CHAPTER NINETEEN
Umar, or Levine, entered a chamber with al-Sherrod and the two Quds officers in tow. The room was perfectly square, not too large, but big enough to hold its prize. In the room’s center situated on a foot-high platform was the Ark of the Covenant, which gave off a gold nimbus of light beneath the conical beam of a lamp shining downward from above.
Slowly, the operative’s jaw dropped in typical awe. He knew that the Ark in Axum, Ethiopia was a facsimile. But there was something about this particular Ark, an emitting energy, something that was tangible and intangible at the same time, something wonderfully magnetic.
“Do you sense it, as well?”
Levine ignored al-Sherrod and stepped closer with his hands held outward with every intention of placing his palms against its surface. The history behind this box, he thought, the power of its simple presence, was overwhelming.
Slowly, he pressed his palms against the gold that shined like the surface of a mirror — could see the color reflect off him as he stood next to the precious icon. His clothes, his flesh, everything about him became the color of gold within its glowing presence.
He did not feel the fatal electric charge that was alleged should the Ark be touched by open hands. Instead, it was cool and smooth to the touch, its texture like the even surface of glass. And then he grazed his fingers gingerly over the golden seat, then over the cherubs facing away from each other with the tips of their wings touching, then over the golden loops for the carrying poles. Everything he laid a hand on rang of legitimacy. And in his heart he knew this was the true Ark of the Covenant.
“Where did you find it?” he asked, tracing the tips of his fingers over the shell.
“Does it matter?”
“What does this have to do with what’s going on here in this facility?”
Al-Sherrod moved closer, the glow of the Ark now catching him within its aura. “Al-Ghazi truly did not tell you, did he?”
“Al-Ghazi informs cells as to their directives. In order for them to succeed he must keep secrets in case one cell is compromised, so that others can remain ignorant in order to keep them from forwarding information to the enemy. Even cells need direction from someone. And al-Ghazi is that someone. He tells me only what he must.”
“But for him not to trust in you, Umar?”
“It’s not a matter of trust, but a tool of defense.”
Al-Sherrod circled the Ark and ran a slender hand along its frame. “Do you know of the Ark’s tale? Of what the Christians believe will happen should the cover be lifted?”
Levine stood silent.
“Al-Ghazi lifted the cover. And do you know what happened?”
More silence.
“Nothing,” al-Sherrod said. “Inside were two tablets of stone, a golden bowl of manna, and an ancient cane.”
Levine knew the story of the dark angels within should they be released from the Covenant, the demons hunting down those close by who were filled with black wills instead of the Light of His glory, devouring them.
“It is nothing more than a box laden in gold and superstition,” he added. “But the good Doctor Sakharov is going to change all that.”
Levine turned to him, the features of his face already asking the question: How?
Al-Sherrod smiled. “If al-Ghazi did not tell, nor will I,” he answered. And then he grazed his palm lovingly over the structure, a gentle caress.
“Will you destroy the Ark, then?”
Al-Sherrod nodded. “The Ark was given to the prophet Solomon as a sign of His devotion to him. No, Umar, the Ark is only a vessel that is finally coming into its own as something it was meant to be all along — a tool by Allah to finally diminish the infidels given the prophecies. Once the lid is open, then the demons will rush forward to destroy those not within Allah’s grace.”
Levine suddenly felt his chest tighten. A vessel of destruction, four words that caromed off his mind over and over again, the words resounding in hollow cadence: A vessel of destruction.
“Your role will be a prominent one once the good doctor has completed his tasks to al-Ghazi and to Ahmadinejad. So you deserve to see it this one time. But after today, Umar, you will not come near this chamber again. Is that clear?”
Levine grazed his fingers over the cherubs golden wings. “Clear.”
“Keep to your tasks by serving Doctor Sakharov, and keep yourself to the areas classified as non-restricted.”
“Understood.”
Al-Sherrod smiled at him with those yellow teeth. And then: “Allahu Akbar.”
With lack of commitment in his tone, Levine uttered, “Allahu Akbar.” And was escorted from the chamber sensing that a bulls-eye was just drawn on his back by the man they called the Devil’s Companion.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“I’ll do it.” The three words were spoken with little conviction as Kimball stood before Louie’s desk in a quaint little office whose walls were covered with corkboards, pushpins and memos that overlapped each other. The blunt of a cigar burned in an ashtray that read WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS, sending a corkscrew ribbon of blue smoke ceilingward.
“You’ll fight?”
“I need the money.”
“We all need money,” he said, smiling. Louie immediately went to the phone and tapped in numbers on the keypad and fell back into his seat. There was a look about him, thought Kimball, of victory due to the way his mouth tilted with smugness, how the arch of one eye was raised higher than the other.
“Yo, Mario, set me up for the undercard on Friday’s fight. I got my boy wonder here to go a few with whomever you have available.” There was a long pause as Louie nodded his head, imbibing every word Mario had to say. And then: “Is he any good?” There was another pause. “Six fights and six wins, five of them by knock out. Well, it seems that my boy here has his work cut out for him then… What?… Yeah, Friday night… All right then.” He placed the phone gingerly onto its cradle, grabbed the stub of his cigar, and set it at the corner of his mouth while surveying Kimball with a steady gaze. “Why the change of heart?” he asked.
“Like I said, I need the money.”
Louie shook his head. “I ain’t buying it.”
“I’m not trying to sell you anything. So either you believe me or you don’t. I don’t care. If you want a fighter, then here I am.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, his smile growing into a wide arc. “I got me a fighter, don’t I?”
“So I take it that I’m on the undercard on Friday night?”
Louie nodded. “You’ll be fighting a guy named Tank Russo — a big mother from back east. New York, New Jersey — they’re all the same. But he’s good, J.J. Five knockouts in six fights. And I mean flat out, star-seeing knockouts that sent three to the hospital. This guy is up and coming,” he added. “Another ten fights, he should be seeing rock-solid numbers from the purse.”
“And how much will I get?’
“With my fifty percent—”
“Twenty-five,” he corrected.
“Thirty-three?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty? You’re going the wrong way, J.J. When you negotiate, you’re supposed to come to a happy medium. How about twenty-five percent?”
“Twenty. You’re not the one going into that ring against a wrecking machine.”
The smile washed away from Louie’s face, which had become as sullen as stone. “All right twenty. But you better win, J.J. The purse for this fight is one thousand for the winner and five hundred for the loser. If you lose, I only get a C-note.”