The Threat Emerges: The Jerusalem Cycle Trilogy, #2

By André John Haddad

The fight for Jerusalem continues in The Threat Emerges, the second installment of André John Haddad's heart-stopping international suspense trilogy, The Jerusalem Cycle.

Sochi, Russia, 2014. In this shantytown with rampant poverty and unrest, the glory of the Olympics is already a distant memory, especially for one soldier.

His focus is on the nuclear device he is trying to sell: an experimental bomb stolen in 1996 from Chelyabinsk Nuclear Facility. It's just one piece of a larger puzzle that leads from Russia's desolate north to the city of Jerusalem. Now with the missing nuclear bomb in play, the countdown has started earlier than predicted.

Louise Destrey of the Triage Group, a Massachusetts consulting firm, is convinced the world is on the brink of war, but no one in Cairo, Riyadh, Mumbai, and McLean, Virginia is listening.

While Destrey and Cardinal Zimmer's team are racing against time to change Jerusalem's fate, an international crew of fanatics is busy at work in Jericho. The ancient City of Palms is once again the site of a legendary conspiracy.

If you like reading Tom Clancy and Robert Ludlum, you won't be able to put down this thriller until the very last page.

Don't miss out on the other books in The Jerusalem Cycle Trilogy:

-  Book One: The Players Gather

- Book Three: The Assault Begins
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imagen Publishing
• Release date: May 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999385460

Book preview

Part 1: Activation

1

Chelyabinsk Nuclear Facility Snezhinsk,

(56° 5’ 6 North, 60° 43’ 53 East)

Russian Federation

February 1996

Lieutenant Uri Telanov of the Russian Air force faced an unusual dilemma. Like most of us, he had to deal with problems and the troubles they entailed. He’d find solutions where he could, if he could. Then again, like most of us, he would take his time. Uri would wait for a solution, as if he had that luxury. Tonight however, the former MiG pilot, now a security officer, a few months away from retirement, had no easy solution available to him. Nor did he have the option of putting it off.

His career in the military had always been about making as few choices as possible. It was the way of life in the armed forces. More often than not, if Uri had to make a decision, it was about choosing the lesser of two evils: a God awful assignment in Machulishchi, or a worse one in Baranovichi.

Surviving the Russian armed forces and living off a military pension, was not something he looked forward to. Uri had other ideas about his future, and poverty was not in his plans. Nevertheless, Uri needed a break for his plan to work. Uri’s brain was considering the consequences of his limited options. Normally, once he’d decided on a path to follow, he would choose the proper course of action and execute the plan. It’s a relatively simple process to go through, but tonight this assumption was being tested by fate. Providence had a name and a lovely face: Sofiya.

Two am.

Despite the good or bad fortune of finding Sofiya with his Captain, all of his choices were awful. Worse than that, they were equally dangerous and disgusting, even for Uri. And because choices were dictated by his objective, he had to choose between bad or worse or terrible. But just one.

The Russian chose the latter, because it had the least amount of risk built in. For Uri, his terrible choice would definitely bring about more guilt and a few bad memories.

Probably more than a few, he thought.

Whatever his decision might be, it would add another layer of grime to his life story, making him repellent.

Russian warriors usually ended their careers in relative poverty. Soldiers were permitted to leave the armed forces with a few ribbons, a pension that would only sustain life and, as a bonus, a small number of memories. His past was not made of the stuff of heroes. He would never be able to recount the good old glory days, because, for Uri, there weren’t any to remember or brag about. But Uri would have regrets, he knew, unless he acted tonight.

He wondered how he would mourn the passing of his good friend, the Captain. How would he feel about his death? Would he dream about his Captain? Would he shed tears for his friend and be ashamed? Would his ghost haunt him?

He stood motionless outside his superior’s private quarters, in the cold. Freezing, waiting for the right moment, he was miserable over a deed not yet done.

I won’t feel a damn thing. It’s too cold for that, he said in a whisper, trying to comfort himself.

Uri Telanov had been born into a brooding race, absorbed by dark poetry and his people’s miserable history. According to Dostoevsky, the most basic, most rudimentary spiritual need of the Russian people is the need for suffering, ever-present and unquenchable, everywhere and in everything. And so, try as he might, the Russian officer could never quite master the art of being happy. Uri would settle for okay, if he only knew how. For Uri, it was not that happiness was a sign of weakness. Happiness was not in him, not in his genetic material.

Goddamn it! Is it too much to ask? he asked God aloud.

He almost regretted his outburst: talking to God that way! That was almost inexcusable since Uri didn’t believe in Him.

But just in case, he warned himself. Uri made the sign of the cross with three fingers, right to left, on his chest, once, twice, to expunge his blasphemy.

He leaned forward just long enough to get a look at Grigoriy’s bedroom window. Grigoriy Lyuba, his Captain, was well over six feet tall, two hundred and fifty pounds of the hardest and meanest body one could find in a Russian research lab. Fortunately, his good friend was busy. Uri held his breath so as not to be spotted. As usual, February nights east of the Ural Mountains were bitterly cold, dead cold, under thirty below Celsius. This level of cold meant drunken noses fell off.

…well General, it’s not pleasant to look at. But I’m grateful to God he didn’t suffer, he would say gravely to the representative of the Main Directorate of the Military Police.

Cause of death? The Major General would ask routinely. He wouldn’t take note of Uri’s reply, the answer being obvious.

Hypothermia, would be Uri’s reply, rendered mournfully of course.

Maybe alcohol intoxication, he would add, but only if the General had any doubts. On the other hand, Uri would deliberately not mention poisoning or alcohol. That would just raise too many complicated questions, and the possibility of an autopsy. Between the ghastly deed and the General’s questions, Uri would have had the time to exchange the empty bottles for regular Moskovskaya vodka.

Both? the Major General would ask, as he looked over the two corpses, frozen together for eternity.

Yes General. I’m afraid so. Both. He would insist on the word both, seeding the inquisitor’s mind with images of sex, vodka and cold weather.

Although Grigoriy was loud and boisterous, Captain Grigoriy Lyuba was eminently competent and proficient in managing the security of a nuclear research facility. This was his third posting as Security Chief and Uri had followed him as his second in command, that is, up until now.

Sadly for Uri, he’d developed a relationship with Grigoriy. They were brat’ya, or brothers. They shared the pain of being in an almost constant state of near depression. They would drink and talk and toast to Mother Russia, until the morning sun came up or the vodka ran out. Too old to fly MiGs, they supervised the unlocking and opening of the lab’s huge vault doors while sirens blared and guards returned to their posts. They would be reminded on a daily basis, that keeping secrets was the only job they had left. A posting that kept them both from shooting themselves in the head from boredom or lack of self-esteem.

And so, Uri would have to go through it again, losing a friend or a close comrade. Murder was a better description. He had taken the life of strangers and friends before. But a brother, now that, he thought to himself, would be easier said than done. He tried not to think of Grigoriy as family. He’d concentrate instead on his plan. At this moment in time, his brat’ya was still alive, having the time of his life with Sofiya. Uri could turn back and forget it all, and no one would be the wiser.

No, that’s not going to happen, he repeated to himself. The prize was too important, and it was now or never, before this thing, his obsession, would be shipped away for good. It had become his very own precious: not Gollum’s golden treasure; not a Hollywood prop; but pure malevolence. A lead-encased device waiting patiently to be set free to the highest bidder.

Yes, he would do it, of course. And no, it wouldn’t be a crime. He’d earned the right to steal. And, he was no saint. He’d done his share of sordid actions for Mother Russia as well as his Captain: winning the title of Hero of Russia, with more than 4970 flight hours, half in combat arenas. Both were members of the proud Hunter Fraternity. Hunters had been used extensively in Afghanistan, to cut off the heads of local tribal leaders and terrorize the population into submission. Destroying towns and villages, killing women and children, like skeet shooting on a Saturday afternoon, their list of accomplishments had been the source of many famous drunken tales.

He took refuge in the fact that his Captain was as guilty, if not more so, than he was. Although that form of rationalization usually worked for Uri, tonight it had little effect on the man’s soul. Grigoriy’s death would nevertheless be painful, because Uri was still his brother. He would grieve for his friend. He was also prepared to do the unthinkable.

His mind wondered what his Russian attorney would say? He’d temporarily lost his mind?

Madness is the only possible explanation for my client’s behavior, the lawyer would argue to a military court judge. But Uri knew the truth. The insanity defense is a ruse and would never work for soldiers, an argument no warrior would believe himself. Unlike a civilian court, the insanity plea for a serviceman would shed even greater suspicion on Uri’s case, and he would certainly be held criminally responsible and probably shot before leaving the court room.

Uri knew only too well, that if the time came to pay the price for murdering Grigoriy Lyuba, he would not be found legally insane, because he wasn’t. He was as sane as any other man or woman giving his life to the motherland.

There was a lucid function in Uri’s mind and soul which supplied real time information to his brain, from the beginning of a devious plot, all the way to its very ending. His brain registered the greed, all the frenzy of the kill, the feelings of right and wrong, and his guilt. It would replay in his mind until the deed was done. There would be no glitches in Uri’s consciousness. There would only be regret, if he got caught. There would be madness if thrown in jail. There would be incomprehension when and if confronted in court. There would be tears for the bleeding hearts, but no lapse in memory, no breakdown, no crazy behavior.

The papers would say that a sane man could not possibly do what Uri was accused of. It was unspeakable, unthinkable and unimaginable. Some would refuse to see Uri as a serial killer or a traitor to his nation. Many civilians would feel merciful, when in fact, they should agree to put him down, before the ape killed again. Because Uri, like most killers and traitors, was normal, regardless of what lawyers would prove in court. Uri was sane and exceptionally capable of killing, double-crossing, betraying and cheating another human being. Given enough money, Uri could even destroy his own homeland.

Uri’s need to stay alive was also a powerful force in his pathetic life. His survival instincts, although primitive, countered all the guilt his soul would throw at him and liberated his intelligence to remind him of who he was, and what he needed to do. Uri’s predatory instincts were not all linked to his survival needs. However, most of them were an integral part of his nature, as was Grigoriy Lyuba’s. As a species, Uri’s DNA needed to survive at all costs: to act dangerously and treacherously when required, to kill and lie and cheat. Uri reasoned that men like him are wired to do so. But only a few had the guts to act on them. He called it aggressive evolution, what Herbert Spencer and Charles Darwin coined Survival of the fittest. Although dormant, Uri’s primitive programming was potent, and in his case, waiting for an opportunity to be booted up.

Uri mulled over his next steps with anticipation. Waiting alone in the cold, he reviewed his actions one by one. He sought refuge and strength in knowing what to do and when to do it. He would show no hesitation when the time came. What else could he do? Unlike most men and women about to commit a crime, Uri had enough to think it over and refine his plan.

For those reasons and because of his past experiences with murder, Uri knew that he was well aware and intensely conscious of what he was about to do. It was now glaringly obvious that insanity had no part to play in his decision to murder. Even more amazing was Uri’s capacity to rationalize and overlook the depths of his immorality, and how little he cared for the safety of his nation. His treasonous appetite for money knew no bounds.

To keep going, Uri would simply forget. He lived, from day to day, with an astounding and remarkable stress reliever. To the degree that he would eventually forget it all, and sleep the sleep of the just, Uri had a psychopathic mindset. Almost, but not quite. Because Uri, with memories or not, was capable of knowing right from wrong.

For the time being, Grigoriy’s dead body would be a reminder that he, Uri Telanov, would live a solitary life. Killing off his best friend would have unwanted consequences, yes. Unexpected nightmares, yes again. But also, untold riches.

There was a price to pay. He knew that concept. Fair enough, he said to himself.

Not counting prostitutes, Grigoriy’s hasty departure from this earth would leave Uri with no one left in his life, except perhaps, for his brat’ya’s ghost.

Uri’s mother, father and two brothers, were all gone, all dead. Well, not quite physically dead, but as far as the family was concerned, Uri had passed away a long time ago. In a fit of drunken rage, he had lashed out at his mother, telling her she had failed all of them. She’d failed him especially, not giving him the love he’d yearned for, the attention he needed. As he yelled out his venom to his mother, his drunken tears blinded him. He could not see her sweet face, terrified and tortured, as he accused her of the supreme crime of betrayal, of failed motherhood.

I can’t feel anything, mama, he yelled with all his strength. All I have is your dust in my mouth. He spitted out the words from poet Andrei Platonov, as his soul shattered and left him hollow.

Three am.

Alone, outside Grigoriy’s apartment widow, Uri would soon be cut-off from the rest of the world. He would go underground and disappear until the time was right.

He promised himself to be careful. He kept an eye open for sentries, even though he knew there wasn’t going to be much chance of those at this hour. Everyone on the base was either on strike or sympathetically drunk. Uri also understood that he didn’t have too much time left before they shipped his prize off to the Sarov Research facility for further testing. There was much to do, much to take care of, and much to hide.

The lab rats called her beautiful Sofiya. Sofiya Tolstokozheva, the blond goddess, the Kiev beauty. Sofiya the young nuclear physicist was all this and more. She also did as she was told, God bless her heart. And there she was, as if on cue.

What a good girl you are, he said loud enough to be overheard. He didn’t care anymore. The love birds were way too busy to hear or notice anyone spying outside Grigoriy’s window.

What a shame, he added as a postscript to her life. She has to go.

If Uri stuck to his original plan, people had to die.

Once in a while, the stars align themselves just so, he thought to himself. Uri finally had the break he was hoping for. Sofiya was on top of Grigoriy, pinning him down with her Rubenesque body, naked, swaying left and right, back and forth, over and over again, faster and faster.

Grigoriy cried out. He slapped her behind a few times and got her looking at him again. Eyes wide open, her mouth saying words he couldn’t understand, Grigoriy got more than he bargained for. Sofiya didn’t need to be prodded like a race horse. She wouldn’t stop or slow down for anything. She was just starting, and she was riding Grigoriy to the finish line. She held the vodka bottle in her left hand, pushing Grigoriy’s head deep in his pillow with her right hand, where she thought he belonged. She was spraying vodka all over his face and torso, her mouth ablaze with the cool alcohol. With already three bottles spent, she started on the fourth, swallowing hard, saddling the Russian with her strong thighs, controlling the horse.

Grigoriy did not protest as he held a bottle of his own.

She was the distraction Uri needed to get to Grigoriy’s key. She was the gift, the instrument for his opportunity. She was feeding him the vodka. They were at it with no signs of letting up.

How many bottles is it going to take? he asked himself. Uri was getting annoyed, maybe even jealous.

Faster Sofi, faster woman. Uri heard Grigoriy’s slurred voice from where he stood. He could also make out the Captain’s bulging eyes as he tried to brake Sofiya’s grip from his throat. Failing to do so, Grigoriy took another slug of Balkan triple distilled vodka.

The solution to Uri’s problem was around his brother’s neck. The key unlocked codes to redirect Uri’s prize to another destination. A dead-end mailbox would stymie anyone trying to track down the elusive container, soon to be plastered with Uri’s new identity.

A half hour and six empty Balkan bottles later, the vodka Uri had made sure was in Grigoriy’s apartment had, with Sofiya help, accomplished that part of the plan. They were both intoxicated, soon in a coma. High on Tajikistani Heroin and unconscious, the couple would not feel the cold air. Uri’s concoction was a cocktail made only in Russia: high octane vodka and Afghanistan heroin.

Uri had to be creative since, drunk or not, Grigoriy was not to be underestimated. The man was strong as an ox and stronger still when half drunk. He thought of Rasputin. This time, sweet Sofiya had managed to totally incapacitate his friend. She had also gotten herself wasted in the process. Sofiya had unwittingly helped him out and in doing so, had signed her own death warrant. Uri needed to open the window, just a bit. Let the cool Russian winter air come in and do its job. The next steps would involve making a few changes to his treasure’s forwarding addresses and storage depot, replace Grigoriy’s key around his neck and shut the curtains to his bedroom windows.

Neat, precise, simple. In fact, as far as Uri was concerned, flawless.

Uri carefully approached Grigoriy’s bedroom window, making sure no one was watching. Sofiya had finally collapsed on top of his motionless body. It would take the whole weekend before anyone would take notice of Sofiya and the Captain’s absence.

Uri had previously made sure the window would open easily without making any sound. He pushed down ever so gently on the two screw drivers, as he jammed them under the window’s bottom rail. After of few seconds, the window gave a little, then a little more. A few inches. That’s all it took to seal the two lovers’ fate.

Thank God for bureaucrats, he repeated to himself. There wasn’t even a hint of surveillance. No one was watching. No one would know. The laboratory had been closed for almost three days. No one had been paid in a long time, not even the Director. It had been months since Snezhinsk employees had seen a ruble from Moscow. Some offices had been empty for weeks. The scientists, the technicians, the administrative staff, even a few military, had made a brave effort to show their solidarity, but Moscow didn’t show any sign of life. The scientists were left to fend for themselves. There were changes happening to the country that could put in peril the country’s infrastructure, the generals’ lifestyles, the people’s security, which left Snezhinsk on the bottom of the to do list. Top brass had to look out for themselves first. Nothing else would deter them from ending their days with a comfortable retirement, here in Mother Russia or elsewhere, if it came to that.

A few officers suspected the generals were keeping the money for themselves; others were thinking that the bureaucrats in Moscow were hording the money into Swiss bank accounts. A few imagined the country was broke. But no one really knew. What was real and what was just talk? Was the country really bankrupt? One fact remained unchallenged: there was no money for research. No money meant not a ruble to design nuclear warheads or to draw experimental and prototype warheads. No one could build pulsed reactors, simulate nuclear explosions or design lasers. No rubles for research meant the people were acting crazy and were desperate.

Not surprisingly, the people at Chelyabinsk Nuclear Facility were at a loss trying to explain what was happening to their country, and that created just enough confusion to generate an opportunity for Uri. The center’s treasures were there for the taking.

When on December the 11th, just a few months back, Kirill Alekseev, the nuclear research lab’s Director committed suicide in his office, Uri seized the moment and began to plan his own solution, his retirement plan.

The crisis created by the boss’s untimely death, was the perfect camouflage to operate almost undetected. Uri went to work immediately. In the midst of rumblings, fear, frustration and total lack of leadership from the lab’s senior managers, Uri put a plan together. It was the perfect environment to steal something big. No one would pay attention to his bureaucratic questions or to his newly acquired diligence.

The delay in payment of workers’ wages had thrown Director Alekseev into a deep depression. His suicide note wrote that he was not able to continue to work this way, it was immoral and wrong, and he felt personally responsible for his employees’ misfortune. The lab’s federal budget hadn’t received its annual funding. Spending authorization had reportedly been frozen, and Director Alekseev had never found the strength to tell anyone before it was too late. The few funds received were used to pay for the lab’s electricity and heating bills. According to Izvestiya, the research facility’s employees had last been fully paid six months back, and since then, had received a payment worth approximately thirty US dollars per month.

Explaining the suicide wasn’t that difficult. It was the only explanation the military police could figure out. The lab was lost and its leader helpless. The scientists could not pay their bills. The wives were putting pressure on their husbands to do something. Scientists were almost incapable of doing an honest day’s work at the lab. Soldiers were also confused and unfocused. Security had lost its resolve to control lab activities. And, as a result, one device went missing.

According to the Federal Security Service known as FSB, the increasing lack of funds created the Snezhinsk crisis. It was a secret crisis that would keep Russian Presidents awake at nights and generals paranoid about what would happen next.

The Russian elite had just learned firsthand what it meant to be disloyal to their subordinates. A few more lessons had been learned since, not the least of which was the consequences of unhappy soldiers who have access to secrets and techno gizmos. Real, honest to goodness lessons about responsibility and fear, and nuclear devices on the black market.

Something irreplaceable had disappeared from the lab: a device that could change the world in the blink of an eye.

The US State Department counted more than twelve such nuclear disappearances from different Russian facilities. No one had a clue where to find them.

Uri had been put in charge of keeping the secret from others. Luckily for Uri Telanov, retirement was close at hand, and he had every intention of keeping his secret, to himself.

2

Sochi, Krasnodar Krai,

Southern Federal District

Russia

The hotel bar was half empty but the day was still young. By his watch, it was nine forty five in the morning. The flat screen played Russia’s version of Jeopardy. The regulars were doing their best to enjoy their sunrise vodka despite the natives’ grim and dark outlook on life.

The city was awake and in remission from the games. They had come and gone like a bad cold. Uri didn’t care about the Olympics one way or the other. He had other fish to fry. Needless to say, he felt the games would as soon be forgotten as the folly of a politician.

Surprisingly, the patrons were in a good mood even though the sun lay hidden behind dark clouds. In vain I hide my heart’s fierce pain, he mumbled to himself. A poem from Aleksándr Sumarókov explained some of the alcohol. Russians also drink to laugh, to cry and to forget. It’s a mystery because feeling good or having fun isn’t part of the Russian equation. Fortunately for Uri, those same patrons kept to themselves, undoubtedly a leftover from the Soviet era. And that, he said to himself, is just the way I like it.

The words came out as a command. Corner of Poyarko and Kooperativnaya, he said quickly. He’d been practicing his English for the past three years, preparing for this moment. The former Air Force pilot had to be clear as a bell. There could be no room for error. His well-being depended on it.

"Yes, in front of Makdonal. The water fountain. WiFi hotspot," he said reading from his script.

He looked at his watch. In thirty minutes.

"Yes, yes. Makdonal open." He didn’t like her attitude.

Not… not busy, he replied impatiently. She was stalling for time. He was almost certain she was tracking the call. No matter. There were safeguards in place. Uri prepared for the worst scenario.

Because games finish, he said impatiently. Tourists go home. Everybody go away.

Yes. Putin not in Sochi.

Ahhh! You know him? he said uneasily. "Da. Baboon in Ukraine," he repeated bitterly. Although Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin wasn’t his favorite person in the world, having foreigners talk about his President like that was humiliating. Not to put too fine a point on it, an attack on Putin was an attack on Russia. Putin resembling a Papio ursinus, or words to that effect, could lead to charges of treason on grounds of national security. Maybe the old Russia was back after all, he thought.

Very good, he said awkwardly. The zhenshchina at the other end of the line surprised him, but not that much. The woman with the odd accent and the stupid jokes was all business despite her feeble attempts to hide her quick mind. Act stupid and live, he said to himself. He should know, he played dumb for most of his adult life and survived them all.

Look at me now, he thought. Holding the biggest stick in town.

Dumb or not, the woman did her homework. He’d do the same if he was in the market for something as valuable as his Egg. She had most likely scouted the city for problems that might pop up in the next twenty-four hours. He figured the police and the local mob were high on her list.

Vermin, all of them. Uri stayed far away from the local parasites. They infested and corrupted his country city by city, made life difficult and mean.

Yes. Vladimir City. Uri Telanov chuckled. The woman had a sense of humor after all. For Uri, the Sochi Games were a feat of propaganda and high fraud. How Putin wasted so much money for so little was a mystery to the former pilot.

The woman said it was because the Russians loved their Czars.

She was right. Putin got away with it. He’d do the same with the Crimea. Uri thought he too would get away with it. If Vladimir Putin was the new Czar of Holy Mother Russia, then Uri Telanov was the ultimate arms dealer.

"Arrive alone. Walk to Makdonal fountain. Order tea. Wait for call. No car. No truck. No one wait for you until business is done." Uri had written a few lines of English in advance of this call. He was prepared to do whatever it took to make the deal happen.

"Da. I tell you where to find iPad. I Skype iPad. You look at device from iPad near fountain. If I see you at fountain, everything okay. If you leave fountain, I stop. Conversation finish." Uri had decided on ICQ to show his Egg. The NSA monitored Skype. The precaution was modest, but every little bit counted.

No. I call one time only. In thirty minutes.

"Nyet. I don’t wait for you."

I Skype picture of device. You observe. You ask questions. I demonstrate stomach of machine.

"Yes, Yes. I open."

Everything in Sochi. Yes.

Go to fountain. You have twenty six minutes.

Yes. I tell you where to find device, after payment. Uri Telanov had arranged a private showing of his Egg. A remote viewing from a location he’d carefully chosen, able to show in real time the nuclear device. He hoped no one would be able to track his whereabouts.

Yes, yes, he said irritably. You want device. I show. I answer question. You make transfer to bank account. I give address where to find, key and access code to detonator.

"Nyet. The address after payment confirmation."

Yes. As you say, Madame. I do not trust you.

Yes, even beautiful woman.

"Da, da, da. Bomb very close. Fifteen minute. You walk."

Yes, I sleep with bomb. Bomb is mistress. Uri forced himself to laugh. The woman wasn’t amusing. She was laughing at him. But he was good at this. He was sticking to his game plan. He wouldn’t bite.

Agreement in Euros. No discount. Price fixed with broker. Uri had more than one client respond to his ad. But the woman’s bid was the best he got. It came through a broker who vetted the device’s authenticity and provenance. He’d been told to be careful. She was dangerous and insolent. Uri settled for the woman with the highest bid. Because Uri knew the woman wanted his Egg. She was engaged. She paid the broker a hefty fee to get to him even though everyone involved understood his contact number did not come with a purchase guarantee. The buy would go through if the money was exchanged and the payment confirmed.

Uri reasoned she’d have to pay his price. He had the upper hand and knew it. After all, it took him more than ten years to put together a plan to sell his Egg and get away with it. Not getting caught or killed in the process was high on his list of priorities. Uri Telanov chose money because cash was still king in Russia. Uri understood money. Money is efficient. It’s obvious and universal. Money gets you respect, which was what Uri craved for.

Yes, I know bomb very well. I ask questions to physicists.

"In twenty five minutes Madame. Do svidaniya."

Finishing his hot tea, Uri Telanov took out the battery from his burner phone and left the hotel bar. His peewee hockey team was playing this afternoon at the Bolshoy Ice Dome: the big dome. He promised the kids he’d be there on time to watch the game.

He made his way back to a small warehouse he’d bought six years ago under a false name. Uri paid two thousand Euros in cash. He bought it cheap and out of the way.

The Olympic town was almost deserted, raining like from a bucket. Tourists were nowhere to be found. The weather was unusual for Sochi, bitterly cold. Nevertheless, he smiled. He was nearing his goal. Finally, after all these years in Russia’s boondocks, living anonymously among fishermen and old men, relief was in sight. In fact, he was pleased with himself. So far, he had followed his plan meticulously.

He fondled his Makarov PB. The silencer was screwed to his pistol. Uri carried extra 8-round magazines in case the woman got any crazy ideas.

He watched it closely. His beautiful mistress was resting on a nest of straw, like an egg, his Egg. It was staring back at him accusingly. Or was it fondness? Uri imagined his Egg on Svoya Igra, Russia’s version of Jeopardy.

All right. Uri?

Toys for two million Euros, Pyotr, Uri said earnestly.

In 1996, without presidential permission, Uri Telanov began marketing this toy on the Internet.

Uri?

What is an atomic bomb, Pyotr!

Correct.

Uri’s smart phone buzzed. He nearly sprang to his feet.

Call customer, he read nervously.

He did.

The buyer was relieved she got there in time.

A girl, no older than ten years old, offered the redhead an iPad.

"Spasibo little darling," she said happily.

The iPad buzzed.

Show me! she said simply. "Let’s get this ceilidh over with."

3

The Triage Group (TG Consulting)

In Conversation

Cambridge, MA

T o be perfectly honest, she said, we found it accidently. It made us look at the problem from a different angle. At first we thought of exploring a specific time and place, investigating the City of Jerusalem as if it was an artifact. Something unique. One of a kind. We struggled to figure out when peace would come to the region. That was the assignment. His question, to which the Cardinal wanted an answer. I’m sure you know by now, that’s what we do at TG.

Sir, of course you do, she said apologetically. What was I thinking? There’s nothing you don’t know, she said mockingly.

Yes Sir. We’re consultants. I’m sure you know that too.

Yes Sir. We answer questions.

Of course. All consultants do that, but… she hesitated.

And we did, in a manner of speaking. But in doing so, we stumbled on something else. It was unexpected. I wish to God I had never met him and his goddamn question. Sorry for the language Sir.

No Sir. There’s no going back. It’s too late for that.

Yes Sir. We discovered it in Jerusalem. We also found it elsewhere: in other cities. In the Middle East. The old countries and The New World. Everywhere. So far, we’ve identified well over two dozen cities. They show the same pattern.

Yes Sir. The similarities between them are troubling. At first we didn’t know what to make of them.

Yes, you’re right about that. The numbers helped us uncover the pattern.

That’s also correct. The next series of numbers pointed to South America. We expect São Paulo to be the next location for an event. We’re imagining a similar pattern. It should emerge soon, maybe six months to a year from now. I don’t know…

Maybe. It’s too early to know for sure.

Yes Sir. It’s too soon to say what’s going to happen.

Still, the numbers are telling us to be alert. Problem is, we haven’t yet begun to understand the full implications for the Middle East, let alone for the Americas. As it is, we’re barely scratching the surface.

Yes Sir. Eventually we gave it a name.

Yes, I agree. Destrey laughed a little. It’s a little dramatic. I can see that now.

We first found evidence of the Cycle’s existence a few years ago. That’s how it got its name. It’s a chain of recurring events that started thousands of years ago, probably in Jerusalem.

A bloody history. Yes, we could say that Sir. But what’s really important is its resilience.

Whatever it is, it seems to need a host city, just like a virus needs warms bodies to produce multiple copies of itself. Like any epidemic I suppose, it needs numbers to spread.

Maybe, but I should warn you Sir, we’re trying to figure out something new for us, but an ancient phenomenon nonetheless.

The Cycle. Yes Sir. That’s what we call it. As I said, as far as we know, it’s as old as Jerusalem itself, maybe older. It goes back in time, and there’s no definite indication of where or when it began. It’s possible it’s been with us all along, since humans started to walk and talk.

I don’t know the answer to that question, Sir.

No Sir. I don’t speculate about religion or the supernatural.

Yes Sir, Jerusalem unfortunately fits like a glove the model we’ve put together. It’s the perfect host with lots of experience. As I said, since form follows function, we named it the Jerusalem Cycle. One, because as far as we know, it’s perhaps the first urban center on record to exhibit the pattern: war after war since its foundation. With no end in sight, the Cycle’s the only pattern that explains everything. And two, we’re in the process of going through a cycle as we speak. Our ground zero is Jerusalem.

The evidence is empirical.

Yes Sir. There’s hard evidence but then, there’s also common sense. We can all see it, if we want to. We don’t need computers to tell us what’s right there in front of us, staring at us. If we care to look at it, we’ll recognize it. The Cycle’s real, whether we want to believe our eyes or not.

Yes Sir. I’m sure that in your position you…

No Sir. I can’t do that. The work we do is too important. Our hands are full with the Cardinal’s question.

How does it work?

As I said, we think the Cycle spreads like a virus. It’s patient. It waits for the right conditions to surface. It travels quickly. It elicits negative behaviors from ordinary people: good people, young and old, all colors, races, rich and poor alike. This type of contagion doesn’t discriminate. And the Cycle always ends up triggering the worst possible behaviors. The end result is always bad. Then, when there are no more players left standing, it disappears for days, months or years, until the conditions are ripe again. And because it’s a cycle, it comes back. It’s faithful that way, like a dog or my horse.

Yes Sir.

No Sir, I didn’t know that.

His name is Rusty.

"Of course he is. A thoroughbred. A real divo." Destrey giggled. She was looking at Rusty’s picture on her desk.

Yes. Whatever shape this Cycle takes on initially, at the end of the day it reveals its true face. It’s by nature destructive. At first, people believe that everything that’s about to happen is for the best: a renewal, a new democracy, a liberation.

Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. It starts with a lie. But you knew that all along."

May I ask you the reasons for your call?

I’m sure there’s nothing I said that you didn’t know already.

Oh!

No. I don’t know if we can stop it. The Cardinal and his crew in Jerusalem are doing the best they can. The problem is, I don’t believe in crusades or miracles.

Yes Sir, I hope there’s a God up there because we sure as hell need one now.

You wanted an elevator pitch. Well, there you have it Sir.

Yes, of course. Please tell the President I’m at his disposal.

Thank you Mister Secretary.

Good luck to you Sir. I hope you can find them in time.

4

The Triage Group (TG Consulting)

Cambridge, MA

2016-14 months ago

Louise Margoe Destrey stood up straight and looked at the Cardinal squarely in the eyes. The man was intimidating. Not so much because of who he was, but because of what he knew. He’d seen it all, first hand: the deceptions, the arrogance, the bad taste, the lies and the ill will. She was convinced he could see right through her and could tell whether the intent and the words were aligned.

To add weight to her message, she set aside her notes, preferring a conversation to a more formal presentation. Please pay attention to these numbers Your Eminence, she said deliberately. They’re significant. They represent the answer you’ve been looking for. Please don’t hesitate to ask questions or comment.

While pointing at the holographic presentation, she said the words and numbers mechanically. Having read and reread them a hundred times, her brain finally accepted their meaning, understood their implications. She had committed them to memory for all time. The fifty-nine year old woman, an industrial psychologist from Montreal, known for her management skills, razor-sharp decision making and foul temper, was a natural for the job. She had led her team of consultants through a web of incredible complexity. That came with high level assignments such as this one: predicting when peace would come to Jerusalem and the Middle East.

Having been a TG client herself a few years back, she understood a customer’s point of view better than anyone else at the firm. Customer service wasn’t just a marketing strategy. TG’s promise to their clients was always kept, no matter what. The promise was the consulting firm’s mission. If, however, the money involved was deemed over the top, she would respectfully remind those complaining customers that You always get what you pay for, no more, no less. Not because customers routinely expect the more expensive product to be better, but because TG was in the business of staying in business, top assignments required top solutions. Anything less, would be unacceptable.

She would state it as a warning before setting in motion any and all consulting assignments. She had no patience for penny-pinching tightwads or customers who absolutely needed to show off by questioning the firm’s fee structure.

However, all of that was moot. This client never complained about the money. The assignment brought both consultant and client to a new level of partnering. For the last two and half years, on a 24/7 schedule, TG’s intelligent machines figured out correlations to assist consultants make sense of data and answer the priest’s question. Wrenching out meaning from billions upon billions of bits of information finally generated a response Destrey would stand behind and bring to her client. She classified the project as high risk, high gain, indicating that risks would be the order of the day. There was no safe protocol for cracking the future, especially this time. Needless to say, the assignment the customer entrusted to TG Consulting had brought the firm to the brink of total collapse, as the organization pushed the science to its limits. Luckily, TG professionals successfully overcame huge technological issues surrounding the generation of long term predictions.

Regrettably, those directly involved in the project had accessed frightening information. This prompted Destrey to question whether sane human beings should know of impending disasters about to unfold within their lifetimes. Destrey concluded that knowing what could be, brought about irreversible damage to her professionals’ general outlook on life. She concluded by saying, …the nature of our client’s assignment is somehow jeopardizing our God given right to happiness and hope. Poet Thomas Gray put it this way: Where ignorance is bliss, ‘Tis folly to be wise.

She hoped TG wouldn’t get too many of these assignments.

Hope, she added, is an essential part of sanity, of mental health. From time to time, we may require not to know. Destrey believed that if people couldn’t trust in their own capacity to find a way out of a jam, if their future was set or unchanging, then why should they try? For what possible reason should they search for an answer? Why bother getting up in the morning, if there’s nothing you can do to change what’s going to happen?

No matter what the machine would announce, she needed to believe that nothing was written in stone. She wanted to believe in a future as a work in progress.

Luckily for TG, most of the staff didn’t believe the predictions produced by the machines, refusing to take them seriously. Knowing, reading, analyzing the data or discussing the results had not unnerved them. Most would read the prediction topics and gladly rationalize them as speculation based on current data. They didn’t dwell on it, believing that one single bit of new information could change everything predicted. She hoped they were right. Unfortunately, no one at TG was betting any money against Lola’s predictions.

Destrey eventually identified the phenomena as a genuine emotional disorder for those who saw more than speculation in those predictions.

Lately, she found herself gazing outside her office window, desperately trying to make sense of it all. With a shallow breath and a heavy heart, the industrial psychologist tried to control the panic attacks that came when she least expected them. Destrey fought her way out of these bouts of depression by visualizing herself back in her country home. There, surrounded by mountains covered in crystal white snow, cocooned in a century old farmhouse, wrapped in her favorite red blanket, she would insulate herself from reality, blissfully detached from the world outside. Although the relief would be brief, it was still a blessing.

Since her husband’s death, she headed the Triage Group and called the city of Boston her new home. Alone in the penthouse suite overlooking Trinity Church, she would pass the time writing about her new life in the US, relaxing with a PBS British production or watching her favorite Home & Garden show. Managing a thinly disguised bunch of eccentrics, professionals from around the world, was also Destrey’s excuse to smoke.

On occasion, Louise Destrey would interact directly with the firm’s supercomputer. The boys at the office, specifically Constantin Greco, called the machine Lola. A Cray parallel processor supercomputer, programmed to take on a female holographic form, it made each transaction with the machine a fairly irritating experience for the no nonsense, no patience, short fused senior consultant.

Destrey kept her 19th-century country house in Ste-Adèle Quebec, even though she called the US her new home. She did because in nearby Québec, in Val Morin, lived a creature Louise Margoe cared for dearly. Her Boy: that’s what she called the big galoot. Rusty was now a fourteen-year-old and sixteen hands thoroughbred, who, it is said, was pouting over his mistress’ absence in spite of the carrots she brought with her as a peace offering.

As of two days ago, she continued dryly, we were looking at 99.99% and 100% forecasts. We’re talking about confidence levels, but I’d rather call them levels of conviction. You see, the math evolved, she added with insistence. With more and more data coming in, with new software being developed and strong algorithms applied to the data, we’re now able to see farther into the future and with greater accuracy. So, we have two predictions, two very similar levels of conviction and a computer that’s in a continual loop of testing its findings.

The client found TG’s senior partner abundantly clear. Probably beyond his expectations.

She turned to them again and although she hated what she was about to disclose, Louise Margoe continued on, carefully choosing the right words.

This is what I want to talk to you about this morning. The data is about two dates. The first is Saturday October 2, 2024 at 23:59. The second is Sunday October 3, 2024 at 0:01. The dates are not important because they can change. What’s critical is that the prediction was made in the first place. So please keep your eyes glued to what is going to happen, rather than when. When should be understood as a marker.

As the data came into view, new information appeared together with each prediction topic or PT timeline.

These numbers are about what’s going to happen, TG’s answer to your question, Your Eminence. Specifically, when will we have peace in Jerusalem and in the Middle East? Turning again to the holographic presentation, she pointed to the words: War and No war.

PT. 1 99.9% War High point Oct. 2, 2024 at 23:59 Jerusalem