The Linobambaki Prophecy

By Stuart Land

F orced to convert to Islam, a group of Cypriot Greeks continued their Christian faith in secrecy after the invasion of the Turks in 1571, and to escape from the stigma of forced conversions, they formed a sect – The Linobambaki. A group of them had realised that the two one-god faiths were similar in nature – and yet since the Crusades, the Moslems and the Christians had been fighting each other. They were determined to infiltrate the higher echelons of government to influence both great religions. It was a very slow process but they incredibly maintained the secrecy of their sect over more than 400 years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483505541

Book preview

Prologue

Forced to convert to Islam, a group of Cypriot Greeks continued their Christian faith in secrecy after the invasion of the Turks in 1571, and to escape from the stigma of forced conversions, they formed a sect – The Linobambaki. A group of them had realised that the two one-god faiths were similar in nature – and yet since the Crusades, the Moslems and the Christians had been fighting each other. They were determined to infiltrate the higher echelons of government to influence both great religions. It was a very slow process but they incredibly maintained the secrecy of their sect over more than 400 years.

In recent years as the sect had moved from a religious to a more political arena, they had been meeting in Venice and other cities once a year. It had never been their goal of becoming religious leaders for they settled for influence through their business connections.

The Linobambaki had migrated from their Cyprus birthplace to countries like the UK, Germany, USA, Australia, Egypt, Turkey, Jordan… and many of them had managed to obtain citizenship. Once they accepted the Linobambaki prophecy, it was their duty to obtain success in business or politics in their adopted countries… and by late 1990s they had achieved a dominant position in business… three of their sect being among the top 500 richest persons in the world. One of them was a judge in the UK. Another had been elected to the European Parliament via his German constituency, another had become a close advisor to the US President, yet another was the Secretary General for one of the Arab World’s NGOs and another had just been granted citizenship from a Gulf country for his role in building a brand new city.

In all some 200 members of this sect were now in positions which, for the first time, could realise the hopes of their founding forefathers.

For the first time, the Linobambaki might be able to bring the Muslims and Christians together through influence and unseen pressure.

But the Arabic mafia, the Al Qaeda, had somehow learned about the discovery of the Holy Grail of the Linobambaki and the list of names of the sect from the 1570s which via today’s sophisticated search engines would be able to trace the original members of the sect and their descendants who still followed the faith. Nearly 500 years of plotting, the daring of moles, nerve wrecking careers, death-defying double lives, were about to be exposed unless Al Qaeda plans could be thwarted.

And then a new danger arose which would threaten world peace – an audaciously planned raid of fundamentalist pilots in nuclear - armed Mirages.

Janos Hussain would have to sacrifice his own destiny to face a disaster which will make 9/11 look like an every day suicide bombing.

The Mercenaries

The stone hit teenager Soska on her forehead causing an instant blue lump and blood began to trickle from the wound.

I did not look at Cano, I don’t even like him she yelled defiantly as she saw her brother picking up another large, black stone, his face contorted with a vicious sneer and maniacal eyes, screaming Whore, whore. His missile hit his sister on the side of the head and sent her reeling. Her mother joined in the attack You are not my daughter she rasped and threw a rock which hit the neck of Soska as she lay groaning on the ground. Her sister, obese and ugly with matted hair, aimed at Soska’s face with her walking stick, breaking her nose.

It was left to her father, Lafaw, to strike the last blow. He deliberately bent down and smashed a brick against his daughter’s bleeding head.

The rest of the villagers watched. Silently. With satisfaction. The head-scarved, portly women nodded in unison. It was said the unmarried 15 year old Soska had been seen with a student, Cano, even though she had been promised in marriage to the headman Beja Sindia, who owned most of the agricultural land in this high mountain village and was now in his 60s.

The 300 inhabitants who formed a circle around the murdering family would have turned to walk away and the next day the incident would have been forgotten. Another day. Another honour killing.

But it was not their lucky day. Coming towards them firing their guns in the air, were two European mercenaries. One Russian, one British. Both tall, blond men with machine gun belts wrapped around them. They sprinted through the crowd and one of them picked up Soska in his arms.

Where’s the doctor? he asked in their Kurdish language. A timid teenage boy took hold of the hand of the questioner and led him and his friend to a grey, wooden corner house some 200 yards from the village square, which was surrounded by a flock of goats.

He pushed the door open to be confronted with a thin woman with straggly hair in a white uniform, about 25 years old, hands on hips, standing in his way.

Get out of my way. Where’s the doctor.

We have no doctor, the woman replied. I am the nurse…I am all they have in these parts. She spoke with an American accent.

Save the girl.

The girl was still alive but bleeding profusely and breathing heavily. Between tortured and heavy gasps, she whispered I am a virgin.

They were her last words. She died still in the arms of the Russian mercenary.

The Brit stepped forward and said to the nurse. Check if she’s a virgin.

She’s dead, I cannot do that.

He pulled his revolver from his belt and pointing it at her. I know she is dead…now find out if these savages have killed an innocent girl. They left the dead girl with the nurse, returning 15 minutes later when the nurse called She was a virgin.

Now tell me where we can find this family, ordered the Russian.

The nurse gave them specific instructions and half an hour later both men were kicking down the bolted door of a wood and concrete farm house, located on a small hillock, grass tufts sparsely protruding from the gravel pathways.

The father, the mother, the brother and sister were roughly pushed out of the house, all of them sulking and complaining.

The father was dressed in grey baggy pants and a tight blue waistcoat with a fat belly drooping over the waistband, a white skull cap covering untidy white hair. His son was similarly dressed but he wore a red baseball cap while his sister, a surly plump girl with fat legs wore a yellow stained, white kaftan. The mother was dressed in pantaloons with a crumpled and dusty dress over the trousers. She had a poker in her hand and tried to strike Vlad with it as she spat at him. He pushed the barrel of his automatic rifle into the neck of the woman and she dropped her fireside weapon.

You do not understand our customers, Foreigners…Leave us alone. We have our own laws in this part of Kurdistan, the father grumbled.

Just keep moving. We want you back in the village square.

As the family arrived in the square, many of the local people began to gather. The Brit fired his machine gun into the air, the noise bringing the rest of the inhabitants out of their houses to find out what was happening.

The Russian began to speak. Pointing to the family who he had lined in a row, he announced "Soska is dead. She died a virgin. She was killed by her family because she looked at Cano, though we are told she even denied that.

You are all primitive animals. None of you came to the rescue of this beautiful young girl. And now I am going to show you how we treat animals."

He walked in front of the family and fired his pistol at the sister, hitting her in her right knee. She fell screaming to the ground. The standing three dared not move. The other mercenary then moved forward and fired two shots into the brother’s knees. He yelled and bawled as he tried to crawl away, slithering round in the sandy square like an injured snake. The villagers gave a collective and painful ooh as the bullets struck.

The Russian then replaced his friend and aiming carefully, killed both the father and mother with one shot each in the centre of their foreheads. They died instantly, collapsing in front of the rest of the village, blood streaming from their mouths. The executions were carried out with no show of emotion from the two men. The villagers cowered, looking away from the dead and injured. Several of the women screamed and wailed.

If we hear of any more so-called honour killings in this village, we will return to wipe out all of you. The Russian glared at the fearful crowd Raise your hand if you understand what I mean. All the villagers raised their hands. He yelled at the brother and sister writhing on the ground. I said, raise your hands. Both tried to move.

Iraq 2005

Jason adjusted his body armour and reloaded his M62 Assault Rifle. He had just stopped the suicide bomber speeding towards them by spraying 7.62 mm NATO rounds to the left and middle of the windscreen. With two calm and calculated sweeps of the deadly Finnish built weapon, he had made the car swing to the right, hit a parked truck and explode bursting into flames as Jason, and his team guarding the ambassador, sped away from the wreckage-strewn street.

It had been a clinical, cool operation, the type detested by the Iraqi government, which had left a decapitated head rolling on the pavement as the only evidence of the assassination attempt, together with the black smouldering taxi and pools of blood. No one had been in the street except for the ambassador with his convoy of Hummers and Land Rovers. It was obvious to Jason that someone on or near his team had tipped off the bombers for the route had been decided at only 9 a.m. that day and now it was 10.30 a.m. on Friday the Islamic holy day, signalled by the cacophony of the Meuzzin echoing through the narrow streets of this poor quarter of Baghdad.

Jason had chosen this route carefully as he had been warned of an attack on the main road and decided to take this never-used itinerary, but someone had betrayed them. It must have been one of the interpreters. He would find out when they returned to the hotel in the Green Zone. His was one of the few private security firms operating in the Iraqi capital since the clamp down on the US teams.

He had no time for contemplation as he pushed the Ambassador down on his seat, on hearing the Yorkshire-born driver of the Hummer shout Oh, fuck, here’s another bugger at the same time slamming the brakes on and immediately reversing back along the empty street.

It was an eerie few seconds as the Hummer raced in reverse. With the advancing Peugeot, only a few metres away… but taxis did not chase security convoys in Baghdad and Jason leaned out of the window and fired several rounds to smash the window of the taxi to try to slow it down. He then witnessed the driver blow himself up in a surreal implosion in a vain attempt to attack the Hummer. The terrorist was determined to go to his 77 virgin brides, together with two armed-to-the-teeth expatriates earning $2,000 a day in the most dangerous job in the world.

Today they were definitely earning their pay as the explosion cracked but did not break the Hummer’s windows and the suicide bomber killed only himself, thanks to the quick reactions of driver Ken Thompson, whose West Indian grandparents would have been proud of his heroic deeds, the raison d’ etre being his struggle to pay for a house in Brighton, United Kingdom, for which his army retirement payout from the Grenadier Guards had formed the deposit.

In fact, Ken did not think of himself as brave or heroic he considered himself a bit of a chump for risking death every day to replace the seafront apartment his wife had claimed as part of the divorce settlement. Perhaps he should have forgiven her infidelity, but his Methodist upbringing would not let him do that…he should have been more Christian than puritanical, he thought. Fortunately, they had no children so he was alone in the world save for his elderly mother who lived in London in a small flat which overlooked the Highbury Stadium from where he could see part of an Arsenal game if he leaned out of the kitchen window and used binoculars…but he bought a season ticket instead, at least he had no parking problems using his mother’s empty slot in the building.

Being a gooner was his main hobby having switched allegiance from Leeds many years ago and when he was trying to relax back in the Green Zone he played cherished tapes of Arsenal scoring seven goals in a UEFA cup game or clashes with Manchester United and Liverpool. It helped him to relax but at the same time, he realised it highlighted the foolishness of his current employment.

His partner, Jason, was another loner. Ex–British Army marine, unmarried, 6 ft 3" tall with a hatred for Arabs, particularly Iraqis, since losing colleagues in his previous security firm to a roadside bomb. Jason trusted no one, not even his own team members. He was also the unit’s manager and accountant. He ordered and tested all the equipment. He had managed to keep the crew of six alive for the past nine months which he reckoned was miraculous at a time when the US military had been ordered to curb their protection of the private security firms which meant that street knowledge was crucially missing. Jason had to create his own network of informers. Mostly it worked. Today someone had let them down. It would not happen again for he would find out who had betrayed them.

In his career as a professional soldier Jason had learned not to be vindictive but it was in the current decade of his nearly 50 years that he began to change. It was probably the massacres in Kosovo communities and Iraq which proved the last straw on the camel’s back. Now he believed in the biblical ‘eye for an eye’ philosophy.

The Hummer had a US military-issued security badge stuck prominently on the windscreen but, as usual as the vehicle approached one of the Access Gates in the Green Zone, with its surrounding guard towers, it came to a halt to enable the occupants to be searched before proceeding inside the wire. They had passed several blast walls and bins filled with sand, forbidding clusters of barbed wire, and now they went through a metal detector and were patted down, despite the large ID passes hanging from their necks.

Jason glanced at the warning signs as two American marines with their Iraqi counterparts with M-16s joined the security check.

Do not enter or you will be shot, No cell phone use at checkpoint, Stop here and wait. The signs left no one in doubt that trying to enter the compound without stopping would be fatal.

The Iraqi guards looked ruefully at the dents and scratches made by the explosion noticing the dark black mark with slivers of blood smeared across the bonnet, and fingered the cracks on the windscreen. The US Marines merely waved them through.

I’ll take a chopper from Washington next time. Vowed Jason smilingly referring to the nickname of the busy helipad serving the Green Zone.

They arrived back to the relative safety of the Al Rashid Hotel, having dropped off the ambassador, a scared-looking Uzbek at his consulate. Pick me up in the morning. Let’s arrange a time over the phone and I’m out of here, grunted Abdul Neguib with his nasal accent. Today was too much. It’s getting worse. Thanks for keeping me alive, but I don’t need this. We’ll go to the airport by helicopter tomorrow and I’m leaving this shitty death hole.

Jason understood his feelings. He was a good customer. They were all leaving. The Cypriot representative they had been guarding during his five-day stopover was also departing, probably on the same flight to Larnaca. The handover to the Iraqi Army had increased, rather than lessened the daily attacks.

Pity, they were all high-revenue customers. He would just have to raise the fees again to maintain the team’s income.

At the hotel he asked the Iraqi concierge if Mohammed, his interpreter, had checked out. He pointed to the receptionist another Iraqi of about 60 years who answered Jason "No sir. I’m