Looking ahead, Turcotte could see the dark hill rising like a cone out of the middle of a large field. There was no doubt it was an unnatural formation, given the smoothness of the sides and symmetry of form.
“Are you ready?” he asked Yakov.
The Russian shrugged. “No. But that won’t stop you.”
“We grab the first person we see and take their ring. It’s simple.”
“Simple,” Yakov repeated. “Nothing is ever simple.”
They were about a quarter mile from Silbury Hill, still approaching at the same steady rate. Turcotte grabbed the shoulder straps, buckling them securely over his chest. Yakov did the same. The pilot lined the bouncer up with a very slight depression near the top of the hill on the western side.
The bouncer was now less than a hundred feet from the depression. Turcotte looked about, but there was no sign of activity. The closest lights were from a house over two miles away. The depression in the side of the hill was slightly larger in diameter than the bouncer, which fit with Turcotte’s idea that it was similar to the one in Qian-Ling.
The forward edge of the bouncer touched the hill. It was a question of an irresistible force against an immovable object and which would give first as the pilot tweaked the controls. Turcotte had faith in the strength of the bouncer after seeing how little damage had occurred to one that had crashed.
The pilot used the craft’s edge as a large spade as it dug into the depression. Dirt and rock fell away, tumbling down the hillside. There was a loud screech, and the pilot paused as they all looked forward. A line of metal had been uncovered.
“Airlia,” Turcotte said.
“Now the real test,” Yakov said. “Also, I think those inside have heard us knocking now.”
Turcotte shrugged. “What are they going to do about it?”
The pilot lined up once more, placing the edge of the bouncer against the metal door. He increased pressure on the controls. It was an eerie contest of power played out in silence, as there was no sound of an engine from the bouncer’s system.
“It’s giving a little, I think.” Turcotte was watching forward when Yakov grabbed his arm.
“There!” The Russian was pointing to the right. A Land Rover with its headlights off had appeared from out of the hill itself, racing off into the darkness.
“Like rats off a sinking ship,” Turcotte said. “Go after them,” he ordered the pilot.
The bouncer easily closed on the Rover, still blacked out, but visible in their night-vision goggles. There was a flare of red as the driver braked, then spun a turn onto a dirt road that ran between two lines of trees.
“What now?” Yakov asked. “They will be in town shortly.”
“Land on top of it,” Turcotte ordered the pilot.
“What?” The pilot wasn’t sure he had heard right.
“Bring your craft down on top of the truck and stop it,” Turcotte said. “Crush it if you have to.”
“Mike—” Yakov had his hand on Turcotte’s arm.
“They destroyed our shuttle,” Turcotte said. “They tried to kill Mualama. They’ve been playing their games for a long time and the game is over.”
The pilot went ahead of the Rover, then turned back, coming down the road toward it just above the trees. The bouncer’s edge lowered, clipping through the trees like matchsticks. Yakov and Turcotte couldn’t help but flinch as they saw the shattered trunks and tree limbs slide along the side of the craft.
The driver of the Land Rover slammed on his brakes as the bouncer approached, then threw it into reverse. The forward edge of the craft was just above the hood of the truck when the pilot slammed down on it. With a crumple, the Rover was pinned to the ground, stopping abruptly.
Turcotte was already on the ladder and out of the hatch. He slid down the skin of the bouncer right onto the windshield of the Rover, weapon ready. There were two men inside, dazed from their impact with air bags. Turcotte rolled off the windshield onto the ground. He ripped open the door and dragged the driver out.
Turcotte pressed the muzzle of the MP-5 against the chin of the man. He could see the large ring on the Watcher’s left hand. His finger touched the trigger and began to pull when Yakov’s large hand grabbed the muzzle and pulled it up.
“Get the ring,” Yakov said. “That’s what we came for.”
Turcotte reached down and started to pull it off. The man curled his fingers into a fist and Turcotte overcame that impediment by digging his thumb into the man’s elbow, pressing down on a nerve junction. The hand flexed open as the man gasped in pain. Turcotte slid the ring off. The other man was opening the door on his side and Yakov fired a round, causing the man to duck.
“Come.” Yakov was on the edge of the bouncer, reaching down for him. Turcotte took his hand as Yakov lifted him onto the craft. They raced up the side and into the hatch. They were airborne before the Watcher was on his feet.
CHAPTER 9
Simon Sherev believed in the sanctity of the state of Israel much more than he believed in God. In fifty-two years of service, he had conducted countless undercover operations as a member of the Mossad and fought in four wars as a reservist assigned to the paratroops. He had killed men, women, and children when it was called for in order to accomplish the mission, and the mission always supported the sanctity of the state.
Sherev was a realist, a man who saw the world for the brutal place it was. Power mattered. Nothing else. As a child his father had told him the story of Archimedes, the Greek who had claimed he could move the world if he had a fulcrum point and a long enough lever. Sherev never forgot that. He also never forgot that Archimedes, while coming up with a good theory, had been spitted on the end of a Roman sword while absorbed in his calculations. Ideas were never enough.
Sherev’s corner office on the top floor of the administration building inside the Dimona compound literally sat on top of Israeli’s ultimate power — two dozen nuclear warheads, safely ensconced in a bunker a half-mile underground. The existence of those warheads was one of the best-known “secrets” in the world. Sherev had been part of the team that had “leaked” information about the bombs — after all, there was no point in having such fearsome weapons if no one knew you had them. They were the reason — beyond the pressure of the Americans — that Saddam Hussein had never turned his tanks west toward Jerusalem, and Sherev was in charge of making sure those twenty-four reasons remained secure. Even a madman like Hussein understood the concept of power and leverage. In fact, Sherev often contemplated the advantage a man like Hussein — with no conscience — had in the world of power struggles. Nice guys did indeed finish last in Sherev’s experience.
The underground complex below the nuclear plant also contained the archives for the state of Israel. With Jerusalem such a volatile location and not far from the border with Jordan, those items deemed valuable in one way or another were sent to Dimona to be secured.
Now he was facing a situation that had just been presented to him by the man sitting on the other side of his desk concerning two items in the archives. Hasher Lekur was a powerful man in his own right, a member of the Parliament who had consolidated many of the right-wing groups into a powerful political movement. The fact that he had been granted access to see Sherev on such short notice, here in highly classified Dimona, said much about his connections.
“I don’t understand,” Sherev said. “What is the importance of these two stones, the thummin and urim?”