathers, and fathers taken from sons.
He whispered something to Cohen; she nodded, and he quietly stepped away from the ceremony. He had yet to make his peace with God.

After the crowds had dispersed, Savas stood alone beside a rocky drop-off looking over the East River.
Not really a river
, he thought,
but the sea
. He had always been drawn to the sea.
The Greek blood.
His eyes squinted against the sun and the gusts of salty breeze, as he gazed over the snow-crested waves and the white flashes of boats in the distance. The imam stepped to his side.

Savas looked him over. A tall and thin black man in his late sixties, trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, proud of bearing yet bookish, rectangular eyeglasses on his face. Like Jordan, he wore the flowing white robes and the African kufi on his head. This was the man who had found Jordan in prison, then a violent gang member lost in a world of crime and death. He had shown him the light of Islam and had changed a young man's life forever. The imam had sponsored Jordan's education in prison and his college tuition when he was released. He was more a father to Jordan than the man who abandoned him when he was a child.

“Husaam told me that you are Greek, yes? Christian?” he asked. He still spoke with the accent of his native Nigeria.

Savas laughed. “Well, holding on by my fingernails. Father Timothy might be the only reason I still go to church.”

The imam nodded. “Yes, Husaam also told me this. Go to your priest, Agent Savas. Go to your Book. At such times, we must seek the will of God.”

“I'm not so sure I like God's will. Whatever it might be.”

The imam bowed his head. “You lost your son. There can be no greater loss for a father. Madmen of Islam took him from you.” Savas tightened his jaw yet said nothing. “But now these Western madmen have taken a son of Islam, a son to me as much as my own son, one I pulled from the fire of his lost youth. A son for a son. Some would say a debt has been paid.”

“They would,” Savas echoed, gazing out over the water, his eyes fixed far to the horizon, as if seeing into a great distance. He spoke quietly but firmly. “But I can't look at it that way. Not anymore. Not after all this. That's the sort of thinking that got us into this mess in the first place. Husaam and my son, they were good men. Good men taken by men who didn't deserve to breathe the same air they did. Anyone who would take them steals something from the world. Two sons were taken.”

He looked over to Jordan's widow, Vonessa, and the two boys standing in the grass, then turned back to the imam. “But I see those two boys in the grass. Two sons were given. I don't know what kind of
fair
that is, and it's not one that satisfies me very much, but right now, it's all I have.” John Savas turned from the edge and walked back across the field toward his car, and to the silhouetted form of Rebecca Cohen in the failing light.

The freighter cut through the waves with tremendous momentum. The craft was weighed down by its stacks of cargo, giving it a heavy sail en route but a respectable profit at harbor. The captain of the craft looked down from the piloting room at the tourists who paid money for a “freighter cruise,” a relatively new and low-thrills way to take to the seas. More and more captains were entering this market, and it allowed them to pocket substantial extra cash.

The cruise passengers were usually the very young, lots of college kids, low on cash but high on adventure, eschewing fancy and expensive cruise boats for container packing freighters. He was glad to see them. Not only did they bring him money he wouldn't have had otherwise; they brought some youth and vitality to a job that was as monotonous as any he could imagine. Besides, the young girls were something to look at in their miniskirts and shorts.

The captain's gaze paused and lingered over the group. He focused on the one passenger that did not fit the pattern. The man was older, in his fifties and traveling alone. He came onboard with a limp, and he seemed in poor health. But he was an imposing man, built like a tank, with a blond crew cut and a hard face that made even the captain uneasy to look at him for very long. He had asked the strangest questions, insisting that he had to know whether the boat would take a certain route, underneath the site where that plane with the bomb had exploded. The captain told him there was no debris to see, but the man had waved him off, saying he knew that.

The captain shook his head. There was no point in concerning himself too much with any one passenger. In all his travels, he had
come to know clearly that there were all kinds of strangeness in human beings.

The wind picked up strongly, and it was cold even in the January Gulf weather. Many of the others went inside for shelter. The blond man did not stir. He simply gazed into the sky as the boat motored on.

It took four years, over a thousand query letters, three major rewrites at the behest of critics, and a last-minute break to find an agent and publisher for this, my first novel. I would like to express my heartfelt thanks to those who made it all possible. After numerous agents either passed without comment (or return mail!), or shrank from the controversial subject matter, my thanks go to Sara and Stephen Camilli for their belief in the story and skillful representation in an increasingly topsy-turvy publishing world. My sincerest appreciation goes to my editor, Dan Mayer, of Seventh Street Books for his time and energies in bringing the novel to press in its best form with Prometheus Books. A similar “thank you” to Julia DeGraf for her work in copyediting the manuscript. To my family, especially my wife, Nina, my daughters, father, and mother—thanks for taking the time to read and comment on what certainly must have seemed a strange and doomed endeavor on my part. And finally, to all who contributed your time, thoughts, and support—you know who you are, and you have my deepest gratitude.

Born in the Midwest, Erec Stebbins has pursued diverse interests over the course of his life, including science, music, drama, and writing. He received a degree in physics from Oberlin College in 1992, and a PhD in biochemistry from Cornell University in 1999. Alongside his scientific interests, he is a maker and player of the Native American–style flute, and he has continued to pursue writing for his love of dramatic storytelling.
The Ragnarök Conspiracy
is a novel that took root in him after he witnessed the destruction of September 11, 2001, from his Manhattan apartment. He currently lives and works in New York City as a scientist and professor in biomedical research.