Charles Brokaw - The Lucifer Code

‘That’s fine. For the moment I’ve got someone sitting on your target.’

‘May I ask who the target is, sir?’

‘A Harvard professor named Thomas Lourds. You’ve probably heard of him. He’s the man who was involved in the hunt for lost Atlantis.’

‘I have, sir. That story was all over the news.’

‘I don’t want Lourds terminated at present,’ Webster said. ‘I just want to talk to him.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll let you know when we’re en route.’

‘Very good. I expect to see you soon, Colonel. Until then, best of luck.’ Webster broke the connection and pocketed the cellphone. Then he unmuted the television to listen to the news anchor.

‘The Saudi Arabian government hasn’t confirmed who died in last night’s fiery attack in King Abdullah Economic City,’ the anchor said with sterling confidence. ‘But it’s clear several injured and several dead were removed from the rubble of the building that was struck by a missile weapon.’

The television cut away from the anchor to the night scene of the attack. For a few seconds, the three-storey building stood overlooking the harbour, then in the next moment an explosion blossomed in the centre of the building. At first, the building held and smoke poured from some of the windows near the blast site. Several people in the street had run for cover, but some of them started trickling back towards the stricken structure. They were caught flatfooted when the building shivered a final time and collapsed in a way that made Webster sit back in the limo’s plush seats.

‘We have unconfirmed reports that King Yousef and Crown Prince Muhammed were among those injured and possibly killed in the attack.’

Images of the king and crown prince formed on the screen, overlying the destruction.

‘If those two men are casualties,’ the anchor continued, ‘many political analysts fear the changes that may take place in the Middle East. Here, for a special look at the situation, is Jane Keller.’

Webster listened to the special report with zeal, for it agreed exactly with his assessment of what would happen.

Georgetown University Professor Clarence Doolan looked grim and foreboding in the television studio. In his seventies, tan and withered, Doolan looked like a hanging judge about to pass sentence. Jane Keller, the young television reporter, looked as though she’d stepped straight from a Victoria’s Secret commercial.

‘Khalid isn’t like his father or brother,’ Doolan said to the perky young reporter. ‘If he takes the throne, that whole region may be in jeopardy.’

That was precisely the reason Webster hadn’t had him killed.

‘What makes you say that, Professor?’ the reporter asked.

‘Saudi Arabia occupies a singular niche within the Middle East,’ the professor explained. ‘It’s a powerful country, and its impact on oil production is immense. However, the United States has depended on Saudi Arabia to maintain a non-aggression presence within that community. Sometimes the US has had to be heavily persuasive to manage that feat.’

‘Why is that non-aggression presence so necessary?’ the reporter asked.

‘You have to understand the fundamental differences in the Muslim world. There are two distinct religions within Islam: the Sunni and the Shia. They have differing interpretations of the line of succession regarding the prophet Muhammad, and they’re willing to kill each other over those differences when they come into conflict. Saudi Arabia has sometimes prevailed to cool the fires of war in the Middle East, but I’m afraid that Prince – now possibly King – Khalid doesn’t have a stable temperament.’

‘Why?’

‘From the beginning, Khalid has chosen a much less generous path than his father and brother. His mother, one of King Yousef’s many wives, was killed during an alleged Shia attack when he was only seven. She died in his arms.’

Webster remembered seeing the video footage of that attack twelve years ago. It had been most compelling and had, briefly, captured the attention of the world.

‘If this attack on his father and brother also turns out to be Shia initiated,’ Doolan said, ‘the young prince may choose to retaliate.’

‘Against the people who killed his father and brother?’

‘No. He won’t settle for a handful when he’s got a whole people to punish. He’s been very vocal about wanting the Shia driven from Saudi Arabia. That attitude has already fomented political and economic repercussions for the country and the royal family. He’s also not been a big supporter of the United States policies in those areas.’

‘Are we talking about the country possibly being torn in half as a result of Khalid’s ascendancy? If that is indeed the case?’

‘Not Saudi Arabia, no. That country is primarily Sunni. However, you have to remember that country is bracketed by Iran, Azerbaijan, Bahrain and Iraq, all of which are primarily Shia. Lebanon and Kuwait are almost equally divided between the two Islams. But there are many Shia in Afghanistan, India and Pakistan.’

As the professor spoke, a map appeared on the wall behind him, quickly marking the mentioned countries as Shia or Sunni.

‘What you’re talking about,’ Doolan said, ‘is the distinct possibility that the Middle East might draw battle lines that we haven’t seen before. The continued American presence in Iraq, on the ground militarily and lurking in the political background, is a constant red flag to the Islamic world.’

‘Looking at the map, I see that Iraq is marked as a Shia region.’

‘Yes, though there are many who disagree, myself among them, with that designation.’

‘You don’t agree that Iraq is primarily a Shia nation?’

‘I don’t. I think those numbers were inflated at the beginning of our second Iraqi conflict.’

Another limousine pulled up in front of Webster’s location. As he watched, the driver helped a beautiful woman from the back seat. Her blonde hair, neatly coifed, shone in the afternoon sun. A black leather coat hung to her sculpted calves. Her burgundy red Manolo Blahniks were anything but sensible. Webster wouldn’t have expected anything less.

He knocked on the window and the secret service agent nearest the door let him out.

‘Thank you, Brandon,’ Webster acknowledged.

‘My pleasure, sir.’

Webster approached the woman and he watched her head swivel to face him. She smiled, and the effect was dazzling.

‘Mr Vice-President,’ she greeted him.

Smiling, Webster waved a hand. ‘Vicky, please, if I’ve told you once, I told you a thousand times. Call me Elliott.’

Eserin Crown Hotel

Sultanahmet District

Istanbul, Turkey

17 March 2010

Inside the bathroom, Lourds set the shower for a hot, invigorating spray, lathered quickly – twice – and shampooed. Despite the promise of the lovely woman waiting for him in his bedroom, his mind kept wandering back to the book in his backpack. When it came to his relationships, the women in his life could only be mistresses that pulled him away from his love of his work. Or, in Olympia Adnan’s case, he could share that work. Unfortunately, they were both tied to different fields of expertise and to different geographical locations. Neither of them would give up their university environment. Those were their retreats as well as recharge centres.

When he returned to the room, Olympia still sat in a state of near undress while sitting cross-legged on the bed. The book Lourds had stolen from the men in the catacombs lay in her lap and consumed her attention so much that she didn’t know he was there for a time.

‘Find anything interesting?’ he asked.

Olympia started, then swept the hair from her eyes and smiled. ‘My apologies. I thought I’d set up your workstation.’ She waved to the nearby desk where she’d spread out his books, computer, map tools, cameras and digital recorder. ‘Then I found this. Something new you’re working on?’