Russell Brooks - Pandora's Succession

“The only Ares members involved will be those that deliver Pandora. Beyond that, if we start chaperoning our clients they’ll ask too many questions about the security of our organization. So far, I haven’t heard from our source that Fox knows anything about the demo or its location. Just concentrate on getting Pandora moved.”

The white-haired man signaled the driver to pull over beside a small marketplace comprised mostly of small tourist shops. When the car stopped, Valerik got out and held the door open as he peered inside. “I’ll contact you once everything’s done.”

“See to it that you do. With positive results, of course.”

Valerik shut the door and walked in the opposite direction. The sedan drove off. When the car was out of sight, he walked into the marketplace and went to a mobile phone vendor. He walked up to the counter that doubled as a display case, pointed inside to the mobile phone, then slapped the cash down on the surface. Once the clerk handed him the phone with prepaid minutes, Valerik left the store. He removed the uncharged battery from the phone and replaced it with a charged one-same brand-that he kept in his jacket pocket. Once outside, he activated it and dialed a number. After the first two rings, the call was answered.

“What do you have to report?” asked an electronically disguised voice.

“It’s me. Are your men on standby?”

“They are. Did anything else go wrong?”

“Not at all. It’s only a minor setback, that’s all. We’ll just have to begin the operation earlier than expected.”

“Do not disappoint me. The success of our operation depends on you getting the package.”

“Yes, sir.” Valerik’s phone went silent as his real superior switched off.

Heathrow Airport, London, England.

Dr. Tabitha Marx sat alone in the VIP lounge as she waited to board her flight to Entebbe Airport in southern Uganda. She downed the last of her Black Russian, rested the glass on the table beside her, got up, and walked to the floor to ceiling window that overlooked the runway and the dozens of stationary planes.

She had cut down significantly on her drinking since she had arrived from Ayles Ice Island in the Canadian arctic two years ago. Before she had arrived, two cryospheric researchers had accidentally exhumed a prehistoric man that was infected with a dormant microbe. Their exposure to the microbe and their eventual death-as well as the deaths of some that came to their rescue-would have made international headlines had she, her colleagues at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), and both Canadian and American governments not intervened. Fortunately, the outbreak was contained without any repercussions of a mass panic.

Marx’s six-foot stature mostly attracted wealthy and powerful men to her, the rest were intimidated. As she watched the planes take off, her flowing, dirty-blonde hair draped down the shoulders of her pantsuit.

So much had changed over the years. Born to American parents forty-four years before, she was used to travelling, since her father worked at the American Embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan. He was later killed by the Soviets in an air-raid in neighboring Afghanistan, near the end of the Soviet-Afghan war.

Her hatred towards the USSR and Communism increased tenfold that day-so did her bonding with her mother, but it wasn’t meant to last. Her mother was hospitalized, a few years later, with severe heart complications.

It was then that her mother disclosed the horrifying truth. Marx’s father was a CIA agent that had aided the mujahedeen to run their training camps in Afghanistan in their fight against the Soviets. What was more devastating was when her mother also told her that she had been recruited by the KGB to spy on her father, and that furthermore, the intelligence that she had provided the Soviets ultimately got her father killed.

It was the most emotional day of Marx’s life. She had screamed at her sobbing mother, telling her that her sickness was well deserved. It was last time that she saw her mother alive. She was bawling as she ran from the hospital room, pushing hospital staff out of her way. She made it outside of the hospital where she collapsed, only to be aided by a few motorists and pedestrians. It was the last time she remembered crying.

The lounge doors opened and a group of men in business suits walked in and headed straight for the bar. Marx glanced briefly at them and sighed, assuming them to either be businessmen or diplomats-the latter she detested-as it was a constant reminder that all the world’s problems could be linked to politics and religion. It was what eventually destroyed her family.

It wasn’t long before one of them approached her. “Good morning. Would you care-”

“No, I wouldn’t.” The man withdrew from her immediately, muttering something under his breath. Just then she heard her boarding call over the PA system. Marx walked back to her seat and grabbed her single travel bag. In a few days, she would make history, and the face of the world would be forever changed.

West Darfur, 10 AM, local time

The townspeople crowded the town square on market day. Most of the residents of this small dusty town-one of the few on the United Nation’s endangered list that has avoided attacks from both government and militia forces-had left and were making their way in droves to the refugee camps that bordered Chad to the west. For many, this was the last opportunity to stock up on rations before they migrated.

Over where the adults bargained for everyday items, three young boys kicked around a soccer ball between the stalls. The shortest of the three was the last to kick the ball. He sent it flying out of the market and into a clearing. They ran after the ball which had rolled under the feet of a man dressed in a traditional pastel-colored robe, and a skullcap, with most of his head and face covered by a length of cloth.

They stopped a few feet away, gawked at the giant, but did not run. He was leaning against a stack of empty boxes in the shade, and his eyes were visible as he peered down at them. He was not dark-skinned like them, but had more of an olive-colored complexion. They had never seen anyone of that complexion before, but knew he must be from a land beyond the desert, possibly even further than where the devils on horseback came from.

The giant kicked the ball back towards them and looked away. The shortest of the three picked it up and walked closer to the man. “Where are you from?” he asked in Arabic-the most common language that was spoken in the region.

Fox looked at the kid and saw in his eyes that he ached to know who he was. The boys must have known right away that he wasn’t from here.

“Did you come to save us from the devils on horseback?”

Fox glanced at the other two boys and then back at the one that spoke to him. They were all familiar with the devils or The Janjaweed-their official name. The Sudanese government had continuously denied being linked to the militia group, for carrying out the most atrocious attacks that had left scores of innocent people dead.

“What do you know about the devils on horseback?” Fox replied in Arabic.

“They’re very bad men,” the child replied as the other two approached.

“Really?” asked Fox. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Musa.”

“I’m Adam,” the boy to Musa’s left quickly said.

“I’m Ibrahim,” said the other.

“Where are you from?” asked Musa.

“Did you come from the other side of the desert?” asked Adam.

“Where’s your camel? How did you get here?” said Ibrahim, as the others joined in, flooding Fox with questions.

Fox held out his palm. It appeared that the size of it, in the children’s eyes, was enough to silence them. “Are they the same ones that come every time?”