“They let him go,” Deker said. “We had him. I had him. You were there. You know it.”
She shrugged innocently and continued. “They’ve got the Israel Defense Forces requesting your services from DOD to help them defend the Temple Mount in Jerusalem from both Arab and Jewish extremists.” She paused. “And they’ve properly flagged Rachel Alter’s death as a turning point in your psych profile.”
Deker swallowed hard and said nothing, seething at this blatant ploy to throw the worst experience of his life in his face. He and Rachel, barely nineteen, were engaged when she died from an explosive he had created to take out a Hamas leader. The accident with Rachel was a tragedy.
“Interesting,” Wanda Randolph concluded. “They note your discharge from the IDF but give no reason. But they do say you were deported from Israel a year later for being a 33rd Degree Freemason.”
“I thought it was time I actually did something constructive with my life,” he told her. “You know, build things instead of destroy them. That’s a crime?”
“Dang, no, Deker. Not in America. I’ve seen Masons get medals for their service to their country. But it’s a problem in Israel if you’re cutting a white Melekeh cornerstone from Solomon’s Quarries for a Third Jewish Temple, seeing as it would have to be built where the Dome of the Rock mosque currently sits. The FBI concluded that the Israelis decided you were thinking about blowing up the Dome of the Rock.”
Deker blinked. “And I am being held here by the FBI on what charge?”
“On being psycho,” she said. “They think you’re a walking time bomb waiting to go off, and that you sure as hell don’t belong in federal buildings, especially theirs.”
“Bullshit. You know that’s not true.”
“But they don’t, Sam,” she said, closing the file and tapping it with her finger. “And they also don’t know about the terrible torture you endured at the hands of those Palestinian extremists.”
“They were Jordanian GID,” Deker corrected her.
“Jordan’s intelligence agency is a U.S. and Israeli ally,” Wanda said. “That’s nonsense. It was those bastards in the Alignment who pumped you full of photosynthetic algae and light waves in order to take control of your brain. They seemingly sent you back in time to 1400 B.C. and the ancient Israelite siege of Jericho, but it was only to break you down and extract what you knew about Israel’s secret fail-safe in case of attack.”
“It wasn’t a psychosis, it was real,” Deker said flatly, and realized he was fingering his IDF dog tag hanging from his neck.
“Of course it was real,” Wanda said, sounding like she was playing along with a lunatic. “You were an ancient Hebrew spy sent by General Joshua bin Nun to scout the walls of Jericho before the Israelite invasion. You made love to a beautiful enemy named Rahab who was a dead ringer for your beloved Rachel. In the end, you not only saved Israel-past and future-but established the bloodline that gave the Jews their king David and the world Jesus Christ. For these heroics, the modern state of Israel thanked you by dishonorably discharging you from its armed forces.”
Deker knew how ridiculous it all sounded. Wanda Randolph had proved her point.
What really happened to him was that he had been broken into a million pieces. So many pieces that he could never put himself back together again. Once he was a warrior who broke things. Now he was broken beyond repair, a ghost wandering sleep labs by night and construction sites by day in an apron and waving a trowel like he could make his world of hurt disappear and become whole again.
But he could never know real peace in his heart, never rest until he found out for certain whether his visions, nightmares, whatever they were, had actually happened. The uncertainty since Jericho had stolen his sleep, his peace, maybe even his soul.
Deker took a deep breath and looked at her. “You said you could help me. Help me how?”
“Help you know what’s real and what isn’t,” she told him, and stood up. “But we’ve got to move. We don’t have much time.”
“ We don’t or you don’t?” Deker said. “What if I decide you can’t help me?”
“Then these boys here at the FBI will give you all the time in the world you need to decide,” she warned him. “But by the time you do, this offer will have expired. You’ve got to make up your mind, Deker, if you want to make up your mind. Get it? It’s now or never.”
He couldn’t argue with her logic, however crazy it sounded. And he had run out of options for answers.
“Fine,” he told her. “Let’s go.”
They took an elevator down to the subbasement of the Federal Building and emerged inside a garage with a fleet of black Escalades and several presidential limousines. The fleet was based here for the president’s trips to Los Angeles. A presidential golf cart emerged from a dark tunnel with a faceless driver and none other than Marshall Packard, former U.S. secretary of defense and now head of the DOD’s research and development agency, DARPA.
“Climb aboard, Deker,” Marshall said as the cart pulled up.
Deker turned to let Wanda Randolph get in first, but she had vanished, and he was standing alone. He climbed in back next to Packard. “So where are you taking me?”
Packard said, “Back in time.”
9
As the cart scooted off into the dark tunnel, Packard turned to Deker and said, “You look like hell. When’s the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?”
Packard knew damn well that Deker couldn’t remember his last decent night’s sleep. It had been at least a few years. They passed a guarded gate at a tunnel cross section, were waved through, then sped up, the golf cart’s electric engine humming in the dark.
Deker sat back in his seat and sighed. “Not since I met you, Packard. So what exactly is this mission you have for me?”
“The Flammenschwert, Deker. The so-called Sword of Fire warhead that the Nazis built that could turn water to fire. The original Greek Fire. The Nazis, in their misguided mythology, believed it derived from Atlantean technology. You self-righteously destroyed the last of it under the Temple Mount, so that we couldn’t get our hands on it, and nor could anybody else. Well, now we need to get it back, or at least the formula that created it.”
Deker pondered the odd juxtaposition of his nightmare about the Baron of the Black Order and this conversation. His sixth sense was on high alert.
“How is giving you the power to scorch three quarters of the planet going to help me sleep at night?” he asked sardonically.
“Because you’ll have peace of mind knowing that you kept it out of the hands of those Alignment terrorists who tortured you,” Packard said. “Our intel says they’re scouring Greece looking for any clues to rebuild the device.”
“They’re going to come up empty-handed,” Deker said. “That secret was locked inside the head of SS general Ludwig von Berg. IDF files say he went down with his sub in the summer of 1943. Then the sub slid down the Calypso Deep, lost forever.”
“It’s something else the Alignment is after,” Packard went on. “They want the formulas that General von Berg used to create the weapon. They believe those formulas came from a first-century biblical text that has since been destroyed. But we don’t know for sure. We want you to tell us, and hopefully tell us what it says.”
“The Maranatha text?” Deker asked.
“Now, how the hell did you know about that?” Packard demanded.
“I dreamed about it last night,” he said. “Von Berg stole it from some Greek monks in Meteora who had been hiding it.”
“This is amazing,” Packard said. “Your brain did that all on its own, connecting bits and pieces of information you had come across and putting them together.”
Packard’s surprise sounded fake to Deker. He began to wonder if his recent nights at the sleep lab were really about him extracting information from the dark recesses of his own mind, or if in fact they were about DARPA somehow implanting information. Perhaps to make him more amenable to accepting an otherwise intolerable mission. The timing was simply too suspicious.