6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 (24 page)

“I don’t think they saw where we went,” he
says. “We have a few minutes before we have to find somewhere
safer.”

“Who are you?” I ask, taking heaving
breaths.

“Call me Mitchell. I’m CIA.”

“What on God’s green Earth led you to me?” I
finally sit, the world spinning around me.

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re
safe. They were going to kill you,” Mitchell says plainly. “They
don’t want anyone poking around asking the questions you are
asking.”

“About the Stone of Allah?”

“Whatever that stone is, it’s being protected
by Saudia Arabian money and some hard core believers. They don’t
want anyone to know about that thing.” Mitchell pulls out a pistol,
opens it by sliding the top piece back, and cleans dust off the
sides. “We’ve been trying to find out what is so special about that
stone for years.”

“It’s a religious artifact. A treasure to
them.”

Mitchell rolls his eyes. “Right. But the part
that confuses me is that the stone should have been a bad omen. It
came on the crown of an invader followed by a plague. And before
that, it killed the entire population of their city after a
victory.”

“Caesarea.”

“You’ve been doing your research.”

“I thought I was the only one.”

“Good one. And you’re the only one smart
enough to end up in Tunisia,” Mitchell says sarcastically. He grabs
my arm. “Time to go.”

We run as fast as my ol’ bones can take me,
down a narrow alley between mud huts that are just taller than me
by inches. I pass a dog in the alley — skinny, beaten. It doesn’t
even bark at us. We pass another cluster of homes. The neighborhood
looks empty.

“Where is everyone?” I ask as my body
struggles to breathe.

“At prayers. We need to find a hideout until
night fall.”

After a few short blocks we find a small
shack that looks abandoned, no clothing, cookware, or other
personal items inside.

I didn’t notice at the time, but my CIA
friend had snatched some material from a hut we passed. He hangs
the fabric in the doorway.

“There,” Mitchell says finishing the drapery.
“That should hide us. If they find us, we go out the back door and
find somewhere else to hide.” He takes off his white head wrap and
uses his sleeve to mop the sweat off his head. I am exhausted and I
pray that God will not let them find us. If they do, I will
re-assess the situation as it pertains to God’s plan for me.

I hear voices. Many voices. I sit in the
corner and pray. No one comes. The residents seem to think
everything is normal. Night comes. We sleep on the floor of the
hut.

Mitchell planned on leaving that first night
but we couldn’t risk it. Night after night passes. I never leave
the hut. Mitchell steals food and clothing during prayers and
snoops around at night. It’s three o’clock in the morning and he
heads out. He returns and tells me the eight roads leading out of
town are guarded by over five hundred soldiers, a handful of
A1-Abrams Tanks, a small helicopter field, a temporary command
unit, and lots of cameras. The U.S. sold Saudi Arabia hundreds of
tanks in an arm’s deal that kept Saudi Arabia on our side of the
Middle East peace talks. We prop up a country that is diabolically
opposed to our Christian values and way of life. Seems kind of odd
to me. I guess it’s true. The enemy of my enemy is truly my friend.
Until they aren’t.

The next night Mitchell goes out late again.
He returns with blood all over his arms. He doesn’t say why and I
don’t ask. Our lives are at risk. One bad move and we are
finished.

I’m bored. I recite my scriptures and think
of Marian. My body lets me sleep — a lot — which I’m glad for,
because when I’m awake I feel like I’ll crawl out of my head.

It’s late and my oil lamp is getting low on
fuel. If it goes out, I’ll be wide awake in the pitch black. I
don’t like it. It’s as though death has found me and is negotiating
my surrender. Nervously I pace. The dust is in my mouth. I hate it.
I drink all my water.

There’s a crack on the far wall. It is
roughly an oval. I get closer. The crack circles around dark
smudges. It looks like the face of Christ! I stare. He’s there!
Smiling at me. The more I look the more I can see his eyes staring
right back at me. He’s telling me it’s okay, that I should be
brave, and that God still favors me. I fall to my knees and
cry.

An hour later Mitchell comes back. He always
slips in so quietly. It is impressive. “Hey,” he whispers.

“Uh.” I keep the image of Christ to
myself.

“Tomorrow night we go.”

“Now, why is that?” I sit on a blanket and
rub the sore part of my back. My fingers ball up bits of grime off
my skin. I’ve never been so dirty.

Mitchell slips into his makeshift bed of
stolen blankets. He tosses a small loaf of olive oil bread in my
lap. I tear into it. The bread here is the best I’ve ever had. Or
maybe it’s just that I’m a starved ol’ man.

Mitchell starts talking while I stuff my face
like a schoolboy after a fast. “I’ve been monitoring their
movements. Tomorrow there is a big celebration at the outdoor
stadium in the south. There’s a big speech by a top scholar. The
troops will be re-stationed then and only then. This leaves maybe
five to eight troops covering the Ali Ben Abid Mosque and maybe a
single unit covering the south road.”

“Oh, Lord. Five to eight is no big deal. Just
five to eight,” I whine with my mouth full of bread. I lie back
down. With food in my stomach, my body instantly relaxes.

“You know,” Mitchell starts. “I heard one of
them talking about a big secret in the local mosque. The guy spoke
about normally being stationed at the Ali Ben Abid Mosque
protecting Mohammed’s biggest secret. Which I believe has something
to do with the meteor that killed John the Mighty.”

“I’m glad you can understand them,” I
say.

“You know we’re in Medenine, right?”

“As you’ve told me.”

“Anyway, it’s considered a holy city. Has
been for centuries. That’s the official reason there’s so much
Saudi money here. Since becoming interested in this secret the CIA
has been trying to get a guy on the inside for decades now. We’ve
failed. We watch and listen now. Unless there is a wayward American
who is in way over his head.” Mitchell smiles. “Yes, your
government sent me here to rescue you from yourself.”

“I’m glad to see big brother is watching,” I
answer.

“I was chosen because I’m very well informed
about this area — studied Tunisia in the CIA for years.” Mitchell
fluffs his stolen pillow and settles in. “Mohamed’s biggest secret
is here and we want to find it.”

“We?”

“That was my partner in the Jeep.”

“He didn’t . . .”

Mitchell shakes his head. “No. But he was the
fanatic. He knew we were finally getting close to the secret.”

“After all these years of looking, how are
you so close now?”

“Something’s changing. I’ve never heard
anyone talking about the secret until now. I think it is the reason
for the troop increase. They’re doubling the garrison. There are
more and more people privy to the secret, so that increases the
odds of it getting out.”

“Naturally.” I scratch my beard.

“I’m so close now. Closer than ever.”
Mitchell’s brow is tight but his eyes are radiant. I could see his
mind spinning.

“This all sounds like a job you can return to
after getting me home to my church and my foam mattress.” I’m tired
of being inside all the time, tired of feeling worried when I hear
voices or someone passes the front door.

“You lost your curiosity, huh?”

I think about my personal quest. I did have a
fire under my feet. I’m not altogether miserable. I’m sheltered and
have food. It’s like fasting in a sense, fasting from modernity and
comforts. I’m closer to God in this space. Now, with this new
information, I feel a growing desire to find the Stone of Allah.
“Are you planning on stopping by this mosque before we leave town?
Can we do it and not get killed?”

“Hell yeah! They don’t even know we’re here
anymore. They think we’ve left town.” Mitchell has a smile across
his face.

“Mohammed’s biggest secret and they keep it
in a dusty mosque? Why not keep the thing in Mecca or Cairo or
something? I don’t quite understand.”

“The mosque is heavily fortified. Plus, you
don’t keep Mohammed’s biggest secret in a museum. You keep it
hidden.”

“Then how do you plan on getting in there?
Stroll on up and say hi?” I feel like staying put until the job is
done. I’m pretty sure the Lord does not want me shot at anymore.
I’m sure of it.

“I have an intimate knowledge of the mosque,”
Mitchell answers.

“What’s this intimate knowledge you speak of?
Enlighten an ol’ man, please?”

Mitchell clearly doesn’t want to explain, but
he does anyway, “The French manufacturer of the vault at Ali Ben
Abid Mosque sold the CIA all their product schematics, codes, and
keys in order to survive the recession of 2009. Cost us half a
billion dollars. Also, I’ve studied satellite images of the area. I
know exactly how to get in, so this should be a breeze. Trust me.
I’m the one who saved your butt — so you have to trust me.”

“I don’t feel saved yet!” I say, only half
kidding. I sit in the duality of life, angel on one shoulder, devil
on the other. I am at the crossroads. Will I die in a puddle of
sweat and blood? Or will I find salvation? Even as blind as I can
be I march on into the foggy road. Is the future unwritten and
selfish? Or am I just the tool of the all-knowing light that is
God?

I
order everyone to
move and shuffle in the boat. “This way we’ll have the maximum
elbow room.”

Ben rocks the boat as he moves. Tanis grabs
the side of the boat and holds on for dear life. When everyone is
settled and the packs and weapons are stored properly, I try to
relax. Behind the inky clouds I can tell the sun has set. The
darkness leaps at us like the charge of a rhino. Stuck in this
fucking boat we won’t have anywhere to run. But because I have no
choice, I row. I pull the oar through the water in time and it
helps to relax me. The oar becomes an extension of myself. I won’t
part with it for anything. Even my cold, dead fingers will grip it
like a vice.

“What are we going to do?” asks Tanis.

“We row ‘til we find somewhere safe. Maybe
the Jersey side. Maybe further south.” It felt natural for me to
issue orders. I’d been issuing orders for years, up until Zilla
started telling me what to do.

#

I remember the night I found my audience. I’d
gone to a midnight rally supporting the democratic candidate for
President. I went with my political science teacher who I knew
well. The candidate was Congressman Jones of Iowa. He had the crowd
energized. He was ranting about how corrupt the current President
was. Someone asked him how he would reduce corruption in the White
House, and all we got were ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’ followed by some
bullshit answer. It was something like, “If you elect me President,
I’ll see to it that the little people have a voice.”

My voice leaped from my throat like I was
breathing fire. I was possessed by my mother who was currently the
Senator of New York. “The last three Presidents have promised the
same crap! How about some real answers with concrete ideas! How
will you handle executive abuse and corporate pandering?!”

Congressman Jones had no idea what he’d
gotten into. He was booed off stage, and to my own surprise, I
stomped on stage. A sea of heavily shadowed faces glared at me from
below. The crowd was silent. They watched me like a child seeing
their parents do something different for a change.

I tried to clear my throat. When that didn’t
work, I chugged my beer then blurted out. “Who the fuck am I?” The
crowd roared. “I’ve got two eyes, two ears, and a brain like
everyone here!” The crowd roared again. I wasn’t sure what I was
doing, but I had the crowd like a rabbit in a wolf’s jaws. So I bit
down. After all, I was drunk, mad, and could put two words
together. “The whole damn system is fucked!” A roar as loud as
stampeding elephants thundered throughout the small space. “Some
democrat comes up here thinking he could dance and we’d let him
lead. I can see through it! He says the same bull crap we’ve been
hearing for decades. Who the fuck am I? I’m a pissed American,
that’s who.” Stomping feet and clapping drowned out my voice. I
waited until it subsided. “Who was responsible for the housing
bubble? Wall Street was responsible. Who went to war illegally with
Iraq, Libya, then Pakistan? The government did. Who colludes to
keep tax loopholes, pharmaceuticals overloading our shelves, and
contributes to the military industrial complex? Government and
lobbyists!” More applause and stomping. “I say we take this to the
street. I say we set up a protest that clogs the entire city!”