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  The senator often met with administrative aides, fellow congressmen, petitioners, and foreign statesmen in his offices at the Capitol or the Hart Senate Office Building. But when he had something important to say, nay secret, he preferred talking on the run. He’d been in political life too long to trust the ears of his sycophants or the walls of his offices. His task now included funding the Lemuria Project. None of his staff and only a few of his peers knew that such a thing existed. It was a secret scientific endeavor that could change the face of war, the balance of power of nations, and do as much to preserve the United States as the preeminent world power as the atom bomb did to make it one. The costs of the project, cheap compared to most military research efforts, were buried in obtuse descriptions among the vast resources of the military’s research and development budget. Only the president, a handful of congressmen, and the military elite knew of its nature. The president would keep it secret even from his most ardent and loyal supporters because he knew many would oppose it on moral grounds. And, should word of the project leak and adverse public opinion come to bear, Bruce imagined the president would be prepared to distance himself and disown it as well. Was it legal? Well, he was a U.S. senator after all. He made the laws. And anyway, he couldn’t think of any senators who had actually spent any time in jail. He knew that he and his partners in this endeavor were pressing the limits of their power. He knew he was being arrogant. But sometimes, decisions to benefit your country had to be made despite the law and public opinion. Presidents were said to rule by the power of persuasion. But some of the most momentous decisions in U.S. history were accomplished by power without persuasion. Jefferson made the Louisiana Purchase unlawfully. No Congress gave Lincoln the right to free the slaves with the Emancipation Proclamation. Roosevelt put Japanese Americans in internment camps in World War II. Kennedy simply announced the creation of a Peace Corps. No Congress approved Clinton putting millions of acres of public land off-limits. Bush created an entirely new cabinet post, Homeland Security, created a separate justice system to deal with suspected terrorists, and promoted a preemptive war. So, while Leland Bruce knew he stood on shaky ground, he knew other great men had stood there before him. And most importantly, he believed Lemuria could succeed.

  General Shell stood in the lobby of the Hart Building studying the centerpiece of the ninety-foot-high white marble atrium, Alexander Calder’s monumental sculpture Mountains and Clouds. Fifty-foot-high black steel plates set on the floor represented five mountain peaks. Four huge overlapping curved aluminum plates above the “mountains” represented clouds. They were the “mobile” part of the Calder sculpture and “usually” moved in random patterns. But not today.

  Mack Shell was staring up at motionless “clouds” when Senator Bruce stepped out of the elevator and approached him.

  “It’s broken again, Mack,” the senator said.

  Alexander Calder had arrived in Washington to finish the installation of this, his last work, on November 10, 1976. He had yet to make his final adjustments when he died later that evening. The mobile sculpture had since been intermittently dysfunctional.

  “There had to have been some magic to the art that just wasn’t finished,” the senator said reflectively. “God, I think we’ve spent more money on electricians and engineers to fix it since Calder installed it, than the piece actually cost.”

  The general followed the senator into another elevator as they headed for the tunnel and the congressional subway that would shuttle them in a private car from the Hart to Dirksen Building and on to the Capitol. Each subway train consisted of three cars, one reserved exclusively for senators. Though the underground system was crowded with staffers, once in his private senatorial subway car with the automated train rumbling to its stops, Leland Bruce felt comfortable enough to speak freely.

  “Well, Mack, will the ends justify the means?”

  “You don’t go into any fight without believing you can win,” the general answered. “Sometimes you don’t. But like anything, if you don’t try…”

  “You know, you can always spend more money. No one wants to see this fail. Do you need more?”

  “It’s not just money, Leland; it’s science. They go at their own pace. No matter how much money you give these guys with PhD’s, they still have to wait for stuff to grow in a dish.”

  “Well,” the senator ruminated, “they say if you have a million monkeys clanging at typewriters for a thousand years, one of ’em would write Shakespeare.”

  “We don’t have a million monkeys or a thousand years.”

  “But you’ve got a few billion bucks,” Senator Bruce piped back in. “I’m trusting you to make this happen, Mack. You’ve got to manage this as not only a war against international terrorism, but a war where a fragile and volatile public opinion can be just as much an enemy. If we lose, it’ll be because we lose there.”

  The subway stopped at the Dirksen Building and the conversation quieted a moment. General Shell knew that Senator Bruce had doubts. Everyone had doubts. But the senator was his beachhead on the Hill and he had to keep that well reinforced.

  “I hear your last venture was a success,” Leland commented.

  “We met our goals. But there were some glitches.”

  “Anything I should know about?”

  “We lost a weapon.”

  “And?”

  “And I expect to recover it,” Mack replied.

  As they walked on, Mack spoke again. “We’re going into the field again soon.”

  “Will there be collateral damage?”

  “There always is. But it’s just PR after that, and we know how to do that.”

  Mack took the senator’s hand, holding it firmly between both of his. Taking another “soldier’s” hand in his was almost his trademark. He had used it to great effect in invigorating the spirit of his troops. Words could be powerful, but there was nothing more powerful than human touch to put an emphasis on one’s sincerity.

  “You know when my father fought in World War II,” Mack began, “more men died on a single ship on a single day then in the entire Iraq War. Every family in America bore the burden. Men were cheap. Tanks cost money. Now the costliest part of fighting a war is men. You know what it costs to train them, move them, clothe them, feed them, treat them, retire them”—the general paused for effect—“and bury them. Leland, no one knows better than you. The more losses we sustain, the more money it costs to recruit and hold. We are a country now with too many creature comforts, with all the decadence of a modern Rome before the fall. The people will let us wage war against our enemies as long as they don’t suffer for it. There’s no patience for victory. No tolerance for blood and casualties. No realization that wars are ultimately immoral and you can’t really fight and win one without playing dirty.”

  Arriving at the Capitol, they found their aides awaiting them in the rotunda.

  “I expect to see Calder’s clouds moving when we meet again,” the general said.

  “I’ll make it happen. You make it happen,” the senator replied.

  The general’s aide proffered a small bag.

  “Oh, I have something for you, Senator.”

  The general handed Leland Bruce a small package.

  “Nothing sensitive I could lose here,” the senator commented warily.

  “A little gift. I heard you’re a grandfather. I thought it was the perfect gift for a boy or a girl and since I didn’t know—”

  The senator opened the bag and, looking inside, smiled. Perfect indeed, a stuffed animal—Curious George.

  On the Day of Judgment everyone will stand before Allah to be judged. They will be given a Book of Deeds. If the book is given to a person in his right hand, he will go to paradise. But if the book is placed in his left hand, it means he will be sent to hell for eternal torment.

  —Commentary on The Qur’an

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Joshua Krantz and Fala departed from Amman on a Royal Jordanian Airline
s flight to Islamabad. There was only a single subterfuge. He carried a British passport. Pakistan, like thirty-two other predominantly Muslim countries, did not recognize Israel or Israeli passports. Fala entered as who she was, an Egyptian archaeologist. It was a long flight, twelve hours with layovers in Kuwait and Bahrain. They were tired. A Pakistani driver, holding up a sign with Fala’s name, was waiting for them just outside of customs.

  Islamabad, the capital of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, was nothing like the polluted, overcrowded, deteriorating, and oftentimes dangerous capitals of most other Islamic countries. Unlike Cairo, Amman, Baghdad, or Damascus, Islamabad was a master planned city with four well-designed sectors, separated by glorious parks and open spaces. It had only become the capital in 1967, and the drive into its center was along wide thoroughfares lined with stately palms, past grand modern government buildings and mosques built of marble, limestone, and glass.

  “Shalom,” their driver said, as they drove, greeting them in Hebrew matter-of-factly.

  “Salem aleichem,” Krantz curtly responded.

  Krantz took his measure of the driver. He had a long coarse beard, and wore traditional Pakistani garb—a salwar kameez, a long white shirt with loose-fitting pants; a colorful embroidered velvet vest; and a kufi, a velvet embroidered skullcap. With his beard and skullcap, he could pass just as well for a Chasidic Jew in Jerusalem. Krantz knew they were to be met by someone from Mossad, but he would not be taken in by such a subtle ploy as being greeted with a “shalom.” He’d need more evidence to feel comfortable. Pakistan had a powerful secret service, the ISI that had ties to both Western intelligence at the same time it held hands with Islamic fundamentalist groups, including Al-Queda. Then the driver responded with the words Krantz was waiting to hear.

  “You are my ‘shnai hamal-ah-cheem.’”

  “Cain,” yes, Krantz confirmed promptly, pleased that he was in safe hands.

  “My name is Suleiman,” the driver said. “I am Mossad, but I was born in Karachi.” He eyed his passengers in his rearview mirror. The “shnai hamal-ah-cheem” were the “two angels” of the Bible that had come, one to destroy the evil city of Sodom, the other to save Lot and its righteous inhabitants. Were his “two angels” on a mission to destroy or save? No matter. He was a Jew and knew that whatever mission they were on had something to do with Jewish survival—and ultimately his own. A Jew in Pakistani clothing was ultimately still a Jew.

  “There are still Jews in Pakistan?” Fala asked.

  The driver laughed. “There are Jews everywhere. Remember, until the Temple is rebuilt, we shall be in diaspora. And not all Jews are Eastern European Ashkenazi or Spanish Sephardim. I am a Punjabi. My family name is Solomon. But it is better here to be a Suleiman.”

  “Are there synagogues here?” Fala wondered aloud.

  “No, no,” the driver snickered. “The government says they love Jews here. But if any Pakistani Jews would gather to pray, an illiterate mob would quickly kill them, and the government would do nothing. Hitler’s minister of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, was also fond of saying he loved the Jews. He loved to kill them. No, here we Jews must remain anonymous. We gather in private homes for prayer. Like in Israel, we are mostly secular Jews. But here, if anyone asks, we pretend to be secular Muslims.”

  Then he got down to the serious mission at hand.

  “This weapon you want to inspect, it must be very important. The Americans want to buy it, too.”

  “And they didn’t?” Colonel Krantz said, somewhat surprised.

  “Not yet. But they will. We have made an offer, but if the Americans are bidding, it will be too pricey for us. Israelis? They are just poor Jews. But we will see it first. And more.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “The Americans, they have money, but they also have to play by moral rules. Jews, to survive, sometimes can’t afford to play by those same rules. We have compromising pictures of an Urdu MI general.” Urdu MI was Pakistani military intelligence.

  “You blackmailed him with a prostitute?” Krantz asked.

  “No, everyone sleeps with prostitutes here. No crime. No sin. But little boys? Not even Islam tolerates pedophiles. We are giving this general great rewards. He will get money from the Americans. And from us, we will give him freedom from prison or a stoning.”

  The next morning, they drove north, over rutted, boulder-strewn roads, built a century before by a British army that once called this land part of their empire. They drove through the ancient Khyber Pass to Peshawar and then north again to the mountainous region called Hunza. Hunza was the setting for John Hilton’s novel Lost Horizon and indeed as they drove through this land of lush, green terraced valleys, snowcapped peaks, and the windingly beautiful Indus River, it seemed like Shangri-la. In the distance, just across the western mountains were the deserts of Afghanistan and the turmoil of war. Here, in Hunza, the people peacefully tended their fields. They were charming and friendly, greeting passersby with vigorous waves and, if you stopped, with a small offering. They seemed ageless, and perhaps they were. The Hunzakuts were also famous for their longevity. They survived on a natural diet in an unpolluted yet primitive world.

  Suleiman had arranged to meet the general at the Baltit Fort, the home of the ancient Mirs, or kings of Hunza. Until the twentieth century and the coming of the modern nation of Pakistan, the people of this land located astride the Silk Road had maintained their autonomy for six hundred years. Ancient Hunzakuts kept a sword, a shield, and a loaf of bread with them at all times; and upon hearing the drumbeat warning of approaching invaders, they would run to the fort to defend their kingdom. Until the British conquered India and Pakistan in the late nineteenth century, Hunza had been free.

  Set atop a peak in the Himalayas, the Baltit Fort had limited tourist hours and little tourist traffic in any case. In the late afternoon, it would be a private and very out-of-the-way place to meet. The Pakistani general was already waiting when Joshua, Fala, and Suleiman arrived. He offered no greeting, no word. He simply ushered them into a room where a canvas bag sat on a solitary table and closed the door. He knew no one would steal this treasure. The room had a single door and one window that opened to a spectacular view of the steep gorge below.

  Inside the bag was the weapon that Israeli intelligence had photographed—Alexander the Great’s battle scythe. It was basically a leather glove mounted with four ten-inch razor-sharp scythes, curved finger knives, not unlike the weapon Freddy Krueger used in horror movies. It was still stained with blood.

  “This is no ancient weapon,” Fala commented almost immediately. “But it’s a good copy. Other than new leather and stainless steel instead of iron, it’s an exact replica.” She tried to put on the glove. It didn’t fit. “A little small,” she muttered curiously. “Even for me.”

  “It’s a perfect size,” Joshua remarked. “Appropriate for the era. Soldiers in Alexander’s army were less than five feet tall. Men have grown in stature nearly a foot in two thousand years. This weapon would have fit the hand of a soldier in Alexander’s army.”

  “But we know it’s a modern weapon. Used just a few weeks ago.”

  Krantz played with the weapon for a moment and pondered the dilemma.

  “Well, who are soldiers nowadays?” he asked rhetorically and continued with what seemed like the obvious conclusion. “Children. Child soldiers are plentiful in lots of war zones. They wield machine guns and machetes. Why not a battle scythe?”

  “Yes, but those places have been mostly in Africa, not the Middle East.”

  “Oh?” Krantz responded, somewhat condescendingly to his Egyptian and Muslim lover. “Islamic extremists don’t recruit children for their dirty work?”

  “The people killed were Al-Queda,” Fala reiterated.

  “They were Shiites. This could be sectarian war.”

  Someone knocked on the door. It was Suleiman. He motioned for them to put the weapon back in the sack. Then he picked it up and returned it to the gen
eral, who abruptly left. Nothing was exchanged. Nothing was said. But the Pakistani general was now in the lifetime employ of Mossad.

  “I have bought you one more gift,” Suleiman said. “I have brought you here because there is a clinic in the village below, and there we will meet the only survivor of the massacre at Takhar.”

  There was a small clinic in the town with broken-tiled, almost dirt floors, a dozen beds, one doctor, and a few nurses. Unlike the antiseptic odors of most medical facilities, this one reeked of urine and feces. The doctor had little to offer, some basic antibiotics, bandages, and most importantly, the gift of pain relief: intravenous narcotics, in the form of the local homegrown heroin. If you survived the place, you likely left addicted. In a corner bed there was a man, or they assumed he was a man, wrapped like a mummy, head to toe, in bloodied bandages. His body had been serrated, from the top of his head to his feet. Krantz immediately had doubts about his theory. Could a child soldier wielding a battle scythe have done this? The man had been blinded. His lips, tongue, and mouth were shredded. He was fed through a feeding tube in his abdomen and was in great pain, even with the heavy doses of narcotics they were giving him.

  “Can he describe who attacked them?” Krantz asked.

  Suleiman leaned over and whispered the question into the hole where the man’s ear had been. The man did not move. He did not speak.

  “Maybe he speaks Arabic?” Fala asked Suleiman.

  “They speak Farsi here in Northern Pakistan. Arabic and Urdu are not native languages.”

  “Maybe he’s not a native,” Krantz added. “A lot of foreigners must train in terrorist camps here.”

  Suleiman tried the question in Arabic, then Urdu, even English. No response.

  “You know,” Krantz suggested, “when you can’t hear by air conduction, when your ears are blocked, or, if you have no ears, you can still hear by bone conduction.”