Curse of the Quincunx

By Vincenzo Spiaggi

During the Middle Ages and after two hundred and fifty years of inbreeding, this geographically isolated community of genetically diseased killers is all but destroyed by an earthquake. Its few survivors scatter to the four winds and resettle afar.

Now, a mad man tries to resurrect their lineage, hoping to recreate an army of mercenaries from what remains of their genetically noxious descendants.

Waiting for them are the agents of World Interconnect (WI-7), who attempt to stifle this deadly march of evil. WI-7s quest is international; its failure would be catastrophic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546228011

Vincenzo Spiaggi

Vincenzo Spiaggi, a native of New York City and a graduate of The City University of New York, is a geologist, novelist, journalist, fine arts photographer, and screenwriter. He has lived and worked throughout the United States, in Canada and the Middle East. He currently resides in rural upstate New York.

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© 2018 Vincenzo Spiaggi. All rights reserved.

Cover photo courtesy of Rick Butz and Selena Goldberg

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/09/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2802-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2801-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018901639

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1     Thanksgiving Day,

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Chapter 2     Saturday, November 29, 2014

Chapter 3     Monday, December 1, 2014

Chapter 4     Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Chapter 5     Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Chapter 6     Thursday, December 4, 2014

Chapter 7     Friday, December 5, 2014

Chapter 8     Saturday, December 6, 2014

Chapter 9     Monday, December 8, 2014

Chapter 10   Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Chapter 11   Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Chapter 12   Thursday, December 11, 2014

Chapter 13   Friday, December 12, 2014

Chapter 14   Saturday, December 13, 2014

Chapter 15   Sunday, December 14, 2014

Chapter 16   Monday, December 15, 2014

Chapter 17   Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Chapter 18   Wednesday, December 17, 2014, and

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Chapter 19   Friday, December 19, 2014

Chapter 20   Saturday, December 20, 2014

Epilogue       Sunday, December 21, 2014, to

Thanksgiving Day, Thursday, November 26, 2015

In memory of

Robert Lee Johnson – 1930-2016

Jack Paige – 1942-2017

Dearest friends. Godspeed.

The eyes are useless if the mind is blind.

The mind is useless if the soul is empty.

Bonnie Rosen Strauss

A brief synopsis of the previous ten books of the Johnny Skull Series

Small-Town Weekly (Book 1)

The Valentine Voice is a mess. This small-town weekly newspaper is suffering from listless reporting, lifeless news presentation, and dwindling advertising revenues, all a result of its inexperienced, inept and feckless management, and a lack of effective community awareness.

Into the equation enters Johnny Skull, an itinerant newspaper editor who has made a career of revitalizing failing small-town weeklies and turning them into successful entities by upgrading their writing, reporting, photojournalism, and community advocacy.

Via his editorials, feature articles and interaction with the locals, we learn about Johnny and how he transforms the woeful newspaper into an award winner in just one year.

His efforts, and the efforts of his newly energized, all-woman staff, are woven into the events and fabric of the town and county, including a tornado, a successful high school sports year, a surprise visit to the town by a rock ‘n’ roll legend, a mystery woman who sends love letters to Johnny, a major fire, and a multiple-murder spree.

Small Pebbles, Long Shadows (Book 2)

The editor of The Sheridan County Sunrise disappears.

A sports reporter is brutally murdered.

The sheriff’s investigation hits a dead end.

The star quarterback at the local high school has a troubling past and is walking an emotional tightrope. His cheerleader girlfriend is bothered by his occasional disappearances.

What is it about the missing editor’s past that leads to the uncovering of a terrorist plot?

The newspaper’s new editor, Johnny Skull, leads an investigation into the previous editor’s disappearance and sports reporter’s murder, and finds more questions than answers; but finally, all clues lead to a rural mosque and its radical leader.

Set in the beautiful foothills of the Bighorn Mountains of northern Wyoming, this is a tale of mystery, love, international politics, personal awakening, and individual triumph.

Happiness Is The Road (Book 3)

Johnny Skull’s life experiences from 1998 to 2006 are explored during his wedding celebration in the fall of 2007.

Documented is the young newspaperman’s odyssey from the time he graduates from the University of Arizona, until just before he takes a job at The Valentine Voice, the setting for the first Johnny Skull novel.

This story, via flashbacks, follows Johnny’s career through seven different jobs as he learns the publishing business … and life lessons that are priceless.

In Texas, at his first job which lasts only one day, he is run out of town by the sheriff’s daughter. In Kentucky, he saves the life of his future boss and earns a job at a newspaper in Maine. In North Dakota, he rescues a newspaper from mediocrity and brings it into the twenty-first century.

In Colorado, Johnny starts a brand-new weekly newspaper, only to lose his job just days before 9/11/01, when a new owner acquires that publication. In Arizona, he resurrects a failing mining magazine to its former respected status, and becomes a successful fine-arts photographer.

As the communications and publications director for a trade organization in Washington, he goes head-to-head with his new boss who has some strange views on intra-office relations. And in Nevada, he helps a congressman get elected.

But the story also reveals the dark-side of ex-Marine Johnny Skull, as he uses the lessons he’d learned from his grandfather to avenge the honor of his friends.

The Great Sicilian Rabbit Hunter (Book 4)

A little-known, but particularly evil, Nazi war criminal is on the loose. He escapes to South America after WWII, then eventually makes his way to North America, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Newspaperman Johnny Skull, with help from a well-connected U.S. congressman, an Israeli Secret Service agent, and a terrorist-tracking organization known as World Interconnect (WI-7), is on the Nazi’s trail, one that leads from Italy to Argentina to Mexico to Arizona to British Columbia, and finally to Wyoming.

The story follows the military careers of U.S. Marine lieutenant Johnny Skull, and his grandfather, a former U.S. Army major, as they hone their particular skills in hunting down the world’s evil thugs. The story also revisits the life of the Nazi, and his metamorphosis from a bumbling fool to a ruthless killer.

A Tribute To His Heroes (Book 5)

At the end of the previous book, Johnny Skull discovers a fortune in gold and cash in an abandoned coal mine. He then proceeds to give many of his friends a cash gift of $20,000 each, but he remains the anonymous gift giver.

The story follows the recipients of the gifts and how their new wealth affects their lives.

A sub-plot of the story is the murder of a radical Muslim cleric, how that murder intertwines with the lives of several characters, and the international intrigue that builds thereafter.

The Natural Order Of Human Events (Book 6)

Family members of the Secretary General of the United Nations are murdered in a homicide bombing in Jerusalem. Overcome with grief, the Secretary General then takes his own life.

His successor, Mikki Paarsalu of Estonia, vows to reform the corrupt international organization; but during his acceptance speech, he offends a few people and makes a few new enemies.

The story chronicles the efforts of Paarsalu’s enemies as they try to teach him a lesson for his public humiliation of them. His enemies include a powerful mullah at a mosque in Boulder, Colorado, and a Middle Eastern ambassador to the United Nations.

The story also tracks the efforts of Paarsalu’s friends as they try to protect him from his enemies. Working in his behalf are: Johnny Skull, who is on his own mission of revenge; a U.S. congressman and an Israeli Mossad agent; several reporters for The Sheridan County Sunrise, an award-winning weekly newspaper in the Village of Story, Wyoming; and members of World Interconnect (WI-7), an international terrorist-tracking organization. WI-7 believes that the Yemeni jihadist, Abu Zulu, is the man behind the plot to harm Paarsalu.

Time To Lean, Time To Clean (Book 7)

Interwoven between scathing indictments of the American president and international jihad, is a story of terrorism, foreign intrigue, incompetence at the highest levels of the American government, and creative patriotism.

Vespa Jiggs, the American president’s puppeteer, is not whom she seems to be. Following the path of her own secret agenda, she is planning a catastrophic event that will forever change the world’s political course.

But the killing of Osama bin Laden – an action she vehemently opposed – causes her to change her plans when one of her operatives talks a little too freely to the wrong people about her planned terrorist event.

Once again, Johnny Skull and World Interconnect (WI-7) rise to the occasion to save the world from the evildoers.

The Antelope Farm (Book 8)

The American president’s friends, top advisors, and co-conspirators are disappearing at an alarming rate. With the 2012 election just around the corner, and with his key people nowhere to be found, the president is concerned that, without them, he will lose his bid to serve another four years, thereby foiling his efforts to destroy the United States from within.

Only the organization known as World Interconnect (WI-7) knows where the missing persons are. In an effort to destabilize the president’s re-election campaign, the international anti-terrorist organization not only kidnaps those people who are important to the president, they also uncover a network of radical jihadists who are working toward the overthrow of the United States government.

One-Legged Geese (Book 9)

World Interconnect (WI-7) is on a mission to eliminate a North America-based, Iran-sponsored network of jihadists. But the Iranian government and the Boston Mafia are on separate missions of their own; coincidentally, and incredibly, their independently arrived-at missions are identical, and WI-7 is caught in the middle of an international race to turn the world upside down.

The First Raindrop Of The Storm (Book 10)

Iran wants to start the end-of-days war with the West. To that end, a plot is afoot to kill seven key world leaders, thereby forcing the West to respond militarily.

Twenty-two jihadists are on the loose in America, preparing g to form an Iranian caliphate when the end-of-days war ends. Additionally, a host of Iranian operatives and sympathizers within the American government are aiding Iran in its attempt to turn the world to ashes.

Can Johnny Skull and his WI-7 teammates succeed in saving the world from destruction? WI-7’s road to success is circuitous, but the ultimate outcome will surprise even themselves.

Key Members of World Interconnect (WI-7)

WI-7 Directors

WI-7 Operatives

WI-7 Consultant Status Force Members

Prologue

Quincunx: a geometric pattern consisting of five points, with four points arranged at the corners of a square, and a fifth at its center.

It was 1449, the year the inbreeding began in five particular Persian villages – ancient human enclaves which are now nothing more than mounds of rubble and windblown sand, hardly distinguishable from the surrounding harsh, high-desert landscape. And, while nature’s more destructive elements may have obliterated the physical history of the region’s inhabitants over time, the progeny that sprouted from the wombs of abused mothers during those days of rampant incestuous activity, would infect future generations in ways anathema to most civilized societies.

The now-vanished, long-ago villages of Qisaini, Qilo, Qiforu, Qitisinu, and Qiquyu, had been serendipitously arranged in a quincunx pattern in an arid mountainous region in a remote area of eastern Persia, far from the well-traveled Silk Road trade route connecting the Far East to Istanbul, and far from the tempering influences of compassionate human conscience.

While the barbaric Islamic hordes of the Middle East were enslaving entire nation-states and their indigenous infidel populations, the isolated villages of the quincunx were designing a method whereby their future legacy would be secured through genetic-purification engineering, all in an effort to perfect their own peculiarly diseased brand of Islam.

Named for the five families which controlled the lives of its residents, the villages’ ultra-fundamentalist Islamist leaders conspired to take the Koran’s teachings to even more-evil and more-violent extremes, especially the Mohammedan command giving these mentally twisted criminal elements the license to do anything they could to promote the distorted virtues of the then-eight-hundred-year-old religion’s concept of superiority over all others.

To that end, each village nurtured the malevolent idea of forcing the most evil of its inhabitants to procreate with one another in order to pass on their evil genes to succeeding generations – even if the inhabitants of each particular village were related to each other – all in an effort to foster the eventuality of a hoped-for, worldwide Islamic caliphate of brutality. They believed that only the most evil of their brethren could be successful in their holy task; that is, they wanted to be the vanguard of the coming of a bloody paradise. And they believed that, in time, they would produce a nucleus of remorseless killers to do the evil will of Allah and Mohammad ... even if they would be somewhat genetically defective due to their genetically tainted chromosomal fabric.

And because their fanaticism took precedence over their good sense, mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, sisters and brothers, aunts with their nephews, and uncles with their nieces, all took advantage of the twisted philosophy of the quincunx villages and began producing the myriad issue of incestuous couplings, all in an effort to purify their genetically evil traits. Only those offspring who survived birth without visible physical or mental defects were groomed to be as evil as their forebears; although none would ever be totally free from defect.

Those rare survivors of the first generation of seemingly normal newborns were studied during their early years regarding their meanness toward animals and other children; and later, as pre-pubescents, they were called upon to commit acts of terror against other tribes outside the safe confines of the quincunx villages, just to hone their skills.

Only the vilest of the vile were permitted to procreate when they reached puberty. The evil girls became breeding machines, making babies with evil male relatives of all ages; the evil boys became hunters, as well as providing their biological seeds to their evil female relatives. Understandably, and because they all were related, a fair amount of first- and second-generation offspring either miscarried or did not live more than a few days after birth; those problem fetuses that went to term either died from naturally occurring birth defects or, especially the badly deformed babies, were put to death by the mothers.

But those who survived were trained to carry on the villages’ fledgling tradition of dread. The succeeding generations saw the expansion of the range of these depraved killers, as they traveled far and wide to plunder the riches of trade-route caravans, and to impregnate the many slave-women companions who traveled the desert highways with their masters, thereby spreading their demented seeds far beyond the limited horizons of the quincunx villages. However, most of those offspring were born to be somewhat less than normal.

But the inhabitants of the quincunx did not seek to expand their modest land holdings; they were satisfied to remain in their own sphere of influence in their own little place in the mountains, using it as a staging ground for their forays into the unsuspecting outside world.

Eventually, word had spread throughout the region that the villages of the quincunx were places to avoid. And they were avoided ... for the most part. Indeed, whatever rare attempts were made by outsiders to interact with the evil people of the quincunx villages – whether by design or by accident – were thwarted. More often than not, innocent travelers, and/or would-be invaders, from the outside who entered the realm of the quincunx, were never seen, nor heard from, again; their valuables were taken as spoils of war, their bodies were tortured in a bizarre, barbaric, ritualistic fashion, and their bones and flesh were shared among the five villages. By the beginning of the seventeenth century, the twisted, quincunxian religious philosophy had morphed from Islam into something more akin to Culinary Satanism.

Then, during the month of March in the year 1699, a massive earthquake struck the villages of the quincunx, causing widespread destruction and death. Five men and five women from each village were the only adults to survive. These twenty-five couples, and their few surviving children, all were products of the incestuous, bloodline-purification process of the evil villages, a process that produced killers who did not need guidance, just a purpose, such was the success of the two-hundred-fifty-year, genetic purification experiment. However, after two and a half centuries, the fiber of that experiment had degenerated from religious fervor to nothing more than a thirst for blood.

The succeeding generations of displaced quincunxian refugees eventually resettled in the southwest Caspian Sea region, mostly in what is now the present-day country of Azerbaijan; specifically in an ancient and remote mountainous region near the village of Qutqashen. Over time, a small number of that village’s male quincunxian inhabitants had scattered to the four winds and had spread their diseased chromosomes far and wide to unsuspecting female human incubators, producing mostly monstrous offspring.

These Azerbaijani quincunxian travelers would call themselves ghallashi, the Persian word for rogues. Their surviving, dwindling-in-number, bloodthirsty latter-day progeny would be counted as participants on the ships of the Barbary Pirates in North Africa, as knife wielders and shooters in a host of celebrated European and American political assassinations, and as prison guards at the sites of mid-twentieth-century holocausts. But most of the offspring of these scattered, latter-day killers were less than viable and soon disappeared into the bowels of history.

The twenty-first century name given to the remaining descendants of these rogues was lone wolves: they answer to no one, they seek no one’s permission to do what they do; and, above all, they appear to be inexorably and uncompromisingly tied to the original interpretation of the Koran, which demands the spilling of the blood of all infidels.

However, the surviving, seemingly non-defective children of the Azerbaijani descendants of the quincunx all share one common trait: that evil little gene on their chromosomal ladder which derived from the ancient experimental inbreeding processes of the long-ago villages. That evil little gene would guarantee varying degrees of abnormality. The question is threefold: Are they loyal to the original precepts of the Koran, or are they loyal to the concept of killing for the sake of killing? … And can they differentiate between the two?

1

Thanksgiving Day,

Thursday, November 27, 2014

T he two men had convinced the owner of the small-plane airport to allow them to fly solo today. They’d been taking lessons for three months now, and they were ready to see if they could handle the single-engine Cessnas by themselves. Ostensibly, their objective was to fly the planes solo from the private, small-plane airport in Teterboro, New Jersey, across the Hudson River, then across Manhattan, and, following the East River south, they would crash into the upper floors of the United Nations tower building, causing it to crumble like the Twin Towers almost a decade and a half earlier. But today was to be a trial run, which meant no explos ives .

The explosives would come tomorrow.

Now, you’ve got exactly a quarter of a tank of fuel in each plane, said the instructor/airport owner, an elderly Jew named Isaac Telansky. "That means you’d better be back here in an hour and a half or you’ll run out of gas. Actually, that was by design; y’know, so you don’t get to fly too far. I know you guys are good enough to fly by yourselves, but today is Thanksgiving Day and I’ve got to be home by two o’clock. Not only that, but I’m all alone here right now. This facility usually is closed on Thanksgiving; it’s one of the few days we close all year. You two were the only scheduled training flights today, so I decided to accommodate you myself rather than bringing in my entire staff. So, please, make this little fly-around flight an uneventful one ... Anyway, stay away from the airspace above populated areas. Just follow the major highways over rural areas here in New Jersey, just like I taught you to do; they’ll lead you right back here. And stay in constant radio contact with each other ... Okay? So, see you soon."

However, he didn’t tell them he’d be monitoring their conversations from his office in the two-story control tower. Oh, and one more thing, gentlemen, Telansky added, give me your cell phones now. It’s just another reason for you to get back here within the specified time. Like I said, it’s a holiday and I don’t want my family to chide me for being late. I’ll give the phones back to you when you get back here. You’re not gonna need them while you’re flying, anyway.

Reluctantly, but also knowing they wouldn’t be needing them, the pilots gave Telansky their cell phones.

Eight minutes later, the cousins were airborne. Both planes flew wing-tip-to-wing-tip at an altitude of five thousand feet across the Hudson River, across upper Manhattan to the East River; then they headed south until they saw the Beast on the East (that’s what the locals call the U.N. tower building, referring to that organization of international, money-gobbling wastrels on the East River).

Meanwhile, back at the airport, Telansky smiled as he reviewed the recently renewed insurance policies for the aging, twenty-five-year-old planes which the young Muslim cousins were flying. He’d received the policies in the mail a few days before, so he had no problem in having the planes run out of fuel before returning to the airport; he just hoped they didn’t do too much damage when they crashed, mainly because he’d actually left them with only an eighth of a tank of fuel each, not the quarter of a tank he’d assured them they had. And he made sure both planes had exactly the same amount of fuel so they would stall out at exactly the same moment.

Mr. Telansky didn’t like Muslims very much. Ever since the Twin Towers came down thirteen years ago – killing his daughter – he’d had it in for them. So, when the Muslim cousins called him late yesterday afternoon to schedule today’s training flights, he adjusted the fuel-tank-gauge levels on the two planes to read more than was actually there. Having been a U.S. Air Force mechanic during the Vietnam War, Isaac knew enough about planes to easily adjust the fuel-tank’s visual readouts.

About a mile north of their target, one of the pilots, Mahmoud el-Qisaini, spoke to his cousin, Achmed al-Qiforu. Now, you split off to the southeast, and I’ll head to the southwest, he said. Then we’ll drop down to about two thousand feet and we’ll turn and approach the U.N. tower building from opposite directions; we’ll pass each other over the top of the tower. Tomorrow, when we’re loaded with the explosives, we’ll aim at the upper part of the mid-section of the building and lock the steering controls in place to hit the target; but today, we’ll just fly over the top on our practice run. Then we’ll head back to the airport ... And tomorrow, just before we take off, we’ll kill that Jew who owns the airport.

Got it, said al-Qiforu as they prepared for their rendezvous over the U.N. tower.

When Mr. Telansky heard their conversation, he froze.

Moments later, as the two Cessnas finished making their final turns toward the U.N. tower from opposite directions, their engines simultaneously sputtered; the planes shook hard, and they began to lose altitude. Within five seconds, their engines stalled.

What is happening?! screamed al-Qiforu.

I’m stalling! screamed his cousin. I can’t control the plane! He glanced at the fuel gauge and yelled, I don’t understand … we can’t be out of fuel yet, can we be? Then he looked up and saw his cousin’s plane twisting and turning toward him.

* * *

On the south side of the United Nations Plaza, 72-year-old Joseph Tumbarello sat on a bench with his two young grandchildren. Vito, Teresa, he said to them, go stand over there and I’ll take a picture of you with that tall building behind you. Then we’ll go home for Thanksgiving dinner and I’ll show your father and mother the nice picture.

Okay, grandpa, Vito said as he took his twin sister’s hand and walked toward the U.N. tower building. About fifty feet from their grandfather, they stopped and turned to face the old man.

That’s good, said Mr. Tumbarello. He took his cell phone from his jacket pocket, punched the CAMERA icon and proceeded to take the picture. Hey, maybe I’ll also take a video of you walking toward me.

Less than a second after he hit the VIDEO icon and sighted the display screen on his grandchildren, he heard what sounded like an engine in distress. He looked up and saw two small planes approaching each other from opposite directions above the U.N. tower; both appeared to be out of control. He immediately turned his camera skyward.

The planes crashed into each other about fifty feet above the roof of the tower, ejecting both pilots. Mr. Tumbarello, with his camera in hand, followed the descent of the pilots all the way to the ground as they crashed into two parked cars about two hundred feet from his venue.

Immediately, his grandchildren rushed to his side. He looked up to the top of the tower, expecting the planes’ fuel tanks to explode and begin raining debris all over the plaza. When that didn’t happen, he realized how lucky he was, for he knew he was at a location that certainly would have been hit by jetsam from the crash, and he wondered why there was no resulting explosion. Then he realized that the planes had fallen onto the roof of the tower, and had remained there after the midair collision.

When the police showed up, he shared his video with them. Later, he shared the video with every television reporter he saw. He became an instant celebrity.

Twenty minutes later at the Teterboro airport, Isaac Telansky watched the cable-TV news report and the replay of the crash of the planes at the U.N. Knowing it was his doing, he was happy for three reasons. First, he learned from the TV report that no U.N. workers or innocent bystanders on the ground were hurt or killed; second, two more Muslims were dead; and third, he would collect handsomely from his insurance company. But he also knew he would soon be inundated by the press and the police once they learned of the origination of the flights.

In his mind he thought of what he would have to do to exonerate himself from any blame; specifically, to make sure his records showed that the planes had taken off several hours earlier than they actually had, in order to account for the lack of fuel in the planes’ fuel tanks when they were found.

He also knew it wouldn’t be too long before his favorite lady spy would be calling him to find out what really happened.

* * *

Jack, Brian Robbins said as he hurried into the den, there was just a news alert on Fox News. Two small planes have crashed into the United Nations tower building.

Jack Davidson, the executive director of World Interconnect (WI-7), a secret, international, counter-terrorism organization, was about to bring to a close WI-7’s annual business meeting, when Brian interrupted the proceedings with the startling news.

Held on the morning of Thanksgiving Day in the palatial log home of Brian and Davida Robbins in the lovely mountain village of Story, Wyoming – to be followed by a sumptuous Thanksgiving feast – the meeting’s discussion centered on the organization’s accomplishments since the previous year’s meeting, including the almost-complete destruction of the Iranian-backed jihadist terror network in North America, and the foiling of an Iranian plot to kill seven world leaders (a failed effort that was supposed to have goaded the leading Western governments into a holy war with the Muslim world, a holy war the Islamic fundamentalists in Iran looked forward to with great anticipation).

However, unlike previous years when WI-7 played an active and decisive role in the elimination of the world’s Islamic evildoers, their most-recent anti-terrorist successes were purely the work of either fate, serendipity, happenstance, dumb luck, jihadi incompetence, or divine intervention. Not that WI-7’s agents hadn’t tried to disrupt the Iranian’s plans – they had – but their successes just seemed to happen by themselves. More than three dozen key Iranian sympathizers and jihadi operatives had met Allah and Mohammad in hell without one WI-7 shot having been fired, nor one drop of WI-7 blood having been spilled.

At the meeting were: Jack Davidson, WI-7’s New York City-based Executive Director; Greta Vogelein, WI-7’s Denver-based Western Regional Director; and WI-7 Board of Directors’ member Mikki Paarsalu (who is also the Secretary General of the United Nations). Also present were WI-7 full-time operatives Johnny Skull, Jenny Jessup, Levi Ashkelon, Yali Shevet, Morty and Solomon Cohen, Reva Kahani, Ibrahima Oosminaqi, Paul Davidson, and Jarvis Greene; and WI-7 part-time consultant status force members Saundra Jessup, Fannie Scalisi, Jimila Jimmie Masroun, Morning Rae Ferris, Della Casias, Skeeter Abravnel, Sue Ellen Richey, Sheila Adler, Mario Genduso, Virgil Thorpe, Xerxes Malouffi, Sister Hernanda Molina, Faith Hunter, Obadija Finkelstein, Mollie and Bambi Dalaasa, and Miles Ponsonby. (Not present at the meeting was H. Mathias Neimark, the Vice President of the United States and WI-7 Board of Directors’ member.)

Just before Brian had come into the den with the news of the planes crashing at the U.N., Jack Davidson had mentioned seven items that were to be on the WI-7 agents’ operational schedule for the near-to-intermediate future. They were: keeping a close watch on The Betterment Society, a radical Muslim activist organization; the radical congressman Odell Barnes; the radical Harvard professor Zuliqa Niimu and her brother-in-law Mooghani Niimu; a possible grass-roots freedom movement in Iran; certain secret contacts inside Iran; and Iran’s U.N. Consulate in New York City. He also mentioned he was sure that the number of items on their collective plate was certain to increase over time. Little did he know that that number would immediately increase by one, due to the plane crashes at the United Nations in New York City.

After a long moment of informational digestion by everyone in the room concerning the planes’ crash, Jack asked Brian, Any word on deaths or injuries?

Not yet, interjected WI-7’s electronics-device expert Jenny Jessup, as she perused a news app on her cell phone. But it is being reported that the two small planes collided with each other in mid-air right over the U.N.’s roof just before the planes’ impact with the building, which was right on the roof of the structure; damage apparently is confined only to the upper two floors. It is thought that there was no explosion of fuel because of the low angle of impact … but I find that a dubious explanation. However, I would think that since it’s Thanksgiving Day, maybe the death and/or injury toll will be a whole lot less than if it was a regular work day.

Immediately, everyone in the room pulled their cell phones, tablet computers and laptops from their back packs and began searching for pieces of news. Mikki Paarsalu, the Estonian Secretary General of the United Nations and WI-7 board of directors’ member, said, My offices are on the second floor, so I’m sure we escaped any sort of damage. Not only that, but my entire staff has the weekend off. They’re on a vacation retreat in the Smoky Mountains with the staffs of the Israeli and Canadian embassies. He took his cell phone from his jacket pocket, stood and headed for a far corner of the large den. "Pardon me, but I’ve got to call the U.N. Operations Office. I mean, I am the Secretary General, you know."

Mikki, said Jack, if you need to head back to New York right away, I’ll have one of our small jets available for you up in Sheridan. The City of Sheridan is a twenty minute drive north of Story.

I appreciate that, Jack. I’ll let you know after I make my call.

Listen to this, Jenny said as she read aloud another news report on her cell phone. The pilots apparently were ejected from the planes after they impacted each other in mid-air, just before the planes crashed onto the roof of the building. The mangled bodies of the pilots were found in an adjacent parking lot on the caved-in roofs of two parked cars. Apparently, a bystander had taken a video of the entire incident. That’s how the cops were able to find the bodies of the pilots so quickly.

Levi Ashkelon, who was looking at a streaming news report on his laptop computer, said, Hey, guys, take a look at this. Everyone formed a semi-circle around the Israeli WI-7/Mossad agent. The computer’s screen showed a Fox5 News reporter standing outside the U.N.’s main building.

I’m here at one of the parking lots adjacent to the United Nations Plaza, said reporter Joan von Rapacki. By now you may know that within the last hour, two small Cessna aircraft crashed onto the roof of the U.N. tower building. Eyewitness accounts say that both planes crashed into each other about fifty feet above the top of the building before they fell onto the roof of the structure. Apparently, damage was limited to only a small portion of the top two floors. There was no subsequent explosion of fuel or any other explosive devices, nor did any parts of the planes fall off the roof. Preliminary reports say there were no casualties or injuries; that is, except for the pilots, whose bodies were hurled from the planes on impact and were found in an adjacent parking lot. Drivers’ licenses taken from the bodies identified the pilots as 26-year-old Mahmoud el-Qisaini, and 26-year-old Achmed al-Qiforu, both Brooklyn residents, both presumably having American citizenship. After searching through the wreckage of the planes by U.N. security personnel, it was learned that there were no other passengers on either plane ... I’ll be back to report any breaking news when it happens.

Reva Kahani, the Iranian-born, naturalized-American Jewess, and also a WI-7/Mossad agent, sat back in her chair, her mind scanning the memories of the words of her late father, an Iranian-American spy for the United States. Qisaini? Qiforu? Now where have I heard those names before? she asked herself.

WI-7 agent Johnny Skull said, "Hold on just a minute! My question is this: Why no explosion? And there were no explosives to be found? Why not? Not even any explosive vests on the men? No bombs, either? And no exploding fuel tanks? I don’t get it! And what was the purpose of the flights? Was it just a trial run … without the payload? Or was it just an accident by two novice pilots who were just out for a holiday joyride and maybe lost control of their planes? Or maybe they just ran out of gas, ergo no explosion. I’d also like to know where they took off from, and where they were going."

I’ll see if I can find that out, said Jack. Maybe Mikki and Sue Ellen can do some investigating for us, too, when they get back to New York. He was referring to WI-7 agent Sue Ellen Richey, the top aide to Mikki Paarsalu. Jack looked over at Sue Ellen and said, Whad’ya think?

I’ll see what I can learn, she said. The U.N.’s security manager is a friend of mine.

Guys! We may have the answers to your questions right now, said Levi. Listen to this. He turned up the volume on his computer’s video screen. The local Fox5 News TV reporter had returned to the screen. She said, We have just learned that the planes had taken off three and a half hours ago from a private, small-plane airport across the Hudson River near Teterboro, New Jersey. The owner/operator of the airport, a man named Isaac Telansky, told Fox5 News that the planes were piloted by two novice pilots who had already completed their training program. They were scheduled to return to the airport by one o’clock local time, which was more than three hours ago. Telansky said that the planes had enough fuel for the scheduled hour-and-a-half flights, but the unauthorized, unscheduled extended flight time would certainly have used up their fuel. Telansky also stated that he’d been trying to make radio contact with the pilots since half past twelve, to no avail.

Hey, wait a minute! said Reva. "I know him. Mr. Telansky. Yeah, I’ve had lunch with him a few times. He’s a lovely older Jewish gentleman. Actually, I think he’s got a little crush on me. Anyway, every time I fly out of the New York area, I use that little airport. That’s where the WI-7 jets usually pick me up and drop me off. It’s a small facility, but very handy. It’s just Mr. Telansky and a few other employees who work there. I think I’ll call him … y’know, to find out what really happened. I have his cell phone number on my cell phone’s contact list." Reva stood and headed for the den’s door to the deck.

Just then, Mikki Paarsalu came back to the table. I need to be heading back to New York first thing in the morning. I’ve got to take Sue Ellen with me … And we were so looking forward to our annual group hike in the hills tomorrow. But, c’est la vie.

I’ll call our plane’s pilot, said Jack. We’ll get you back to New York by early tomorrow afternoon. I’ll drive you to the Sheridan airport myself. We’ll leave here at sunrise. Then he looked over at Mario Genduso and said, Mario, since these dead Muslim pilots lived in Brooklyn, do you think you’ll be assigned to investigate them?

I’m certain of it, said Mario, the head of the counter-terrorism division at the NYPD’s 69th Precinct in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn, and also the lead cop on the Tri-State Anti-Terrorist Task Force. As a matter of fact, I just received a text message from my chief, telling me to be back on the job by Saturday. I’ve got to head up the investigation into what might be in the apartment where the two pilots lived. We got the address of their apartment building from Mr. Telansky and from their drivers’ licenses. My chief thinks that because of their Middle Eastern names, we might be dealing with terrorism. The apartment building, and their apartment, has been sealed and has been designated as a crime scene by the local precinct. The local police didn’t even bother to search the building or the apartment, they just taped it shut. No one else lived in the four-apartment building but the pilots; it’ll be under 24-hour surveillance by the local cops … Say, maybe I can hitch a ride back to New York with Mikki and Sue Ellen.

Good idea, said Jack. And Mario, make sure you’re able to find every electronic device they own, and, of course, any explosives. Would it be okay to have Reva and Ibrahima tag along?

I don’t see why not.

Good. They’ll travel back to New York with you. He looked at Reva and Ibrahima and said, You guys okay with that?

Reva said, Sure, boss. No problem.

* * *

Five minutes later out on the deck, Reva was on the phone with Isaac Telansky. "Isaac, it’s