The Lucifer Genome Read online

  He snorted at the irony. Hell of a world.

  He opened his carry-on luggage and carefully removed the neatly pressed garments of his white pilgrimage attire. Shedding his suit, he wrapped the izar cloth around his waist to cover his lower body and then draped his shoulders with the reda. He finished the disguise with a flowing ghuta headdress, affixing it with a circular black cord. He swooshed into the bathroom and looked at the mirror. Allahu akbar, he lip-synced to his reflected image.

  Somewhere below him, a muezzin wailed a call to prayer. He nodded with cold anticipation. All across the city, worshippers were now rising from their beds and moving en masse toward the object of their desire. …

  His desire.

  Before this day was done, if all went well, one billion believers around the globe would be thrown into mortified chaos.

  THE NEXT MORNING, SCORCHED BY the rising sun, ten thousand sweating bodies drove him in a counterclockwise whirl around the Kaaba shrine. Nearly suffocated by a miasma of body odors, he elbowed his way through the gyre, moving ever closer to its center. All now depended on his reaching the square eye of this human vortex.

  He remembered from Burton’s description that the Tawaf ritual required seven circumnavigations. As he shuffled in sandals across the slick white slabs of the Masjid Al Haram, he feigned a rapturous contemplation and waited for the right moment to make his move. He could feel the chanting pilgrims around him becoming consumed with spiritual ecstasy. Behind his shoulder, an English-speaking worshipper kept repeating a prayer using the word 'Lightgiver.'

  He smiled grimly through the pain, wondering if that name had anything to do with one of the key rituals of Hajj: the stoning of the Devil, when pilgrims hurled seven stones at three pillars that symbolized Lucifer. He didn’t plan to stay around for that crushing insanity to find out.

  A piercing call from the minaret spurred a chorus of labored prayers in response. “Bismillahi Allahu akbar wa lillahi-hamd!” Pushed forward, he veered closer to the eastern corner of the giant black cube that held the Black Stone’s frame, a silver casing molded into the shape of a vesica piscis, the ancient symbol formed by the intersection of two circles with the same radius. A burly Saudi guard stationed next to the relic pushed delirious worshippers away after they kissed or touched it, preventing anyone from lingering at the corner of the Kaaba for more than a few seconds.

  Another pass, and he’d be close enough to touch it.

  Dehydrated, he was starting to feel a little disoriented. He reached under his robe to make sure the two smoke grenades were still there. In the back pocket of his cargo shorts, he had stored a miniature welding torch whose handle he had configured with a diamond edge, durable and sharp enough to cut steel. Readied, he stole a profane glance at the Kaaba again.

  Everything was in place, just as Burton had described.

  Keeping his hands hidden under his robe, he continued circling the shrine while assembling, by feel, a syringe whose needle was no longer than a mosquito’s stinger. All he’d have to do now was slip a few drops of botulinum toxin into the lower back of an unsuspecting pilgrim. If he hit the spinal cord just so, the hapless recipient might feel a sting—moments before falling dead.

  With his lethal delivery device constructed, he moved ever closer to the embedded shards of the Black Stone, taking caring not to prick himself with the deadly potion. He brought to his mind’s eye the photographs of the embedded fragments that he had memorized. In 1853, Burton had reported seeing thirteen separate pieces, but some of the smaller shards had since been fused together, forming only seven fragments now.

  The hum of escalating wails around him was so loud that he could hardly hear himself think. He didn’t know how much longer he could endure the noise and heat. This close to the target … just a few more feet. He palmed the minuscule lancet and worked his hand through an air vent of the ihram worn by the worshipper gyrating in front of him.

  He stabbed the man’s lower back with the syringe. In seconds, his victim buckled and collapsed into the worshippers around him, spawning an undulating wave that reversed upon itself. The throngs began weaving and tottering. Dozens stumbled and fell; others fought the crosscurrent, screaming in terror of being crushed. The Saudi soldier guarding the Stone was swept into the undercurrent.

  Now! Go confidently in the direction of your dream!

  That’s priceless, he told himself. Thoreau, of all people, now comes to his overheated brain. How about a little transcendental anarchy as an homage? Surrounded by mayhem, he dropped the empty syringe and crushed the glass under his sandals. He pulled the first smoke grenade from under his robe and yanked the pin. Green smoke billowed everywhere as he rolled the bomb under the scuffling feet.

  The din of panic gave way to an eruption of coughing and gagging. Elbowing closer, he pulled the pin on the second smoke grenade and tossed it into the phalanx of soldiers trying to reach their overwhelmed brother. Red billows blossomed into a multi-colored haze, obscuring every face near the cube. Thousands of pilgrims screamed curses, convinced that some radical Islamist sect had gone off its hinges again. The security police around the plaza stood paralyzed with confusion.

  As the vast crowd spun out of control, he threw himself into the red-and-green cloud swirling around the eastern corner of the Kaaba. His hand touched the scorching façade of the silver frame. Grimacing at the burn, he shook off the pain in his palm and reached up, feeling blindly for the fragments.

  There they were: rubbed smooth as glass by centuries of caressing hands.

  Blinking back tears, he spied the silver nails that held the pieces of the holy relic in place. The obscuring haze would last only a few more seconds. He reached into the chamois bag under his robe and quickly pulled out the small welding torch. Plunging his hands into the depths of the silver oval, he worked with the deftness of a surgeon, and within seconds the seven precious fragments succumbed to the torch heat and pressure of the knife.

  The holy remnants of the Black Stone popped out and fell into his free hand like peanuts from a shell.

  Unseen in the chaos and smoke, he dropped the torch to the ground, stuffed the fragments into the bag under his robe, and fought his way toward the masjid’s Fatah Gate.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Washington, D.C.

  ISHTAR ABDALLAH BIN SULTAN ARRIVED at the White House by speeding limousine and was hurriedly escorted to the Oval Office. A lean six-foot-two, the Saudi ambassador moved down the corridor with the determined but feline grace that had helped him become one of the highest-ranked handball players in the world. A diplomat in this city for twenty years, he had also earned the well-deserved reputation as a bon vivant who was always on the top of the invitation lists for the most august Georgetown dinner parties. Yet on this morning, despite his natural bronze complexion, he looked paler than George Washington’s powdered wig in the Gilbert Stuart portrait on the wall he now passed.

  Accompanied by the directors of the National Security Council and Central Intelligence Agency, President Carl Lassen arose from his chair behind his impressive desk and came forward to welcome his old friend with a warm handshake. “Abdallah, it’s been too long.”

  Bin Sultan’s voice was hoarse with tension. “Thank you, Mr. President, for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “You didn’t sound yourself on the phone. Are you okay?”

  As he firmed his grasp on the one hand that could save his kingdom, Bin Sultan stole a nervous glance at the two intelligence operatives. Meeting the eyes of the president again with unabashed directness, he came right to the point. “Mr. President, the House of Saud is in crisis.”

  The president’s smile vanished. “Please tell me that the royal government has not been shooting protesters again.”

  The ambassador shook his head, insulted that the American leader thought he had rushed here, hat in hand, for such a trivial matter. “It is, I am afraid, far more dire. And what I am about to tell you is known only by His Excellency and the crown princes.�
�� This morning, the Black Stone of Mecca was stolen from the Kaaba.”

  “The Kaaba,” the president repeated, as if trying to scour his memory.

  Bin Sultan saw that the president was clueless about the global implication of this catastrophe. But the shocked expressions of the two U. S. intelligence officials at the president’s side confirmed that they understood all too well the seriousness of the matter.

  “You’d better sit down for this, sir,” the CIA director told the president.

  Bin Sultan suspected the two American spymasters had been expecting him to report on the latest street protests or, perhaps, the escapades of yet another wealthy family prince. But this news was different, beyond the unthinkable.

  When they were all seated on facing couches, the Americans nodded for him to continue.

  “Mr. President, this theft could quickly turn into a worldwide security nightmare. The Black Stone is held priceless—even more than that—by my fellow believers.”

  With a hint of pique in his eyes, the president turned to his advisors, as if wondering why he was wasting his time on lamentations about a religious relic.

  Bin Sultan moved quickly to explain the significance of the calamity. “Our tradition holds that the Stone was sent from Heaven to show Adam and Eve where to build the first altar on Earth. Originally, the Stone had been dazzling white, but it turned black when mortals became sinful. Abraham recovered the Stone after it was lost in Noah’s flood and directed his son, Ishmael, to build the temple in Mecca to protect it. The Prophet Muhammad himself, peace be upon him, set the Stone in a wall of—” He coughed, struggling to finish.

  The president offered the ambassador a tissue from a box on his desk to wipe his dry lips.

  Bin Sultan nodded in gratitude. Regaining his voice, he went on. “The Muslim world has long looked upon my family as the protector of the Black Stone. It is a sacred duty. If the loss of the holy relic were to be revealed publicly, well …” He shook his head, fighting back tears.

  “You’ve kept the theft under wraps?” the NSC director asked, clearly shaken that his surveillance officers had missed an event so potentially cataclysmic.

  Bin Sultan glanced at the door to confirm that it remained shut. “We have covered the entire Kaaba with a black cloth. The explanation given is that this is meant only as a temporary measure for purification, in preparation for the Hajj pilgrimage in two weeks. This ruse can last only a few days, at most. So far, no one but the King and his immediate family know of the situation.”

  The president leaned closer. “Do you know who stole the Stone?”

  Bin Sultan, nodding, edged to the president’s elbow. “We are quite confident that—” He was about to reveal the identity of the suspects when a valet appeared from a side office to place a small silver pot of coffee on the table. The diplomat accepted a cup and took hurried sips while trying to keep his hands from shaking. When the valet departed and the door closed again, Bin Sultan continued with his report, “We understand the extreme danger now present because we have faced such a crisis before.”

  “The Umayyad siege of Mecca,” the NSC chief confirmed from his memory of being brief on the region. “In the hijri calendar year 756.”

  Nodding, Bin Sultan wiped the perspiration from his upper lip with a kerchief. “A missile fired by a catapult in that assault smashed the holy Stone. At that time, the Sultan used a special silver glue to put it back together. Two hundred years later, the Qarmatian tribe murdered twenty thousand pilgrims and stole the precious relic for ransom. It was returned two decades later, but broken into seven pieces. In every attack on the relic, dissident sects were found responsible.”

  “Shi’ites?” the president suggested.

  Bin Sultan could feel the tension in the room rising; he tried to wave it away, as if chasing off one of the notorious mosquitoes that plagued the humid summers here. “Iran finances these troublemakers.” He caught their smiles. “Of course, we know that you know this from the WikiLeaks cables sent by your diplomats …” He let his critical comments fade.

  The president leaned closer to mirror Bin Sultan’s candor. “Abdallah, we share your concern about Iran. But our hands are tied. We’re already overextended with our commitments in the Muslim world. What can we possibly do to help you?”

  Bin Sultan looked directly into the president’s eyes to warn, “Sir, if the Black Stone is not returned to its place in the Kaaba by the opening of the Hajj”—his tone turned even more ominous—”our government will not survive the international outrage. The radicals will use this incident to rouse the people to revolution and claim that the House of Saud is heretical and corrupt in the eyes of Allah, praise be upon Him. As you know, tempers already are simmering across the region. The United States will lose its most valuable ally in the Gulf. I don’t need to tell you what that will do to the global oil markets, and to every Western economy.”

  A nettled silence settled over the office. Finally, the president, clearing his throat, tried to reassure his friend. “Your security force is one of the best in the world. I have every confidence that you will track down these perpetrators and bring them to justice, as you always have.”

  Bin Sultan felt his hackles rise. Having obviously failed to communicate the desperation of the moment, he became uncharacteristically blunt. “Our police can no longer be trusted. Internal sources confirm that the Shi’ites have infiltrated the upper echelons of its command. Underground uprisings, too, have …” His voice trailed off in desperation.

  The president traded alarmed glances with his advisors, only then realizing that the ambassador was seeking the use of American covert forces. “Abdallah, you understand my rather, uh, delicate political situation here. The election is less than a year away. If the Democrats were to learn that I entangled the country in yet another Middle East quagmire, well …”

  Bin Sultan turned pointedly to the NSC director. “There is another way.”

  Seeing his NSC chief refuse to acknowledge that veiled suggestion, the president pinned his advisor with a questioning look. “General Buemiller, do you understand what the ambassador is referring to here?”

  The NSC director nodded to the president, but then he answered the ambassador’s plea with a defiant shake of his head. “Don’t even go there.”

  Bin Sultan refused to be turned away. “General, you commanded a joint subversion operation with us in the 1970s.”

  “Ancient history,” the NSC chief insisted, noticeably uncomfortable with the direction of this discussion had taken.

  Bin Sultan kept boring in on the general. “At that time, an operative from your country’s own Defense Intelligence Agency task force infiltrated the rebel tribes in my country. He is the only Westerner ever known to have accomplished such a deed.”

  The NSC chief held up a palm to stop to the suggestion. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned to the president and insisted, “Sir, you do not want to hear this.” Then, angling back to bin Sultan, the NSC chief added, “With all due respect, Ambassador, that was a long time ago, and—”

  “Gentlemen, I will leave you to thrash this out.” Taking his NSC chief’s cue to remove himself from the discussion for plausible deniability, the president stood to indicate that his participation in the meeting was over. He shook Abdallah’s hand and whispered something into his old friend’s ear.

  After Abdallah was escorted from the office, the president pulled his two intelligence officials aside. “Whatever he needs. If it can be managed without getting the intelligence committees on the Hill involved, I want it done.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Malibu, California

  CAS FIELDING WAS MORE PISSED off than usual, and usually he was very pissed off.

  That morning, the Pepperdine wax boys with their sand bunnies and shiny new foam boards had descended on Nicholas Canyon beach like gulls on a washed-up pile of seaweed. The old Malibu that had been his refuge for the past ten years was becoming a distant legend, replaced by hordes of
tourist buses and Valley riffraff. The traffic on Pacific Coast Highway was now so clogged and dangerous that it was beginning to remind him of the Highway of Death between Kuwait and Iraq. Hell, last week some kid had even jacked his parked ‘63 VW bus for the forty-year-old stereo inside. The whole damn place was going to the crapper. Fires. Mud slides. Earthquakes. Maybe he’d just pull up stakes and head to Indonesia. At least there—

  “Hey, gramps!” shouted one of the young pimple faces charging at him atop a wave curl. “How about a little elbow space for me and my bros!”

  Cas spun his vintage tri-fin thruster, narrowly avoiding a collision with the brat sweeping by him. He shouted, “Is that a Billabong you’re riding, Junior?”

  “Bitchin’ sweet, huh?”

  “Why don’t you stick it sideways up your blowhole and use it for a rudder.”

  The young wave hogger was so flummoxed by Cas’s orneriness that he lost his balance and crashed. He bobbed up spewing, with his board cord dragging him through the froth. When he finally found his breath, he whined at Cas, “Dude! Why so hostile?”

  “Get away from me before I barnie you up for shark bait!”

  Cas grumbled curses while he paddled his board back out to catch the next line. He hadn’t risked his life working twenty years as a covert Defense Intelligence officer just so punks like that could fritter away their trust funds. Gramps, my tight ass! Sure, he was fifty-five, but he could still jazz the glass better than any of these diaper-soiled jagoffs. Hell, he’d been teaching the House of Saud princes how to surf in the Persian Gulf when these college twits were still swimming in amniotic fluid.