The lance the project, p.1
The Lance (The Project), page 1
The Lance
By
Alex Lukeman
http://www.alexlukeman.com
Copyright 2011 by Alex Lukeman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means except by prior permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used as an element of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
“The best political weapon is the weapon of terror. Cruelty commands respect.
Men may hate us. But, we don't ask for their love; only for their fear.”
Heinrich Himmler, Reichsfuhrer, SS
Prologue: Antarctica
February 19, 1945
The Fenris Mountains reared stark and black against the dazzling white of the Antarctic plain. SS General Dieter Reinhardt watched two crewmen from U-886 clear ice and snow from steel doors set into the side of one of the nameless peaks. A motorized sled waited nearby. Reinhardt was tall and thin, his face almost a mirror of the death’s head emblem on his high, peaked hat. In his long greatcoat and dark, round snow goggles he looked like a malevolent insect.
The doors swung open. The crewmen picked up a wooden crate from the sled and followed Reinhardt down a dark corridor into the heart of the mountain. The corridor ended at a steel vault. Reinhardt worked a numbered combination dial, turned a large, spoked wheel and pulled open the heavy door.
Metal boxes lined one side of the vault. On the opposite wall, gold bars stamped with the eagle and swastika shone in the bright light of Reinhardt’s electric torch.
“Put it there, against the back.” His breath formed clouds in the frigid air as he spoke.
The crewmen set the box down. Reinhardt drew his pistol and stepped up behind one of the men, placed the muzzle at the base of his skull and fired. The report was deafening in the enclosed, metal space. His mate turned, eyes wide in shock. Reinhardt fired again. Blood sprayed across the stacks of gold.
Reinhardt holstered the pistol, stepped around the bodies and went back into the corridor.
He closed the vault door and locked it in place, retraced his steps and came out into the polar glare. Taking his time, he placed charges around the entrance to the bunker. The explosion brought down an avalanche of ice and snow over the doors. No one would ever find the entrance again, unless they knew exactly where it was.
Reinhardt got on the sled and headed back toward the distant edge of the ice shelf and the submarine. He thought of the night he'd been summoned from Berlin.
20MM twin anti-aircraft guns at the front and rear of Himmler’s private train pointed at the moonless sky. Not far away, on the other side of the Rhine, flashes of light and the distant rumble of artillery signaled the advance of the Allied armies. A faint glow hinted at fires banked in the boilers of two huge locomotives. The quiet hiss of escaping steam gave notice the train was ready to move.
Frosted globes lit the interior of the command car, the light held prisoner by blackout curtains drawn tight over the windows. SS Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler sat halfway down the car behind a desk. He looked up as Reinhardt entered.
The yellow lamplight reflected from Himmler’s round, flat glasses. In civilian clothes, with his receding, thin hair and sandy mustache, he could have been mistaken for a mild mannered grocery clerk. In his SS uniform with the silver wreath and oak leaves on his collar, he looked like what he was: the most dangerous man in Nazi Germany. Only Hitler had more power.
Reinhardt raised his arm and snapped his heels together.
"Come with me, General." Himmler stood. Reinhardt followed him to the baggage car. Four hard-looking SS guards armed with Schmeisser sub machine guns sprang to attention.
“Leave us.”
Himmler waved them away. On a table at the side of the car was an open crate. Inside the crate was a polished box of black walnut. The lid of the box bore a swastika and victory wreath of solid gold, set with diamonds. The stones glittered in the lamplight.
Himmler lifted the cover. The Holy Lance lay within on a bed of blood red silk, the spear that had pierced Christ's side. Reinhardt laid his hand on the ancient blade. It felt warm, even in the chill of the unheated railroad car.
It was said that whoever possessed the Lance controlled the destiny of the world. The legend had been written by centuries of blood and conquest. All the great conquerors of Europe had carried the Lance before their armies. Only Napoleon had failed to secure it.
Some thought the power of the Lance came from the Antichrist. Reinhardt and Himmler didn't care where the power came from. They knew it was real. That was the only thing that mattered. Only the Knights of the Grand Council knew Himmler had the Lance. Only Himmler and the Council knew it was the Lance that had brought victory in the early years of the war.
Himmler handed Dieter a thick packet.
“Your orders. Take the Lance to Antarctica and conceal it, then proceed to Argentina."
“Base 211?”
Himmler nodded. Few people who knew of the hidden research complex in the Antarctic wastes were still alive. No one had been there since '42.
"We will regroup in Argentina. In time we will retrieve the Lance and continue.”
Himmler laid his hand on Reinhardt's shoulder, a rare gesture of comradeship.
“Dieter. It is possible I will not survive this war.”
He held up his hand to silence Reinhardt’s protest. The light glinted from Himmler's glasses and the death’s head ring on his finger.
"If I fall, there will be a new Grand Master. Aid him in every way you can."
"As you command, Riechsfuhrer."
That Grand Master will be me, Reinhardt thought.
Both men looked down at the Holy Lance. It seemed to glow with faint blood light.
"We have lost for now," Himmler said. "But as long as the Lance is ours, we will never be defeated.”
A patch of rough ice under the sled jolted Reinhardt out of his memories and back to the present. He could see the submarine waiting in the distance, dark as Jonah's whale in the open water past the edge of the gleaming ice.
He would tell the Captain of U-886 his crewmen had been buried by a fall of ice. It was of no importance. When they reached Argentina, the Captain and the others would soon join their dead comrades. It was all arranged.
Three days later, British depth charges found U-886 as she approached the Argentine coast. She breached the surface long enough for the officer of the watch to record her badge and type before she vanished beneath the waves.
In the lightless vault under the mountain, the Lance waited beneath the diamond swastika. One day, someone would come. It was only a matter of time.
CHAPTER ONE
The sweet scent of Jasmine vines climbing the wall of the crumbling tenement in the Old City of Damascus wafted through an open window. A man bent over a wooden table with a soldering iron. He wiped sweat away from his forehead with the frayed sleeve of his shirt and concentrated on his task.
Another man watched from a sagging couch pushed against one of the stained yellow walls. He wore a dark suit of European cut. His crisp, white shirt was open at the collar.
The man on the couch had a face that was blank, forgettable. His features were smooth and calm, as if life had never quite reached the surface. It was hot in the apartment, but the man was not sweating. His eyebrows were unnoticeable above his colorless eyes. His nose seemed to disappear into the vagueness of his features. His lips were a thin, invisible line.
The man at the table was called Ibrahim. The man on the couch was called the Visitor, but Ibrahim didn't know that. It was better that way.
The bomb was almost finished. It was a very fine bomb, perhaps the best Ibrahim had ever made, and he had made many. He was well known throughout the terrorist network. If you wanted something unusual, reliable and easily concealed, with the most destructive result, you sought out the Syrian.
Anyone with a simple knowledge of electronics could build a suicide vest or a roadside device, but few could do what Ibrahim did. The truth of his skill was easy to see. He still owned almost all of his fingers and both eyes, no mean feat for an old bomb maker.
He soldered the final connection. He set the iron down and allowed himself to relax.
"It is ready?"
The man in the suit spoke in Arabic, his voice quiet, pleasant. He got off the couch, looked over the bomb maker's shoulder. Ibrahim tried to place the accent. German, perhaps.
Ibrahim took an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled yellow pack, held it in nicotine stained fingers and lit it. The harsh tobacco smoke formed a blue cloud as he exhaled. The man in the suit concealed his disapproval.
"Yes, ready. When you place the charge, set and activate the timer. There is a twenty-four hour window."
Ibrahim showed his guest the arming device, small like a woman's wrist watch. A red arrow was etched on the bezel surrounding the dial. The face was marked for twenty four hours. A second, smaller ring within the first was divided into twelve five minute increments.
"Set the hour by rotating the outer ring clockwise. Then, set the inner ring counter clockwise for fine adjustment. You can reset until you press this button. After that, no. The timer will run until your mark is reached. The bomb is safe until the time chosen. Then, boom."
The Visitor nodded.
"Give me the pack."
There were also two books. One was a popular paperback listing hostels and restaurants in Israel. The other was a hardbound travel guide to the holy sites of Jerusalem.
Ibrahim opened the guide to a hollowed out space where the bomb would be concealed. The new compound his guest had provided was a marvel of technology, fifty times more powerful than conventional Semtex or C-4. It had a color like sand or old, yellowed limestone and could be molded and shaped as needed. It seemed small, but the explosive force it yielded was devastating. It was also undetectable by current methods. Even the dogs would never sense it.
The book was well thumbed, innocent in appearance. The pages concealed shielding that blocked detection by the most sophisticated electronic equipment. Of course there was always a chance of discovery. The Jews and the Americans were good at counter terrorism. Ibrahim assumed the bomb was meant for one or the other.
Success was not Ibrahim's concern, nor was he concerned about where or how the bomb would be used. He knew it was good. His work was done. He placed the bomb in the book. He locked the pages in place that would keep a casual observer from noticing anything. He closed the cover and put the book back in the pack.
The haunting sound of the call to prayer echoed through the ancient city from speakers atop the Umayyad Mosque. Ibrahim would go to the mosque and refresh his relationship with God. The other could do as he pleased.
"You have done well, my brother." His client's voice was quiet, toneless. "Allah will reward you in the afterlife."
"There is still this life, no? You have brought payment?"
"Of course. I have it here."
The Visitor reached under his jacket and took out a silenced .22 Ruger automatic pistol and shot Ibrahim in the forehead. The bomb maker's mouth formed a soft oh. His eyes opened wide and rolled upward. The Visitor fired another round into the Syrian's left ear, a whisper soft as a baby's breath. The body toppled sideways from the chair to the floor. A trickle of blood ran out onto the worn, scarred linoleum.
The Visitor bent down and wiped a few spatters of blood from the end of one of his shiny black shoes. He took the backpack and placed it in a cloth shopping bag. He turned on a small radio set on the table. The rhythmic notes of an oud and drums filled the room with sounds of life. Ibrahim's neighbors would not notice anything amiss for some time.
The Syrian had been a good asset, but all possible trails to what was going to happen, any loose ends, must be eliminated. Ibrahim had been a loose end.
The so-called nation of Israel would soon cease to exist. All it would take to start the process was this one, small bomb. The Visitor closed the apartment door behind him and walked down the stairs to the cobbled alley below, whistling to himself.
CHAPTER TWO
Nicholas Carter looked at Elizabeth Harker and thought if there were any elves in the world, they probably looked like her. She was small boned and slim. She had milk white skin and small ears tucked under raven black hair. She had wide, green eyes. She was dressed in a black pants suit and white blouse with a Mao collar. In two years working for her he'd never seen her wear anything but black and white.
Harker ran the Project, the Presidential Official Joint Exercise in Counter Terrorism. She was Nick's boss. Her boss was the President.
On Harker's desk were a silver pen, a picture of the Twin Towers burning and a manila folder. The pen had belonged to FDR. The picture was a reminder. The folder was likely going to shape his day. Working for Harker meant he never knew if the day might leave him hanging out on the edge and wondering if he could pull himself back in.
He heard Harker say, "Someone's thinking about making trouble in the Middle East."
"Someone's always thinking about making trouble in the Middle East. What's different now?"
He fumbled in his pocket, found a crumbly antacid tablet and popped it in his mouth. Carter felt the tremor of a headache starting. Harker picked up her silver pen and began tapping it on the polished surface of her desk. Each tap vibrated inside his skull.
"The President is speaking in Jerusalem on Thursday. We have a source who says there's going to be trouble. He wants a face to face meet."
Carter tugged on the mutilated lobe of his left ear, where a Chinese bullet had taken off the lobe a few months ago. The bandage was off. It had looked better with it on.
It was the same ear that itched whenever things were about to get dicey, his very own personal early warning system. It itched now. A gift, or a curse, that he'd inherited from his Irish Grandmother, along with dreams he didn't want to have.
"Have you passed this to Langley? What do they say?"
"I'm supposed to back off and leave things up to the 'professionals'." There was an edge to her voice. "Lodge says there's no need for concern."
Wendell Lodge, Acting Director of the CIA.
"He says he and his Israeli counterparts have everything under control."
"Mossad?"
"And Shin Bet."
"What's Shin Bet?" said Selena.
Selena Connor sat next to Carter on Harker's leather couch. The ceiling lights caught the reddish blond color of her hair and turned her eyes violet. She wore a tan silk outfit and a pale blouse that went with her eyes. She was the first woman Nick had let get close since Megan died. He didn't know where it was going. Or if he wanted it to go anywhere. She was new to the team, which meant she had a lot to learn, which worried the hell out of him
Selena brushed a stray wisp of hair from her forehead.
Harker said, "Shin Bet is Israel's version of the FBI, on steroids. They handle internal security and counter-terrorism. Mossad is foreign intelligence and ops, like MI6 or CIA."
Carter looked down at his hands and picked at a broken fingernail. "Lodge is a devious bastard and a narcissist."
"Whatever he is, he's not going to brush us off. You're going to Israel. You find something that threatens Rice's security, give it to Shin Bet and the Secret Service. They've got the manpower, let them handle it. You leave today."
"I always wanted to see Jerusalem. Maybe I'll get a little sightseeing in."
She set the pen down and folded her hands. "It's not a vacation, Nick. You're booked into the same hotel as the President as part of his party, right outside the Old City. The Israelis may not let you keep your weapon. They're sensitive about guns and you're not Secret Service."
"Who's the source over there?"
"His name is Arshak Arslanian. He has a shop in the Armenian Quarter." She slid the manila folder across her desk. "His photo and info is in there."
Harker turned to Selena. "Selena, you continue with Ronnie this afternoon."
Ronnie was the third member of Nick's team. He was just back from visiting his family on the Navajo Reservation in Arizona. He'd been coaching Selena. Physical training, weapons, codes, the tricks of personal survival. All the things that might give her a chance to make it through the next year.
Harker tapped her pen and looked at Nick. "You'll need a lot of time to clear security. You'd better get going."
CHAPTER THREE
Carter sat with his back against the wall at a café in the New City, drinking espresso, watching the crowd. The night was warm. The pedestrian mall where King George and Ben-Yahuda streets and the Jaffa Road came together in Jerusalem was packed with people.
For the Jewish people, Jerusalem was the center of the world. It was where the Messiah would some day appear. It was the place where God had commanded the building of His Temple, where every stone, pebble and grain of dust on the Temple Mount was sacred ground. Devout Jews all over the world recited prayers each day for the restoration of the Temple, destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE.
