The Portent Read online

  THE PORTENT

  Volume Two of The Façade Saga

  Michael S. Heiser

  The Portent

  Volume Two of The Façade Saga

  Copyright 2014 Michael S. Heiser

  Kirkdale Press, 1313 Commercial St., Bellingham, WA 98225

  KirkdalePress.com

  DrMSH.com

  ReadThePortent.com

  All rights reserved. You may use brief quotations from this work in reviews, presentations, articles, and books. For all other uses, please contact Kirkdale Press for permission, at [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or, when factual, used in a fictitious manner. Any fictional character’s resemblance to actual persons, living or dead—unless explicitly noted as such by the author—is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Patrick Fore

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-57-799562-3

  To my awesome kids, Amy, Molly, Calvin, and Simmi (“Summit”).

  You’re all in here somewhere, named and unnamed.

  Por ∙ tent (pôr-tĕnt): An indication of something important or calamitous about to occur; an omen.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  Publisher’s Note

  March 29, 1980: Jerusalem

  1

  In Jewish history, there are no coincidences.

  —Elie Wiesel

  “Don’t just stand there, kick it to me!” the boy screamed impatiently. The target of his anger stood quietly, looking down at the round, awkwardly misshapen object that had come to rest at his feet, propelled there by an errant pass. He hesitated. It didn’t seem right.

  “Out of the way,” an older boy in his early teens commanded, sprinting toward his tentative teammate. He was only a step ahead of the small pack in hot pursuit behind him. “I’ll show you how to kick a ball.”

  “It’s not a ball.”

  “It is today,” he cracked, expertly timing his kick without breaking stride. The object fluttered through the air clumsily, hitting the ground with a thud about ten feet away. A cloud of dust rose up as more players scrambled for a shot, pushing and shoving for position.

  “Stop that!” a woman’s voiced suddenly broke through the ruckus. “Stop that right now!”

  The boys wheeled around, startled, and saw an elderly woman, hair pulled back tightly under a stylish headscarf, rushing toward them with unexpected vigor. The woman paused for a moment, catching her breath as she glared at each one of the young male faces before her. “You should all be at home preparing for Shabbat!”

  Her attention shifted to the ground. She gasped, her hand coming to her mouth unconsciously. She bent over and gingerly picked up a human skull, intact save for the jaw, which was missing. It was unmistakably old.

  “Where did you find this?” she asked, her voice low and firm, barely concealing her contempt.

  “Over there,” one of the group pointed. “We’ll show you. We didn’t steal it—it was just there.”

  “I don’t care if you didn’t steal it!” she snapped. “We honor our dead. Do you hear me?”

  The boy nodded, then looked at the ground, avoiding her gaze.

  The woman followed several of the boys about fifty yards away to the location of their discovery. She saw the black hole in the ground, along with some boards and the tread marks of a heavy excavator. More bones were scattered about the surface near the opening. She peered down into the darkness and spotted a small, symmetrical breach cut into the rock below, about eighteen inches square. A demolition crew had apparently blown the top off a tomb. She’d heard the blasting two days before.

  “Gather up all these bones,” she ordered firmly. “I’ll take them and call the authorities. This will have to wait until the end of Shabbat.”

  The boys complied and dispersed. The woman wrapped the remains in her scarf, tying the ends into a bundle. She shook her head as she embarked on the short trip to her home, fuming over the carelessness of the demolition crew. She was too preoccupied to notice one of boys lingering at the edge of the makeshift soccer field.

  Once the woman was safely out of sight, the boy scurried to the location where he’d hidden souvenirs from his own excavation that day. Stuffing several handfuls of small bones into his pockets, he turned and ran home.

  Two months before the end of The Façade

  2

  Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.

  —Albert Einstein

  Neumayer Station III,

  Queen Maud Land, Antarctica

  70°40′ S, 008°16′ W

  “Steady the other end when I pull in the rope,” the bearded man directed, sniffing through the perspiration dripping from the end of his nose. The warmth of the lab compartments was always welcome, but it didn’t take long for body heat, coveralls, a sweater, and a sub-zero parka to make a man sweat like he was in the tropics.

  “Got it,” the man at the other end of the slender, metallic drilling tube replied. Clean-shaven and a decade younger, he watched as the first man ran through a process he’d performed many times.

  The tube, twenty feet in length, rested inside a semicircular channel that, to the untrained eye, might be mistaken for a piece of rain gutter. The channel was balanced on a fulcrum that allowed the tube to be pivoted and directed to a series of stands atop a shelf running the length of the lab. It took only a few minutes for an experienced hand to station the channel and the tube on top of the support stands.

  Neumayer Station III was, as its name suggested, the thir
d polar research station funded and operated by the Alfred-Wegener Institute. The station was the first of its kind, integrating research labs, operations, and staff accommodations under one roof. Normally staffed by a dozen scientists and graduate students, it could accommodate as many as forty people.

  “Now you’ll have something to keep you busy.” The bearded man smiled, glancing at his younger colleague. He wiped his brow and removed his parka, folding it over a chair. “Post-docs have all the fun.”

  “Suits me just fine.”

  “Leave your gloves on for now. I’ll push out the core for a look.”

  The bearded man grabbed a large plastic dowel, roughly three inches in diameter, and inserted it carefully into his end of the tube. He pushed slowly, and the ice core glided out into the channel.

  “What was the depth for this one?” his assistant asked.

  “Seventy meters or so.”

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Yep. It sure—aahh, what the hell?” The bearded man frowned. The pristine clarity of the core section that had just appeared was very obviously marred by a distinct discoloration—a thin, very dark ring with intermittent blotches of cream and yellow just below the outer surface of the drilled core.

  “Maybe if I smooth the surface a bit?” the younger scientist suggested, gesturing with a gloved hand, unsure of protocol.

  “Go ahead. You won’t hurt anything.”

  The young man bent over and began gently rubbing the imperfection. After only a few strokes, he stopped, staring in disbelief.

  “Good God!” his older colleague whispered, following his stare. “It can’t be. There’s no way—”

  “I don’t know about the black stuff,” his assistant replied, his heart pounding as he got on one knee so he was eye-level with the core, “but I know a thumb when I see it.”

  3

  No trumpets sound when the important decisions of our life are made. Destiny is made known silently.

  —Agnes de Mille

  The dark-skinned teenager kicked shut the door to his room, his hands filled with a sandwich and a cup of coffee. The room was illuminated by only the lamp on his desk, which was pushed tightly against his bed. He plopped down recklessly in front of the computer, spilling some coffee on the carpeted floor as he did so. He rolled his eyes, set his snack on the desk, and grabbed the shirt he’d worn yesterday from his bed to soak up the spill. Good as new, he thought, throwing the shirt into his closet.

  He shook the mouse to stir his computer out of hibernation. His fingers flew effortlessly across the keyboard, logging into the network, then through the stacked layers of security or “gap management,” as Madison referred to it. He finally arrived at the anonymous email program he used for communication with the outside world. His eyes widened as he read:

  Silent One,

  Castel Gandolfo is beautiful this time of year. I sent you a good envelope today. Tell me what you think of it. God be with us all.

  Mantello

  Mantello. It had been weeks since he’d heard anything from him. His pulse quickened as he navigated another security gauntlet—one of his own designs—to retrieve the “envelope” Mantello had mailed him.

  He had met the priest nearly a year ago online through an astronomy forum. He could scarcely believe his good fortune of meeting a high-level astronomer who worked at Castel Gandolfo, the Vatican observatory. He and Mantello soon became distant friends. He’d adopted the moniker “Silent One” since it best described someone like him who was incapable of speech. Plus, it sounded cooler than his real name: Kamran.

  His self-esteem had skyrocketed when Mantello had begun to refer to him as his assistant. It didn’t matter if the priest was stroking his ego just a bit. Kamran loved astronomy. He didn’t know all the astrophysics and higher math, but he had a thorough grasp of stars and star-lore and could visually decipher the heavens like most kids his age could read HALO maps. Mantello had discerned this, and Kamran was grateful. Eventually the priest had introduced him to some new ideas. Some of these new ideas challenged his faith, but Mantello had been a patient guide.

  Got them. Kamran’s dark, deep-set eyes scanned the half-dozen images. To the untrained eye they were meaningless, mere computer representations of the night sky, cluttered with tiny white dots and scattered astronomical symbols and abbreviations. Kamran opened all the images simultaneously on his desktop, deftly tabbing through them in rapid succession, back and forth, then back again. He rearranged the order, finding new sequences. The only commentary was the date stamp in the upper right-hand corner of each image. There was no need for anything else.

  Kamran swallowed nervously. Is he serious?

  Present day, three months after the events of The Façade

  4

  Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside of itself; it only requires opportunity.

  —George Eliot

  Graham Neff stepped out of the helicopter, careful to keep his attention on what was ahead of him, not on his feet. His female bodyguard had already exited and was stationed at the bottom of the short stairway.

  “Just keep your eyes on the jeep in the center,” he directed as he stepped onto the hard, parched ground. “Stay on them until we’re loaded.”

  The pair walked a short distance from their transport before stopping. Neff squinted through his sunglasses, adjusting his body armor, and assessed the situation. Five jeeps, one mounted with a machine gun, each loaded with Sudanese rebels. The rebels were disparately dressed in military fatigues and civilian clothing. Most wore head wraps. All were fully outfitted for combat. A motley crew—and a deadly one at that, Neff noted. A hundred yards beyond the jeeps, more troops—fifty or so, he guessed—were guarding four covered military trucks.

  Neff was an experienced outdoorsman, and his toned body adjusted quickly to the oppressive heat. His face was slightly tanned from frequent weathering, and it was perfectly symmetrical. His square jawline and slightly prominent cheekbones betrayed a distant, now long-forgotten Native American heritage. Looking over the scene, he suppressed a smile. The flight had been long, but he could see it would be worth it.

  Without a word, one of the soldiers hopped out of the center jeep and strode confidently toward them, stopping a few feet away.

  “Identify yourself,” the soldier demanded calmly in English. His accent was distinctively South African.

  “Neff,” he answered without expression.

  “I am Commander Bahar,” the soldier replied, equally expressionless. “I like your helicopter.”

  I’ll bet, Neff thought. “Military surplus, an Mi-6,” he said out loud. “Do you have the merchandise?”

  The soldier glanced curiously at Neff’s body guard. She was just a few inches over five feet tall, with immaculate, straight black hair that reached to the middle of her back, partially covering a small backpack. Her body armor did not completely conceal her elegantly curved body. The guard’s smooth olive skin and deep dark eyes caught the soldier’s eye momentarily, but her expression telegraphed nothing but hostility.

  “A woman?” the soldier asked with a condescending tone.

  “Absolutely,” Neff replied, remaining motionless. “Israeli. Mossad, until I made her a better offer. She likes money. Do you?”

  “Tavor?” the soldier asked, not about to be hurried. His men were alert behind him, eyeing the visitors suspiciously. The commander seemed more interested in the assault rifle than the woman holding it, its muzzle angled ever-so-slightly to the ground. He took note of the safety. It was off.

  “Israeli TAR-21, forty-five millimeter, 800 rounds a minute,” Neff answered, this time allowing a smirk to cross his face. “Positively breathtaking.”

  The soldier nodded. “Can you bring us some?”

  “Maybe—assuming there’s a next time.”

  Another nod.

  “Since you’re familiar with the TAR,” Neff added, turning his head slightly in the direction of the helicopter, “you’ll be able t
o identify this one, too.”

  The soldier’s attention immediately fixed on the aircraft as a side door slid open to reveal an M1919 mobile machine gun and another woman at the ready. He glanced at the cockpit. The pilot was watching the scene intently.

  “Mr. Neff, is this any way to meet a friend?”

  “We’re not friends.”

  The soldier looked squarely at his adversary, tight-lipped. After a few moments, he lifted his arm and waved, his eyes never departing from the foreigner. A soldier in the jeep immediately relayed the signal to the band behind them. Neff heard the trucks start and watched them begin to roll in their direction.

  Suddenly a small, shoeless African boy leaped from under the covered side of one of the trucks. Shouting erupted from the foot soldiers watching the vehicles depart. Neff remained focused on the soldier in front of him, as did his bodyguard, knowing the scene unfolding before them might be a diversion. Two soldiers ran after the boy, catching him easily. One punched him hard in the face. The second dragged the dazed boy by the feet to the truck that had stopped, waiting for its lost cargo.

  Neff waited for all the vehicles to arrive before speaking. “How many?”

  “Sixty,” the commander answered. “Forty-two girls.”

  “Virgins?”

  “Twenty-four, counting the little ones.”

  “I specifically asked for at least thirty,” Neff said, his irritation transparent.

  “Some of the men were not informed. My sincere apologies. If you do not want the young ones, others will.”

  “Little girls are useful,” he agreed. He gave a sly grin. “I have clients who have a special fondness for them. But short me next time, and you lose the TAR.”

  “Ah, so we will meet again.” The commander smiled. “Now, where is the payment?”

  Neff carefully removed the backpack from his bodyguard and handed it over to complete the transaction. The soldier unzipped it eagerly.

  “One hundred thousand dollars in gold, as requested,” Neff informed him.

  The soldier sifted through the small gold bars with his fingers, then lifted the bag, testing the weight. “You cheat me,” he accused angrily.