The Second Coming E-Book

Trevor Isaacs

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Mike Hasser
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 691

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

It has happened! The Messiah has arrived in Jerusalem. The world is in a frenzy, and the Church confused and terrified.

Mike Hasser, a CIA officer, goes headfirst into the cauldron, unsure of what he is facing. He is aided by Zaki, a former Pakistani intelligence officer now hired by the Agency.

An Iranian businessman linked to a gruesome murder in London.

A black operation in Myanmar involving a religious scholar who is on the run now.

The Messiah healing the sick and raising the dead.

The pope renouncing his faith before getting assassinated by one of his own cardinals.

Governments falling like ninepins.

The mystery surrounding a former Vatican priest and his gay partner.

Are these seemingly random events just isolated happenings? Or is someone deep in the shadows waging a new kind of warfare against the US and its allies?

Confronted by a vicious enemy, Hasser finds himself in a race to save the world, moving from Iran to Myanmar to Jordan and from Saudi Arabia to Slovenia to Syria.

Trained Chinese and Iranian kill teams gang up against him. Despite the odds, Hasser must engage in a brutal fight to stay alive and turn everything around. If he fails, he loses everything, including his faith.

As a weapon of mass destruction leaves thousands dead in Israel and Armageddon looms, Hasser takes a critically wounded messiah to Tel Aviv in a desperate bid to stop the world war about to unleash.

Leseprobe

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright© by Trevor Isaacs

Cover design by hhtp://shaziart.com.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied or reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the author of this book. Any scanning, uploading and distribution of this book in any form is a theft of the author’s intellectual property.

First Edition: 2024.ISBN: 978-969-589-275-6.

Dedication

To my wife and the three lovely angels

Epigraph

The end is not yet.

(Gospel of Matthew)

Be able to fight hard and win.

(Chinese MSS motto)

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

About the Author

Chapter 1

Mount of Olives, Jerusalem

Truth be told, it was like any other night he had seen descend over the Old City.

Sami Haddad lingered outside the Russian Orthodox Church in Al-Tur district, locking his bleary eyes on a small chapel ahead. Engulfed in bleeding pale light, the small dome of ancient rock was dwarfed by the adjoining mosque’s tall minaret, which seemed to disappear into the dark heavens above.

He was looking at the Chapel of Ascension.

A modest structure, it was built over the spot where Jesus Christ had risen to the heavens.

Sami was thirty, thin, and balding on the sides. He wore a permanent five o’clock shadow, along with a scowl he liked to switch on and off as required. It helped his work as a news reporter. Earlier that evening, he had been told by his shift in charge to be in Al-Tur after midnight, to cover an event near the mosque.

Having worked for the local TV channel for the last two years that now had a real chance of going out of business any time soon, he was considering moving to one of the rich Gulf kingdoms. To probably end up working as a porter, or a car seller, if my luck held, he thought bitterly.

Palestine, his beloved country, had ceased to exist long ago. Occupied by the Jews, the motherland now existed as merely an ideology, kept alive in slogans by the nationalists. Palestinian Christians like him, the second-class citizens of Israel, were left with ashes in their hands. No freedom, no prosperity, nothing at all.

Shaking his head, Sami walked slowly. He had been here many times before. The magnificence on display always left him impressed. A ridge just east of the town, the Mount of Olives housed a few churches, a mosque, and some other buildings. It also offered a spectacular view of the Old City.

On the western slope, he could see the Jewish graveyard, the Tomb of the Prophets, and some more churches. The Garden of Gethsemane. And further beyond, the temple mount, with its Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Northwards, he could glimpse the Mormon University and the Beit Orot neighborhood. To the southeast, he saw Bethphage, then Eizariya in the distance. Then, the vast expanse of the Judean Desert as far as his eyes could explore.

Laughter tinkled in the air behind him.

He sighed, turning his head to glance at his cameraman. “What’s so funny?”

Feras chuckled. “I can bet my left nut that Abu Khaled sent us on a fool’s errand. Our old goat is full of crap.”

He was a young man, barely twenty, dressed in an untucked buttoned brown shirt and a knee-length coat. His wavy black hair reached his shoulders, enhancing his air of relaxed youthfulness.

Sami suppressed his giggle. Feras wasn’t fond of the crusty news director, often displaying his lack of affection for the older man in a colorful manner. “Just get your ass moving. We need to do this job here.” Besides, Abu Khaled had sounded excited over the phone, giving them their orders for the night.

“As you say,” Feras replied yawningly, adjusting the heavy bag on his shoulder. It housed his camera and other equipment.

Sami nodded, moving on. Abu Khaled made sure they often drew the night shift. Despite his cameraman's occasional fuss, he obliged. They didn’t make much—merely enough to eat and have some pocket cash. Their employer provided them with a single-room apartment to live in. However, he could not imagine how things would turn out if they were let go. Or if the channel was shut down. Israel did not have much to offer for the poor Palestinians like him, Christian, Muslim, or whatever.

They stayed outside the chapel premises, strolling along the street, which was a little dull due to the late hour. Light traffic, mostly motorbikes and cars, some parked haphazardly. The only activity he could see was near the mosque’s gate. A coffee shop was open to his left, two or three people inside. Soft music playing.

Then he picked up motion ahead.

A gaggle of people was milling around near the street’s end. He looked closely. Shit! Journalists. Lots of them lurking there. What the heck? He heard the hum of noises. Strange. What’s happening here, he wondered. Whatever it was, someone had taken a lot of care to gather so many media hacks to cover it. Intrigued, he stepped closer. Feras was behind him.

The pack laughed at something. Then, they saw him approaching.

“Sami,” a tall guy called out. “You on the beat?”

“Yeah, it seems so,” he said, shaking a few hands.

“Great.”

“It’s, um, nonsense…I think,” another man said, running slow fingers through his beard.

“Maybe,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“Uh, yes,” the bearded one agreed uncertainly.

It all started after the mosque imam had a dream last night. He saw angels, or he heard God while sleeping, it didn’t matter, because the man headed one of the holiest places of worship in all of Jerusalem, and he happened to be a powerful figure in the local religious circles. His word had weight here. He had urged one of his friends in the Palestinian media to cover what he believed would be a major event unfolding tonight. Whether Sami or his journalist friends took him seriously was a moot point.

While it was a real possibility that they were just being jerked around, given where it had come from, and as annoying as it was, he was grateful to be on to something possibly comical here. For a change. They dealt with human misery on a regular basis. These neighborhoods experienced waves of gruesome violence and the agonizing consequences of hatred. Sami sincerely wanted to thank that pain-in-the-ass old man responsible for pulling his strings tonight, whose hallucinating mind, he hoped, would help him create a really good fun piece for his viewers.

Sami had been covering this area for a long time. Sometimes, everything looked the same all over. Nothing different. Nothing at all.

Apart from the odd cloud...

He noticed its white foam-like form settling over the chapel’s dome in slow motion. A rim of gold tinged its braided silver shape. It was floating slowly, imperceptibly. Almost tranquil. Down, down it fell, engulfing the dome now.

“Feras, be ready with your LiveU!” he whispered.

The cameraman nodded and began preparing his broadcasting apparatus for the live coverage. Other crews noticed it too, and a flurry of activity ensued in the street. Nobody had any idea how long the transmission would last before the Israeli police arrived in force. The Palestinian Waqf managed the chapel and the mosque next to it, but the Jews wouldn't hesitate to put their boots and batons to good use.

Sami was standing still, staring out at the cloud.

Seconds earlier, it was a churning fluff of nothingness. Now it had substance; it shifted and flowed, bits and flakes with orange hues, like molten saffron.

“You getting this all?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the scene.

“Yes, boss,” Feras replied, his camera aimed right at the chapel and filming.

Sami could now make out a silhouette in the cloud. It hovered in midair above the dome, its form still fairly indistinct. Puzzled, he looked sideways at Feras, who stared back emptily.

His jaw slackened as the image coalesced into a definite shape, sleek and fluid, moving as if only an outline of black. Yet very much alive.

There was a flowing of soul inside that silhouette.

“My God!” a reporter cried out. Another man, his assistant, either panicked or out of curiosity, threw a powerful light at the chapel. The sudden glare ravaged the patchy veil of darkness.

In the brilliant light, the image became full color.

Sami could see a human figure hanging inside the cloud. It was serene, not at all disturbed by the intense light.

Sami’s breathing quickened. It seemed like an apparition, oddly luminous now. He watched in awe as the seconds passed. It appeared that the very air surrounding the chapel was holding its breath. Mesmerized, he took a dozen steps toward the chapel. He moved cautiously and slowly, paused, and stared at the dome.

Sami was now certain it was a man’s figure. He wore a yellow robe, and his head leaned forward, nearly touching his chest. Arms spread sideways, as if resting on two invisible companions' shoulders.

Or nailed to an unseen cross.

Floating, his feet graced the dome of the chapel, like dewdrops on grass. Soft, easy, and delicate.

Sami halted a few steps from the wall of the chapel, hands by his sides.

The transformation was fully in effect.

The man lifted his head. He was of average height and a slim build. Light brown complexion. He had a flushed face with beads of water glistening on his forehead, seemingly fresh from a bath. Warm, kind eyes gleamed with rich tones of amber. Straight, dark hair, and a beard.

Sami dared not move, feeling captivated by the face taking him in.

From the moment he first noticed the cloud, he had not heard the usual noise of the atmosphere around him. An unnatural stillness enveloped the Mount. It filled him with dread.

It couldn’t be happening, he told himself.

He was not a religious man. Quite the opposite. God had been unfair to his people. The fate his nation and his loved ones endured did not bother Him in the slightest. Yet, whatever Sami was witnessing was difficult to miss. He recalled a pamphlet his fervent college friends had shared, the traditions his village folks had discussed, and the discourses of some of the more knowledgeable ones. Now it was happening right before his eyes.

The Second Coming.

The arrival of the Messiah.

He stumbled, clutching at his cameraman’s arm. “Whoa, whoa,” Feras blurted out. The camera shuddered, but he controlled it.

Sami breathed. He was adept at controlling his fear. Living in an occupied country taught him a lot about how to fight off primal instincts and move on with life. That was part of his survival mechanism. Yet, this was overwhelming. The fright wouldn’t leave him, though, clinging to him and trying to find its way inside his inner core. Would darkness prevail again, like it did two thousand years ago? What kind of future might lie ahead?

The Jews now held full sway over this hill. Unlike on that fateful day in the distant past, and yet they managed to...

Sami’s eyes moistened. The last time the Lord had offered himself. All of himself. All of his life. All of his love. All of his pain. All of his body.

Not now, not again. Never.

Once his breathing calmed, he tried to consider what the scene meant and what it could lead to. He chewed on his lip. He felt…lucky. Yes, he was certain that was the proper emotion. He was fortunate enough to witness this vision, making him one of the truly blessed ones. Whatever was set in motion, he sensed, would not stop now.

“Is it really what I think it is?” A journalist colleague whispered, creeping closer. He was a Muslim. His eyes were the size of dinner plates, and his jaw dropped almost to the ground. Others were huddled together nearby.

“See for yourself,” he replied.

“How is it even possible?” he persisted.

“Huh.”

Not knowing what else to do, Sami immediately ordered his cameraman to stop broadcasting with a cutthroat hand gesture and got on his phone. Abu Khaled picked up on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“I need you to halt all live feeds now.”

“Do you think I’m a total fool?”

Sami was puzzled. “What’re you talking about?” Abu Khaled was a Muslim. Will he understand? He was aware that Muslims regarded Jesus as a prophet and held him in high regard.

His boss growled in his ear. “I saw the same thing you did. And I took action before you called.”

“Really?”

“This live broadcast would go on, but with a thirty-minute delay. I already ensured it. Called the other channels too.”

“Oh, great!”

“I know. The authorities will soon swarm that ridge. I hope everyone clears out within the next half hour. And I say, everyone. You understand?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Now do a nice job there and send me some cool footage before bugging out. This is going to be the story of the millennium,” the man clicked off abruptly.

Relieved, Sami looked around. The journalists were a hodgepodge of reporters and cameramen from Palestinian TV channels, radio stations, and newspapers. Mostly Muslim, but a couple of Christians too, like himself. His boss had talked to all of their bosses. If they dispersed quickly after covering the event, the precaution would be helpful.

Surely, the Israelis would come looking for them at their workplaces and homes. But they would be a lot busier in the coming days dealing with the aftershocks, he knew. A lot of world media would be descending upon Jerusalem. He sincerely hoped he and his fellow journalists would be able to save their collective skins, though he wasn’t so certain. It would all depend on how the situation developed. Only time will tell, he thought.

Suddenly, the night sky above him burst into intense radiance. His head jerked up. A blaze of light flashed through space, a glowing wagon wheel so brilliant, so piercing that his gaze faltered in pain. Hundreds of thousands of streams of fire were igniting, streaking across the horizon in a shower of unearthly brightness.

“Wow!” Feras rasped and squeezed his eyes shut.

Sami gazed skyward, his mouth agape. It seemed as if the heavens had collapsed. The flaming arrows clustered at one point near the zenith, simultaneously shooting forth with lightning speed. The erupting storm seemed to engulf every part of the horizon, yet it remained unexhausted—the fiery meteorites descending in a downpour as rapid and overwhelming as he had ever seen. Like snowflakes during a squall he once experienced visiting his mother’s family in Afrin, Syria, close to the border with Turkey.

As the meteorite show came to an end, the lights in the entire neighborhood went out. No, it was all across the city. Thick gloom reigned everywhere. Only the cameramen had their lights on, rotating them aimlessly around. He gasped as he tracked the lights, which illuminated the buildings nearby.

The crosses on every church he could see had fallen to the ground: the Russian Church, the churches of the Pater Noster, Mary Magdalene, Viri Galilaei, and Dominus Flevit.

Terrified, he wanted to cross himself but stopped.

The lights circled back, painting an eerie glow over the chapel.

The messiah was now standing on the dome, his head on a swivel, eyes scanning around.

Sami greeted him reverently. “Peace be upon you!”

“May God reward you,” came the reply in a low voice. In Arabic.

It was an unusual reply. For a moment, Sami was overcome by a gush of emotions. Before he could say anything else, he heard the running of feet.

A small group of black-clad figures appeared. They spread out and surrounded the chapel. One of them shouted at the gathered journalists to stop filming and go away. Meanwhile, the messiah had got off the chapel dome with surprising ease. His movements were graceful.

The new arrivals formed a ring around the messiah.

They were not there to harm him, he realized. Rather, they were protecting him.

Feras touched his shoulder. “Move. Let’s go.” He had stowed his equipment. Other journalists were already scattering away.

Sami did not want to leave. Feras grabbed his hand. “Come on, Sami. We don’t have much time.”

He turned and looked at the chapel once again. The messiah and his group were walking toward the mosque, mere shadows now melting into the night.

“May your God have mercy on you,” the words escaped his lips like a whisper before he followed his cameraman down the blacked-out street and disappeared.

Chapter 2

Vatican City, Rome

In the course of his life, Pope Xavier had seen many things and gone through a lot without feeling a dent in his belief. Yet, nothing in his seventy years on this earth had prepared him for the sight he was cursed to behold now.

Born Javier Felipe Avelino in a little-known village in rural Chile, he had ascended to the papacy just a year ago after the demise of the previous pope. Now, he was in the midst of a crisis. As was his beloved Church.

Walking slowly, he saw Saint Peter’s Square laid before him. Designed like a human figure by Bernini, whose genius gave it an illusion of elevation, the piazza, with its two colonnades looking like arms, beckoned humanity into the welcoming embrace of the Church.

Not at the moment though.

It was a scene of chaos. A security perimeter held back the visitors who were not allowed to enter the square. The place, which was meant to welcome the faithful, now had to turn them away. It hurt him. Several vehicles were present in the piazza. Earth movers, cranes, fire trucks. Uniformed Swiss Guard patrolling the piazza on foot. Italian police in their cars further away.

Cold, biting wind tore into his body, but he ignored the discomfort. The cardinals tagged along, yet kept a distance from the Holy See. To let him carry the burden of leadership in private. His weary eyes, moist with tears he barely held back, flitted to the pieces of fallen crosses scattered in the piazza.

Every cross in the Vatican had come down.

The shaking had begun late in the night. He had been retiring in his quarters in the Apostolic Palace when a tremulous bed woke him up. His first thought was of an earthquake. Being Chilean, he was no stranger to tremors. Even here in Italy, such shakes happened. Then, while getting up from the bed and putting on his robe, he heard the sudden, loud crashes.

He had rushed out to watch it all happen.

The Egyptian Obelisk had come crashing down. It was reduced to a heap of masonry, the once huge cross at its top fragmented and misshapen, lying there beyond recognition. It was rumored to contain a relic of the True Cross.

Mortified, he careened his neck to look around.

St. Peter’s Basilica stood there. He had barely heaved a sigh of relief at seeing the building undamaged when his eyes fell on the empty dome. No cross.

Like a madman, he had cried aloud and run wildly in circles, flailing his arms. The statues atop the colonnades, as well as on the basilica's façade, had also dropped their crosses. It looked as if some really pissed-up demon had decided to snatch the crosses from all the saints, angels, and cherubs in a fit of rage.

Surveying the piazza again in daylight now, he waved at the gathered visitors. They hung around outside the security ring set up by Vatican Gendarmes and Italian police. He was surrounded by his Swiss Guard detail. Nobody was taking any chances with security here.

He was grateful there had been no significant loss of human life. Only three people had died: two pilgrims and a cleaner. He moved through the rubble with utmost care, though the damage had been minimal. No building had collapsed or suffered any damage.

Some of his cardinals were holding a special mass now. At times, the Church needed prayers for itself.

While it had suffered a lot in the preceding decades owing to a wave of sexual abuse revelations that shocked the world, the Church had somehow survived. Even its distant past had been no less tumultuous. Yet, whether it was decadent priests selling out the faith for pleasure and prestige or hostile forces arrayed against Christendom, the Church persisted during hard times and came through stronger.

Good Christians, he understood, cooperated with God’s grace to beat back error and corruption and reform the house of God from within. Such thoughts gave him reason for hope today. He wanted to muster the courage to deal with the trials God had sent in his own time. He could not afford to abandon the sheep.

Xavier found himself standing before the façade, appreciating the travertine stone in the structure. Two marble statues of St. Peter and St. Paul flanked the steps leading up to the basilica. St. Peter had mysteriously lost the key in his right hand, which was inscribed with the cross. Giant columns rose high, supporting a tall attic. A total of thirteen statues used to sit there.

Now, one was missing.

Christ’s statue had collapsed to the ground.

Turning around, he walked to the fallen obelisk. A team of engineers, led by a Vatican official, was attempting to retrieve the holy relics from the shattered cross. Xavier, however, did not feel any loss over the destroyed monument. It was a leftover from a pagan house of worship in ancient Egypt. If given the choice, he would not have preferred to place it in the heart of the Vatican.

Sighing heavily, he continued his tour of the place. Broken crosses everywhere. His cardinals lingered behind, offering him no explanation for the strange occurrence.

The damage to the crosses had not remained limited to the Vatican. On Ponte Sant’ Angelo, the famous Roman bridge over the Tiber River, only one angel statue out of the ten guarding the river had held a cross. Not anymore. It was now lying in the muddy water flowing under the bridge.

Slowing, he gestured for one of his cardinals to join him. Dean Joseph Banfield approached. He was an American archbishop in his previous life, and was now the prefect of the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith. The man was smart and sensible—exactly the kind of person he needed now.

“Your Eminence,” he bowed.

“We’ve seen enough. Let’s go inside for our formal meeting.”

“As you wish,” he bowed again and went back to the cardinals. Soon, they were filing out of the piazza. The meeting would take place in the Papal Apartments, the pope’s official residence.

Located northeast of the basilica, the Papal Apartments occupied the third floor of the Apostolic Palace. While his predecessor had lived in the newer residence called the Domus Sanctae Marthae, Xavier preferred the traditional accommodation used by a long line of previous popes.

One by one, his most trusted associates gathered in his private library. Dean sought permission from the pope to play some video clips. Xavier told him to proceed.

“All of you must already have watched the clips from Jerusalem. Therefore, I won't bother you further. It’s doing the rounds on every medium conceivable to man on planet Earth. I’ll show you something else.”

He clicked the button on his remote for the wide-screen monitor. The first video started with a panoramic view of New York City. Next, the camera zoomed in on a massive cathedral. Its grand Gothic Revival architecture was impressive.

“As you see, this is the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, the largest church building in the US. It’s located in Manhattan. All of its crosses inexplicably fell to the ground yesterday, coinciding with the events here and in Jerusalem.”

The video switched to a series of frames shot with a cell phone camera. The exterior of the church was visible. The cross vibrated, then toppled to the ground with a thud.

Another clip showed the church from within, its ornate, voluminous interior on full display. Due to the late hour, there was no one inside. A security camera most likely recorded the video. The scene ended with the cross falling.

Dean said. “The clip is now showing a crowd gathered outside the church during the daytime. Most likely, after the incident. Whether they look agitated or excited, I’m not sure. We Americans, you see, are hard to understand.”

“You’re right,” a man remarked lightly. He was the Archpriest of St. Peter’s Basilica.

“Anything else?”

Dean played another short clip. In it, the iconic Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, was visible. Then, in its death throes, it collapsed and plummeted to the ground hundreds of feet below. People gathered around its shattered shape, wailing hysterically.

“What do we know so far?” Xavier got to the point at once.

Dean sighed before replying. “So far, every event looks like a natural happening. Not done by a human hand.”

“Are you sure?” Xavier asked.

“Do you expect me to be?”

Xavier studied him for a moment. “Not at all.”

“We don’t have much information at present,” Dean said. “Only a fool would be confident enough to declare anything like that.”

Xavier waved his hand in the air. “This place has had its share of fools. However, we cannot afford any half-wits right now. Our faith has been tested in a cruel manner. If we falter in our assessment or bungle up the subsequent response, we’d lose a lot more than mere stone crosses.”

“We fully understand,” the gathered cardinals replied in unison.

The pope leaned closer, whispering. “What about Jerusalem? Any clue?” Even before some of his cardinals awoke from their sleep, Dean had shown him the clips of the so-called messiah appearing in Israel.

“Nothing, I fear,” a man answered. He was the one who looked after the Divine Worship. Continuing, he said. “The messiah vanished into thin air following his stunt on the Mount of Olives. Even the Israelis don’t know anything.”

“Are we going to call it a stunt as you just mentioned?” the prefect for Evangelization asked.

“We’ve declined to issue a formal response, though our cardinals and bishops are telling the faithful to be steadfast in their belief,” Dean replied evasively.

“That’s it?” Xavier inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Dean looked uncertain as he replied. “For the time being. But soon you’ll have to take to the podium and announce a formal rejection. Or–”

“Or what?” he cut him off angrily.

Dean replied haltingly. “He…he could be legit.”

Xavier fumed, crossing himself. “How dare you say such a despicable thing? We’re the true guardians of the Church. We should not harbor these disgraceful thoughts.”

“My apologies.”

“Don’t say it again. It wouldn’t happen in such a manner.”

A cardinal sat forward. He was responsible for the Eastern Churches. “Why not?”

“Because he’s an imposter!” Xavier blurted out.

“No proof.”

“We’ll soon have it,” Xavier promised forcefully.

“Will it suffice?” the Camerlengo asked them all, looking from face to face.

Dean said. “More importantly, can we find the proof soon enough to restore the faith? Before this matter gets out of hand and brings down our Church?”

The room fell silent as a grave.

Xavier cleared his throat and asked. “What are our people in Israel saying?”

Dean placed his elbows on the table before replying. “Whatever happened is a mystery to our clergymen there. The man came out of nowhere, got his arrival recorded on camera, and vanished like a ghost. Not a trace left.”

Xavier thundered. “Not something I would expect Jesus to do.”

“And the cross on every church fell to the earth,” Eastern Churches added. He had personally checked with all the bishops.

“In all of Jerusalem?” Xavier inquired.

“No. Just at the Mount of Olives.”

“God! Just like here,” the Camerlengo muttered, visibly shaken.

“Do you see any significance?” Dean asked around.

“What’s your point?” the Prefect for the Bishops spoke for the first time.

Dean replied. “Whoever is behind this, he isn’t targeting the Catholic faith only. He’s going after all of Christianity!”

“But how’s he doing it?” the Archpriest asked, removing his cap and scratching his bald head.

“What?” Xavier asked.

The man gesticulated wildly at the gathering. “How does anyone selectively take down the cross while the building stands? Any answer?”

None.

Any natural earthquake would have damaged the buildings and statues holding the crosses alike. Even a man-made tremor would have worked similarly. A quake, natural or otherwise, once triggered, isn’t a surgical weapon.

“What do the seismologists say?” Another exasperated voice boomed inside the library.

Dean shook his head. “We talked to the departments both here and in Israel. There was no recorded seismic activity in the vicinity during that time. Not a flicker, the Italians told me. Same story by the Israelis.”

“So, it rules out the earthquake. What else?”

Divine Worship offered. “A sabotage, perhaps.” He did not look sure about his proposition though.

“Our police investigators pored over everything. We prioritized the collection and analysis of samples. No traces of explosives were detected."

“Any chance it could have been a non-explosive device? Like a slingshot or an arrow? A mega-Taser?”

A few snickers reverberated through the library.

“Haha! Not at all. Some of the crosses weighed several tons. A siege engine might have pulled it off, but the projectiles or their remnants would have been found. And frankly speaking, a Taser capable of operating on such a scale is out of the question,” Dean explained patiently.

“It could be a good priest’s story, by the way. Demons wielding invisible swords," Eastern Churches joked, eliciting giggles from all around the table.

“Stop,” a morose-looking Xavier raised his hand. The laughter died down. The whole coterie of religious men found themselves in a pickle, unable to understand the crisis they faced.

“Damn! A dead end,” someone down the table cursed. Xavier fixed him with a withering glance, but he did not admonish. A little swearing was the least of his concerns now.

Chapter 3

Al Ruwais, Qatar

Mike Hasser grabbed coffee along the way as he left the chow hall and stepped outside. For one thing, the Agency took great care of its brew, he thought, savoring the first sip.

Blinding, sand-laden shamal winds had been lashing the country for the last week. Thin, patchy dirt from the previous night showed on the ground despite the arduous efforts made by the Bangladeshi cleaning staff. Usually a summer phenomenon, the terrible winds also occasionally occurred during the winter months. The small spy bastion appeared shriveled and insignificant. Easily ignored. The decrepit appearance served as a deliberate disguise. Hiding in plain sight.

He thrust his hands into the trouser pockets. He was joined by an obscure State Department official from the embassy.

“Awful,” the man exclaimed, looking annoyed. Having been pulled away from the comfortable urban cocoon of Doha seemed to irk him.

Sitting at the northern tip of Qatar, Al-Ruwais was a little port town on the Persian Gulf. Hasser preferred it to the flashier Doha. It felt so refreshing to look at the open waters of the Persian Gulf. The safe house's confined interior had begun to grate on his mind.

Hasser nodded. "It is, if you can't just shake off this prison feel that sets in after a while," he winked, "and, ah, the not too infrequent shamals smashing here left and right."

The man winced but did not say anything. Hasser offered him a hand with all the sincerity he could muster. “Brian.”

The man took it. “I’m Danny Martin.”

“Nice seeing you.”

Danny nodded, wondering why these folks always thought “Brian” was a cool cover name, though it definitely sounded better than Smith, Jones, or Bob popularized earlier. The Agency was progressing.

They started walking to the intelligence room, locally referred to as the “Spook Nook." The meeting was still five minutes away.

During the Iraq War and afterward, Qatar had been an important country for several reasons. It had a strong pro-Western ruling family, with close ties to the royals across the border in Saudi Arabia and other kingdoms. The US military’s Central Command was based there. It had a sizable Agency presence too, their main task being to monitor Iran from across the pond. The CIA worked closely with its counterpart, Qatar State Security. During one of his visits, the director awarded the George Tenet medal to its chief for his role in strengthening the cooperation between the two spy services.

With the terrorism story now knocked off of the front pages and network broadcasts in the United States and elsewhere, Iran took center stage. Israel was engaged in a brutal war with two of the most powerful proxies employed by the mullahs in Tehran, namely Hamas and Hezbollah. Both countries had been directly targeting each other for a year now. For the Agency, the region would never be boring by any measure, Hasser knew. Upheavals continued on a regular scale, rippling into Central Asia and beyond. Under the circumstances, a country like Qatar and a town like Al-Ruwais would always hold some secrets, teeming as much with scoundrels and smugglers as with soldiers and spies on a given day.

The CIA was right to be wary. Its presence in the region had not dwindled since the United States exited Iraq and Afghanistan. Rather, some circles pointed out, the Middle East had been left to the Agency and its shady contractors while the real big-league action took place in the Indo-Pacific.

Hasser had joined the CIA following his release from the U.S. Army as a captain. The time in uniform had been his first experience serving the nation. He had set foot on West Point’s hallowed grounds during the peak of America’s war on terror. A decade since 9/11, Stars n’ Stripes still flew everywhere, and the politicians made sure to feed the populace with a constant dose of action. He had successfully completed his training, filled with a burning nationalistic passion. Like most of his friends. After serving a tour with the First Infantry Division in Iraq, he did his Rangers course.

He’d never really planned on staying long in the military. He realized all along that the real fight would take place behind the battle lines, hidden from public view. The enemy would slog on unless beaten at his own game by methods that were both unconventional and devious.

As he looked around, the intelligence services were replacing the military as the portfolio managers for the new kind of war America had on its hands. The CIA, whether it liked it or not, found itself in the driving seat. For fighting it in any meaningful way, the Agency needed another breed of men. Warrior spies were the need of the hour– men who had been soldiers in their previous lives. They would spearhead the shadowy war across continents to fight and win the never-ceasing kind of campaign the world had not experienced before. Soon he joined that elite yet elusive band of warriors known to the world at that time as the Special Activities Division.

Along the way someone judged him to be too cerebral for that job, and he was inducted into the Agency’s National Clandestine Service, the sword arm of the vast empire being run from Langley. After a year of training, they sent him on his initial assignment under diplomatic cover to Europe. A couple more exciting deep-cover jobs followed in the Middle East. All vanilla missions, playing second fiddle to the seasoned guys. Sometimes, just helping with their reports, that's all. Then he landed at the embassy in Ankara, Turkey.

“Here we are,” he said as they entered their work area. It was separate from the living quarters.

“Nice place,” Danny commented, though he did not actually mean it. The compound was nondescript, nestled behind shabby concrete walls. Nothing nice about it. It was merely another modest structure situated in a small town. The business, ostensibly registered in Doha, was involved in several obscure fishing ventures.

Taking his last sip and discarding the paper cup, he stepped inside a hallway, Danny behind him.

Both were met by another man who ushered them into a bland conference room. Danny was checking out the huge mural on one of the walls—desert, horses, and other local items painted in pastels. Hasser nodded to his Agency colleagues and took a seat. They now had to wait.

While in Turkey, Hasser had stayed mostly in Gaziantep, learning the ropes under a motley crew of senior field officers. The Agency was supporting a network of assets fighting the war against ISIS in neighboring Syria and Iraq. He remained an operations officer and worked tirelessly, gaining proficiency in the Arabic language in the process. Unluckily, his nascent career soon hit the doldrums. His disabled first child put so much strain on his marriage that he started thinking about quitting his job.

Then came Doha station. As his seniors offered reassignment back home, he put in the request, knowing fully well his days at the Agency were numbered. The spook business was all about working overseas. Only the laggards stayed back stateside. His transfer orders, still in the pipeline and not yet approved, quickly earned him the label of a slow horse.

The deputy station chief, Chad Moses, arrived. He was officiating for the station chief, who was currently out of the country. He was probably the only Agency official in Qatar who liked to wear suits. Sometimes, really dumb ones. Today, his trousers legs were too short, Hasser noticed.

Trailing him was Kate Armigo. He stiffened.

The woman was in formal office attire, her heels clicking softly on the floor. She shot him a knowing glance before confidently striding over and sitting next to him. Shit. He squirmed in his chair.

Kate was a mid-level operations officer in the Agency, not exactly his boss but a rung above anyway. She ran the shop in Al-Ruwais, whereas the station chief and his deputy stayed in Doha. What made it troubling was that she had the hots for him ever since he had set foot in Qatar six months ago. A divorcee, she had just latched onto him, first casually and in a playful manner, then her tactics had evolved aggressively into something bordering on harassment. The fact that his marriage was on the rocks emboldened her even more.

She had celebrated her thirty-eighth birthday last month. Brunette, and cute in a subtle way, she would probably never have been called a stunner. Her skin showed premature fine lines, thanks to her tours in the hellholes worldwide. After graduating from college with a BA in Economics, she joined the Agency. Building upon her working-class ethos, she had steadily clutched her way up the ladder, though failing to reach star status in the CIA’s notoriously cutthroat National Clandestine Service, aka the Directorate of Operations.

Chad eyed the participants and began without the preliminaries. Hasser noticed that he looked hurried. “Well, people, we’re here to assess the developing situation. Iranians have hijacked a Singapore-owned oil tanker. Around fifteen Americans are onboard as members of the crew. Two men lost their lives during the takeover. Identities unknown so far.”

He paused for a while, looking at some notes before him. “A small naval force launched the operation with lightning speed, seizing the ship. Two helicopters landed on the deck shortly afterward, then vanished into thin air, taking along the hostages.”

“What? They removed the crew?” Danny asked.

“Apparently, yes,” Chad answered. Then, on his cue, a projector clicked to life. Everyone watched in silence. A series of images appeared on the wall-mounted screen showing the hijacked tanker dead in the water. With shot-up bridge windows. Most disturbing were the stills showing a couple of lifeless human forms on the deck. An overflying drone had provided the imagery.

“It’s a mess, by the way,” he commented, quickly going through the slides. “Lots of gunfire, a stranded tanker, dead sailors.”

Hasser asked. "Are we even certain they took the crew alive?" Hasser inquired. "Don’t want to sound pessimistic, but you know what, it’s lot easier to kill people than to kidnap them.”

“You’re right. But whatever little intel is coming from the drones so far supports the hostage-taking,” Chad said, looking at him. “So, we’ll treat it that way until more info surfaces. Mind you, it’s the State Department calling the dibs on this thing. We’re just tagging along.” Danny nodded.

“Anyone announcement by Tehran?” asked Bill Price. He oversaw tactical paramilitary operations and represented Hasser's former division within the CIA, which was now rebranded as the Special Operations Group.

“Nope,” Kate answered tersely. Hasser felt her hand on his thigh. He tried to look calm, hoping nobody was watching.

Kate gave her younger Agency operative a sideways glance. White, in his mid-thirties, an inch shy of six feet with a small waist and broad muscular shoulders. His deeply tanned angular face was unreadable, blue-green eyes sedate yet alert. Straight from an Agency recruiting poster, if ever there was any, she mused. Then, her gaze shifted.

“Who in his fucking mind allows the Iranians to do all such stuff? Why haven’t we bombed them already?” Chad asked frustratingly. “Anyone? State?” he asked again, turning his big frame to face Danny. An operation gone sideways in the boonies a decade earlier had given Chad a big scar on his butt and a nasty grudge for Iran.

“Not me, man. Above my pay grade. To tell you, we are not in a state of war with Iran yet,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Chad snorted. “Big comfort, pal.” He continued, looking at the attendees once more. "We've been in touch with our contacts in Iran and here ever since the attack happened. They think the kidnappers have managed to move further inland.”

“Based on what?” asked Danny.

Kate stepped in. “For this kind of intel, we depend on our guys inside Iran, who aren’t many, and the Israelis, who aren’t forthcoming. So far, both insisting that the hijacking force is untraceable. They have even suggested that the abductors might be non-state actors. Frankly, neither of them sound convincing.”

“Any further help with the drones?” Hasser inquired.

Chad replied. “Drone ops have ebbed in the region, but that’s changing now, as we speak. We’re watching the mullahs more intently with drones and other means.” By other means, he meant satellites, Hasser guessed.

Danny said. "The Iranians have assured the State through intermediaries that they are making every effort to retrieve the hostages."

“It’s all bull crap!” Chad sneered.

“Of course, we take whatever they proclaim with a pinch of salt under the best of circumstances,” Danny told them.

Kate looked up from some notes in her hands. “Well, our network inside Iran is in shambles nowadays. Bastards rounded up most of my assets and imprisoned them.”

Chad said. “As I mentioned earlier, the information is sketchy. I’m asking you people to look around and see if something pops up.”

Kate raised her hand. Hasser had to stop himself from snickering. She said. “On a side note, someone made quite a stir in Jerusalem last night. The media is abuzz with the news of a messiah there. A major news story all across the globe. Fox News is giving it a lot of air time. Others are not far behind. Top trending on social media as well.”

Chad made a face. “We’d better focus here.”

“I got a hunch. This is going to blow up pretty soon,” Kate insisted. “The region is powder keg, and it’s getting twitchy by the moment. Already lots of traffic on Jihadi platforms, as we speak.”

Chad said. “Kate, I see your point, but let’s prioritize.”

“Very well,” she relented.

Chad spoke by way of announcing. “Kate, you’ll be working closely with your sources in Iran. Try to probe them for any useful info and run any leads thereafter.”

He went on, addressing Hasser now. “Your job is to pay some more attention to the detainees at the local prison. Get some tongues talkin’, boy. See what they could offer us. Okay?”

“Got it.”

The SOG guy was tasked with keeping the JSOC in the loop in case a military option was deemed necessary, while Danny was asked to remain in touch with his department and stay abreast of any new developments on the diplomatic side. With that, the meeting broke up. 

Hasser spent the whole day at the Qatari prison, where some Iranians were being held on charges of illegally crossing into Qatar and spying, but could not find anything useful. On the way back, his cell phone dinged repeatedly. He checked the messages.

His wife wanted to chat on FaceTime.

Wonderful, he sighed. Rebecca rarely did that unless she was pissed, or worse, their daughter Pam was having another of her flare-ups. His local driver dropped him off at the compound and offered that he could wait if he wanted to go anywhere else. Hasser shook his head absently.

Chapter 4

Once inside his semi-dark room, Hasser wearily powered up the laptop and plopped down in a chair, readying himself for the ordeal. He did not bother to turn on the light switch. Lately, talking to her had been getting progressively difficult. No matter what he said, their conversations mostly ended badly.

“Hi,” Rebecca said as the video call connected. Her voice was tired. Something in her tone made him hate himself. It was early morning in Glendale, Arizona. Normally, she would be getting ready for her school job at this time.

He hesitated before asking. “Is everything ok?” She had puffy eyes and was unusually quiet. Her hair was wound into a messy top bun.

He could hear some clatter in the background. Just as he was watching her, a blurred shadow emerged, and something struck Rebecca in the head. He heard an “ouch” and saw her recoil in panic. Pam appeared briefly in the camera, moving too fast for him to track her. The seven-year-old was in a frenzy. He watched slack-jawed as she repeatedly spat at her mother, her wild eyes bulging and her hands smacking nonstop into Becky’s face.

“Oh, God!” he screamed. “Pam, please, stop. Stop it!” he said and stood up, not knowing what to do.

On his screen, another shape materialized behind Becky in the room. His mother-in-law was staying with her daughter. She leaped at Pam and held her in a bear hug, while Becky ran out of the room. She returned holding a net and threw it upon Pam, who squirmed and cried inconsolably. Somehow, both women managed to smother her with the net. Becky's mother, Meryl, squatted next to the child and held her under the net. Pam kept on squealing.

Becky turned her webcam’s angle away from them and stared blankly at him. “You see, Mike,” she croaked. “It’s been going like this for weeks now.”

Hasser just shook his head. During the last visit, the treating physicians and the staff at the special education center briefed him on Pam's deteriorating condition. Her tantrums would only worsen; she might harm herself or others, they had said. Now, he was witnessing it. His daughter suffered from a severe form of autism. She was non-verbal and had poor learning ability. Unable to go to a traditional school. Specialized centers coached kids like her, offering a tailored approach to each child.

Aggression was rampant among this subset of disease sufferers, requiring frequent drug interventions and hospital treatments. Professionals often differed in their approaches to managing such cases. Contrary to Hollywood stereotypes, the majority of autistic children are not savants. In fact, they need continued support from parents and caregivers, living a life of dependency in one or another form.

“Even the center people didn’t know what to do about her,” Rebecca said hoarsely. "Docs simply prescribe more medication each time we visit them. Tranquilizers, to keep her numb, that’s it. But even those aren’t working anymore. She might need asylum care, Mike.”

He sighed. “I’m so sorry, Becky—”

“Are you?” she thundered at him, cutting him off. “Do you fucking care anymore what your daughter’s going through while you’re out there fighting your dirty wars?”

Hasser held up his hand. “Hey, I care a lot for her. Listen up, Becky. I’ve already applied for reassignment to the States.”

“You’re a liar, and you know it in your heart,” she blurted out hysterically. “Look, don’t you see? Doesn’t she mean anything to you at all? What kind of man are you, Mike?” She was in tears.

“Stop it, Becky. It’s not like that,” he replied in a low voice. No point in screaming back. He knew she was goading him into another shouting match, the kind that ultimately led nowhere.

She wiped her face, sniffling. “Doesn’t she need you around? When will you realize she's your responsibility as much as mine?”

“Please, do you even understand me?” he massaged his temple as he spoke, “I’m not Jack Ryan or Mitch Rapp. I didn’t play the stock market, and my dad didn’t leave me with an estate. I simply cannot give up this job. Curse it you may, it provides me the wherewithal to support Pam, including her special care, therapies, and medications. Such stuff costs a dime, if not an arm and a leg.” He did not mention the separate check Becky was getting every month for herself, without a meaningful break.

Rebecca slammed her computer shut, and the call was terminated. Hasser breathed heavily and stared at the screen, as blank as his mind.

Next morning Hasser woke to the buzz of his cell phone vibrating. He scrunched up his eyes to hold on to the leftover sleep, but it did not work. The angry phone refused to let go of its incessant rattle. He rolled over and checked.

It was Becky again!

He had slept late. Had been working for hours before hitting the bed to keep his mind away from the mess his life had become. The people he truly loved had stopped believing in him; his life partner one of them. She argued with him about matters barely within his control or influence. His job required overseas assignments, which was a thorny issue. He did not blame her. But it wasn’t easy on him.

Hasser had needed sleep—a good night’s sleep to come through his misery. But he had just squirmed and tossed around in bed for most of a long winter night, staying up for hours and going over what had gone wrong. Wandered into the dark, worry-filled recesses of his worn-out mind, forcing himself down a road where rage and self-pity, no longer distinguishable, threatened his sanity.

He felt drained out now, lacking the energy for another round of endless bickering. Her words from the previous evening echoed like shots on a deserted firing range. You’re a liar, she had said. He wished he had screamed back and said something equally stupid to fend off the tirade.

Does your daughter mean anything to you? Her next sentence sent him into a world of pain. What kind of question was that? What man on earth wouldn't give everything for an angel like Pam? She was God’s blessing for him. By being special, she made him feel special in many ways. It was amazing how someone so small and imperfect could have such a huge impact on anyone’s life.

What kind of man are you? Becky had asked. He knew the answer to that. Her daughter had made him a better man. A much better man than he had ever been before.

His phone warbled. Becky was only half-finished, it seemed. Since he was not picking up her calls, she had fired off a text message. It read—You don’t realize what I’m going through. I wish I had never married you.

Hasser stiffened at once, his breathing picking up. He tossed the phone away. Becky was getting combative by the day, always stocked up on anger. Unlike him, she had not accepted her daughter’s condition.

A framed picture sat still on his study table, shrouded in the early morning darkness engulfing his room. With a sigh, he got up and switched on the lights. The picture beamed at him, bringing back a flood of memories. Rebecca and he stood side by side, with a mischievous young Pam perched on his neck. It was taken five years ago at a family gathering. Before her diagnosis.

Tears flooded his eyes.

More photographs adorned the walls in 3m hangers. Becky and Pam in various poses. His own too few, mostly when he was home and they were all together. Park visits, beach walks, outdoor camping. A lovely family vacation in Greece . Another one to the Bahamas. More mundane things like the ubiquitous mall trips and the backyard dinners. With burning eyes, he saw his whole family life chronicled in those pictures.

A set showed Becky. He met her for the first time on a mountain trail up Piestewa Peak in Phoenix. A freckled twenty-something with crazy cobalt blue eyes. A small grin, and pigtails. She descended from an obscure little town east of Tucson. Dressed up for the hike, she and her group of girls were huffing and puffing once the trail got steeper and the summer heat notched up. He offered her water. She had recently graduated from college and begun working as a junior teacher at an elementary school in Peoria. She was in love with mountains, motorcycles, and romance books. Took an instant liking to the handsome soldier who enjoyed basketball and tough hikes. They started a relationship in short order.

One picture in particular was his favorite. She had sent it after their first meeting. She wore a maroon cold-shoulder tee with hem detailing and striped pants, her short hair sticking out.

The decision to go ahead with the wedding came easily within the year. He had proposed to her on the phone.

She had gushed, chanting excitedly on the other end. “Oh, my god, oh, my god! I’m so freakin’ happy.”

He settled her in an apartment in his native Glendale. Pam was born the next year, a little premature but fine otherwise, at least physically. Her autism became evident only later on when she grew up.

Becky took it upon herself too hard, and their marriage deteriorated slowly. Whenever they visited the shrinks she cried as hard as he had ever seen her cry. Hasser felt his heart bleed. He wanted her to stop mentally abusing herself. He wanted her to live in happiness. To him, Becky was as important as the daughter, but she refused to come together. She fell into a deep depression, and their second child, despite being perfectly normal, did not make matters any better. Hasser Junior often got neglected, he knew.

His head throbbed with cascading pain, brought on by anger and helplessness. He wondered if his life would ever be rid of misery. If he left the Agency, his problems were not going away, he was sure. Jobs were difficult to come by, especially for shaken-up ex-military types. No employer wanted damaged goods. Any veteran exhibiting behavioral issues, regardless of their severity, could easily receive the stigmatizing label of PTSD. The phrase “wrecks of the war” was commonly used.

The road to separation was even bumpier. Most of his savings would go to the lawyers, leaving nothing for the kids or himself. These days, divorces bankrupted the guys. He would probably not get on his feet again.

Am I headed for the bottle?Another damned alcoholic? His mind screamed, like a noisy spectator to its own agony.

He figured no more sleep was in order and sat up in the bed, his shoulders slumped. A rotten taste had crept into his mouth. He tried to calm himself with different breathing exercises but failed. Seeing no point, he decided to occupy himself with work.

Showered and shaved, he walked back to the office. “Hey, Mike,” someone called.

It was past sunset now. As Chad appeared by his side, Hasser stopped. Without another word, he beckoned Hasser as he typed the code on the door panel and entered Kate's office. Hasser slipped behind him. Blessedly, the room was warm and the woman was not around.

“How’d it go?” Chad asked. He lit up a cigarette after fumbling with his cheap lighter several times.

“Not so well,” he replied, not knowing what the other man meant. He could well be asking about his latest chat with his wife. “Qataris had some poor bumps shackled there,” he continued. "Petty smugglers from a small fishing community on Lavan. I went through them again, but couldn’t pry anything out.”

Chad puffed out a swirl of smoke. “I see. I wasn’t hopeful in the first place. Well, it was worth a try at least. The White House is leaning hard on us to do whatever it takes to retrieve the American hostages.”

“Understood,” Hasser acknowledged.

Leaning back in the chair, Chad flicked his cigarette. “Let me say here it’s a priority task.”

Hasser remained quiet. He wanted to tell him he did not care and wasn’t interested in the big picture or the lives of a few individuals. He had a failing marriage on his hands. And an autistic daughter to raise all by himself if he could not reconcile with his estranged wife. Yet he could not quit what he had signed for. Not when the threats had grown murkier and the fight turned uglier. He had to be on the wall, guarding the realm of freedom against the dangers that lay beyond.

The door to the room opened, and Kate came in, a fiftyish man of medium height and average build with her. Hasser eyed him closely. Wheatish skin, trimmed gray beard, and expensive frameless glasses. Dressed for the weather in corduroy trousers and a turtleneck sweater, he had layered it with a puffed bomber jacket, giving his chest an unnatural bounce. Something about the guy was vaguely familiar. He went straight to meet Chad. His manner was frank. Then he came to him.

Chad simply said. “Mike, meet Zaki Bilal.”

Holy shit. Hasser was dumbfounded. He had finally recognized him. He stood there, staring at the guy in bewilderment, who smiled lightly and touched his hand in greeting with a closed fist.

“I reckon you know Zak,” Chad said amusingly.

“Only through social media and cafeteria gossip. Word is, he's the man who helped us kill Osama bin Laden," Hasser said, looking suspiciously at the guy. He felt a little irritated having an outsider around.

“Exactly right. And then he spent most of his reward money on women and booze, the rest he wasted!” Chad roared with laughter. Kate chortled as well. Zaki just shrugged.

“So, if I may ask, what is the Agency’s star tipster doing here in Qatar? Catchin’ up with old buddies? Sightseein’?” Hasser asked lightly, looking at Chad, then Kate. Their faces were unreadable, but he assumed the man’s arrival out of nowhere was not coincidental.

“Uh, Mike, nothing like that,” Kate said hesitatingly.

“What’s it anyway?” he persisted.