Twenty feet ahead, Katchi’s executive assistant was holding the elevator door open for him.
“Mr. Katchi,” the reporter continued, “you were at one time one the world’s most notorious arms dealers. Supplying advanced weapons systems to a wide variety of countries, rogue nations, and terror groups—”
“Correction. I have never done business with terrorists,” Katchi retorted with a smile. Now at the elevator’s entrance, he paused, then turned. “Besides, I am now out of the weapons business completely—”
“I understand,” she replied. “Still, there are many who believe your decision to align yourself with the Society for Global Change, the organization you cofounded with Caesar Demas, was to camouflage your past—”
“I am now fully committed to building peace, rather than expanding war,” Katchi stated. “You may have heard the story already. How the death of my own brother was caused by one of the very same weapons systems that I had sold. Therefore, several years ago I chose to redirect my energies into humanitarian causes. Now, please, I am sorry, I have another commitment…”
Katchi turned again and, along with his aide, stepped into the empty elevator.
Both of them were quiet until the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors hissed open.
Waiting for them in the small hallway was Caesar Demas, flanked by two plainclothes security guards. Katchi and his aide stepped out to greet him.
“Let’s take a walk alone,” Demas insisted and motioned to Katchi to follow him down the hall while the aide stayed behind by the elevator. Demas waved a finger toward the door of a restroom. Then he blew through the door with Katchi close behind. The two bodyguards quickly took a position to block the entrance to the men’s room.
Demas and Katchi began perusing the bathroom, flinging open every stall door to make sure they were alone.
Then Demas walked over to the two hand dryers on the wall and punched them both on until the sound of their roaring filled the room.
He leaned over to Katchi and spoke directly into his ear.
“I have given the order for the messenger to stand down. At least temporarily.”
“Really? I would have waited. I know your reason. You are banking on the U.S. caving in. Well, maybe they will. And maybe not. I think you should have put the messenger securely in place first before delaying his mission—”
“Why? So he could be poised to grab the RTS information first? Then bypass us and sell the data directly to someone else? Hamad, I thought you were smarter than that.”
“Even if the United States decides not to share the RTS specifications, then, per our plan, our man will still be able to get his hands on the designs anyway.”
“Yes,” Demas replied, “but by that time I will have my own people in place around him to make sure he doesn’t go rogue on us…”
At that same moment, on the other side of the Atlantic, cars were stacked up in a long line at the Canadian-U.S. border. Those wishing to cross from Lacolle, Quebec, to Champlain, New York, could expect delays of up to forty-five minutes. The U.S. customs officers were carefully checking passports of all incoming drivers.
Behind the steering wheel of his rental car, the Algerian took a few moments to examine himself in his rearview mirror. He had Yergi Banica’s passport open on the seat next to him. He glanced down at the passport photo and then up at his own face in the mirror.
It was a good match.
Zimler had grown a mustache to match Banica’s. He had accomplished that even before he had murdered him. Funny, Zimler thought, that Yergi never even noticed the similarity before the zip cord was looped around his neck. Despite his academic prowess, Banica had failed to realize that his executioner had actually taken great pains to create a close resemblance. To complete his transformation into the middle-aged Romanian professor, Zimler had obtained a pair of spectacles and had tinted portions of his hair just slightly.
Now, all that was left was to slip through the border station without incident. And if that went well, then one of the world’s deadliest assassins would be roaming free within the continental United States.
Zimler’s Allfone started ringing.
He glanced down and saw the word “Restricted,” but he didn’t answer it. He had more important business right now. No suspicious movements. He was in plain view of the border guards with only two cars between his and the checkpoint.
No message was left on his Allfone. He muted the ringer.
Now just one car remained between Zimler and the border stop.
Zimler tuned the car radio to a French station playing classical music. He listened for a few moments, keeping the level down to a soothing volume. Had he heard this piece before? He thought it might be Debussy, one of his favorite composers. Perhaps it was the Estampes for piano. It was a pity, he thought, that the business of his “professional life” had frequently kept him from enjoying the truly finer things in life. Like the beauty and complexity of music.
But the music was not merely for pleasure. It would also help him focus. Lower his heart rate. Help loosen the facial muscles, creating a relaxed expression. Everything had to look normal.
His car was next. He pulled up to the window.
“Good afternoon,” Zimler announced, confidently holding out the stolen passport to the U.S. border official.
The official smiled. Then studied the passport. Then he looked hard at Zimler. “What brings you to the United States?”
“I have always wanted to visit America,” Zimler said in a polished Romanian accent. “Now is my chance. Business mostly. I will be studying some documents at Library of Congress for my research.”
The border guard smiled but didn’t take his eyes off Zimler. “May I ask why you didn’t fly directly into the United States from Romania, Mr. Banica?”
“Well,” Zimler said with a slight laugh, “the flight into Quebec was cheaper, of course, than direct flight to Washington. But if you want to know secret…I have always wanted to see New England. I can catch a little of it coming in from northern part of state of New York while I drive. I just hope now I’m able to find gas station that has petrol…you know, with your president’s rationing plan…”
The border guard smiled back and then handed the passport back to Zimler. “Have a good trip, Mr. Banica.”
Zimler pulled ahead, through the U.S. border crossing station, leaving Quebec behind. He turned up the music on the radio.
I’m in.
A few miles down the highway his Allfone vibrated. Again, it said, “Restricted.”
He turned down the music and clicked on the cell.
“I would like to speak to the messenger,” Petri announced from the other end of the line.
In his Europoort office in Rotterdam, Petri Feditzch was flicking the end of another cigarette he’d just lit. He was looking out of the greasestreaked window toward the junction of the Rhine and Meuse rivers. He had decided to wait awhile before connecting with Zimler. Just in case Petri’s superiors changed their minds and decided not to delay the project after all. Such an occurrence would have required making multiple contacts with Zimler rather than one. And that was something Petri wanted to avoid. His days with the KGB had taught him a few things about the more perverse side of human nature. Dangerous, unpredictable people must be managed in a simple manner. Unnecessary complexity, well, that was not a good thing—especially when negotiating with a sociopath like Zimler. Keep things straightforward. Predictable.
“Please, I must speak with the messenger,” Petri repeated.
“Talk,” Zimler responded.
“Is this the messenger?”
“If you are the exporter, then I am the messenger.”
“Good,” Petri said. “In that case I have a message for you.”
There was silence.
“My superiors want you to delay the project.”
There was more silence…then an exhale of disgust.
“I don’t like delays. I rarely tolerate them.”<
br />
“I understand. But in this case, it is critical, I’m afraid.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure.”
There was another pause. The former KGB agent knew Zimler’s seething anger was about to be directed at him.
“I am on a very strict timeline,” Zimler snapped. “Cretans like you can’t appreciate that.”
Petri took another drag on his cigarette, then simply replied, “I was to deliver the message. I have done that. Your instructions are unequivocal. You must halt the project until you receive further instructions from me.”
Zimler did not respond. Instead, he disconnected the call and turned the volume knob up on the radio.
As he drove, Zimler reached over to his briefcase and pulled out a file with one hand and laid it on the seat next to him. He flipped it open. Joshua Jordan’s picture was there. Along with the other documents he had been given by the late Yergi Banica. There were also several new clippings about Joshua and the RTS controversy.
Zimler didn’t need much time to ruminate on Petri’s call. He would not delay his mission. He refused to be treated like a schoolboy waiting for the teacher to give him his next assignment. Who did they think they were dealing with?
He already knew exactly what he was going to do and how he would do it. Zimler glanced again at the picture of his target.
As he drove on, listening to the piano piece nearing its conclusion, a satisfied smile broke over his face.
Yes. He was right. It was Debussy after all.
TWENTY-ONE
Three blocks west of Market Street in San Francisco, not far from City Hall, two armed officers had just disembarked from their parked vehicle. Both were wearing dark blue jackets with the words U.S. Marshal emblazoned on the back in gold block letters. It was obvious that the senior officer, Deputy Marshal Jim Talbot, was less than enthusiastic about what he might end up having to do today.
This was the high-rent district of San Francisco’s downtown area, and the building the two officers were standing in front of fit right in. Gazing up at the high-rise’s smoked-glass-and-steel façade, they could guess that the interior was expensively furnished and filled with shiny chrome and polished marble, though neither officer had ever set foot inside. Talbot could only shake his head while thinking to himself, What an absolute waste of taxpayer money.
But it was the item centered directly over the building’s exquisite glass entrance doors that had Talbot tied up in knots. Even though he’d seen the big globe-shaped blue symbol countless times before on the evening news, and once when he had passed by the world organization’s well-known headquarters while visiting New York City, it still bothered him no end. The familiar olive branches, one on each side, embracing an outline of the world’s continents in the center.
To Talbot, the whole thing seemed bizarre. To have this building with that logo right here in San Francisco. In his own city. How could this have happened?
The transformation of his home…his country…had occurred quietly…when no one was looking.
Just above the symbol were the words:
United Nations Monitor for Human Rights California Division.
Talbot wanted to blurt out what was on his mind right then and there. What was happening to America? But he didn’t. He was a man of honor. He loved the United States. And that meant he was dutybound to enforce its laws. Including the unfortunate U.N. treaty that his beloved homeland had signed.
Talbot and his junior deputy strode in and introduced themselves to the woman seated at the receptionist desk. Above and behind her on the wall was a smaller replica of the same words and symbol that was featured prominently outside. She spoke with a distinctive but hard-to-place accent. The two marshals were there to see Chief U.N. Monitor Catalina Obreras, a lawyer from Spain. Her office, said the receptionist, was on the third floor.
Upon entering the U.N. chief’s sanctuary, the walls of which were lined with photos of her posing with various heads of state from around the world, Talbot realized that Ms. Obreras was not the type of person he would ever associate with socially. Perhaps that had something to do with her job.
She had two copies of the report in question on her desk. After the obligatory introductions and pleasantries, she held one copy out to Talbot, who snatched it up.
“It’s all here, Deputy Talbot,” Obreras explained. “The original complaint against the Reverend Teddy Berne from three months ago. He was only issued a warning in the form of a written citation at that time and wasn’t arrested. That was in accord with the U.S.-U.N. Compact of Protocol. As you know warnings are given for first-time offenses out of respect for your free-speech customs here in the United States. But despite being told to cease and desist, Reverend Berne has continued his illegal rantings and dangerous public displays. He is scheduled to hold a rally in about ten minutes here in the city. The location is on the front page of the report. In there you will also find the certification from the U.S. Department of Justice accepting the referral from us to prosecute Reverend Berne, which they have agreed to.”
Talbot leafed through the papers until he came to the DOJ letter authorizing him to take the pastor into custody. The document stated Berne was the head of a group called the Foundation for a Christian America. It specified that Reverend Berne was being charged with a violation of the United Nations Covenant of Tolerance and Human Rights (UN-CTHR) as ratified by the U.S. Senate and signed by President Corland. The letter read:
Reverend Theodore Obadiah Berne has repeatedly violated the UN-CTHR, section IV, subsection 6 (defamation of religion) as made a part of the laws of the United States by the act of the United States Senate, and as signed by the president of the United States. The said Rev. Berne has engaged in the unreasonable and offensive defamation of the religion of another in a manner subjecting such religion to contempt and tending to provoke, or threatening to provoke, the likelihood of a public disturbance; to wit, through public proclamations and communications that have denigrated the religion of Islam and its followers.
Deputy Talbot handed the paperwork to his partner and offered a rather unconvincing “have a nice day” to Ms. Obreras. He then turned on his heels and strode out of the U.N. monitor’s office.
By the time the U.S. marshals pulled up at the Justin Herman Plaza, Reverend Berne, who was standing on a small platform in front of the large fountain before a crowd of about two hundred, was in the middle of his speech.
And things were beginning to come unglued.
A small group of pro-Islamic protestors had just arrived on the scene, carrying signs that read “Stop the Christian Crusade against Muslims” and “Bye-Bye Bible Bigotry.”
Talbot and his partner got out of their car.
At that same moment, one of the protesters decided to run over to the side of the stage and yank the plug on the PA. He then jumped onto the platform and charged directly at Reverend Berne. The reverend’s assistant leaned in and blocked the assailant’s path with his forearm, causing the attacker to fall. While down, the protester quickly removed one of his boots, then stood and smashed Reverend Berne’s assistant in the forehead with its heel, causing him to reel backward slightly and fall to his knees.
Talbot watched as several San Francisco police officers, who were already on duty near the perimeter of the plaza, sprinted toward the stage with batons raised. Two of the officers jumped onto the platform and swung their batons down hard onto the shoulders and arms of Reverend Berne’s assistant who was already down, while a third officer pulled the pro-Muslim attacker aside, scolded him, and simply ordered him to leave.
Berne began shouting to the officers to stop beating his friend. “You’ve got the wrong man!” he cried.
As Talbot and his partner neared the platform, it was all he could do to keep his angry thoughts to himself. I ought to be out tracking down dangerous fugitives from justice. Not handcuffing some preacher and watching the local cops beat up innocent people.
Talbot ordered t
he baton-wielding policemen to stop. “Stand down, officers. We’ll take care of it from here.” The two San Francisco cops reluctantly did as they were told.
“Are you Reverend Teddy Obadiah Bernes?” Talbot asked when he was in front of the preacher.
Berne wasn’t surprised. He had expected it. He raised his head just a bit higher as he answered.
“I am.”
“Sir, I am a United States marshal. Reverend Berne, you’re under arrest for violating the Covenant of Tolerance and Human Rights.”
Talbot’s statement triggered an immediate chorus of boos from a small number of Berne supporters who were in the crowd, along with an equal number of cheers from the protestors. It was apparent, however, that this crowd was not about to become unruly. And for that Talbot breathed a sigh of relief. There was no need to alert the riot squad. The majority of those who had assembled to hear the preacher were merely curious and couldn’t care less about the outcome. The show was winding down.
“God save the United States of America!” Berne bellowed to the largely disinterested crowd who were now starting to disperse. “May Jehovah save this country from the tyranny of the global lords and from the United Nations—and from the oppression of the San Francisco police force!”
Two hours later Berne was in custody after having been booked at the federal building. The reverend was allowed one phone call, but it wasn’t to his lawyer. It was to a friend. And the friend called an associate who knew a retired Air Force general by the name of Rocky Bridger.
Within the hour General Bridger received a call on his Allfone. His fishing boat was just about to dock at Charleston Harbor along the coast of South Carolina. The man on the other end of the line explained what had happened to Reverend Berne.