Callsign: Bishop (Erik Somers) (Chesspocalypse #5)

“I do not know,” Ahmad said. “Perhaps it was Somers who grabbed them.”


That made more sense. Massai could see why Somers would want to view the DVDs, but there was nothing on them that CJ did not already know.

Ahmad grabbed one of the bottled waters and took a long drink. “Still cool,” he said. “I told you, Massai.”

“I know,” Massai said. “Allah is watching over us.” He took one of the bottles and brought it to his lips. The cool, clean water rolled down his throat, cooling his entire body.

“Praise Allah,” Ahmad said.

This time, Massai joined him.





10.



Bishop watched the land below as it rolled out underneath them. They had left Hassi in CJ’s Cessna several hours ago and were well on their way to Shiraz. Both men had eaten a light supper in the small village prior to boarding the Cessna, but Bishop found he didn’t have much appetite. Not only was he about to meet his biological father for the first time, he was going to have to arrest him.

Maybe kill him.

“I still can’t believe we lost the security DVDs,” he said. “We could have used them to confirm Abbasi’s involvement.”

“We don’t need them,” CJ replied. “I saw the pilot. I know the guy. He was your father’s—”

“Abbasi’s,” Bishop corrected.

“Abbasi’s man,” CJ finished.

Bishop nodded. Blood or no blood, his father was Darren Somers from eastern Illinois. This Dawoud Abbasi guy was just another terrorist, as far as he was concerned. He checked the pistol in his waistband for the tenth time since he’d gotten in the plane.

CJ laughed. “Is it still loaded since the last time you checked?”

Bishop didn’t respond. He hadn’t used any of his meditative techniques to stem the growing coal of anger in his belly, and the longer he waited—and the more he thought about the old man’s death—the greater the pressure building inside him. He sat in silence, willing the Cessna to go faster. He knew a Cessna 172 was capable of speeds up to 180 miles per hour, but it was dangerous to fly them that fast. They simply weren’t built to handle that much stress. The cruising speed of a typical 172 was somewhere around 140 mph. By Bishop’s estimation, they were traveling a little over 140, so he couldn’t push CJ to add throttle. He would just have to be patient for a while longer. They would get there when they got there.

And when we do, I’m going to have a long talk with Abbasi, he thought.

***

Dawoud Abbasi stepped out of his Rolls Royce and examined the ruins of Naqsh e-Rustam. Also known as the Persian Crosses or the Necropolis, Naqsh e-Rustam was the final resting place of four ancient kings. Their tombs were carved into the rock in four identical cross shapes, which is where the local term Persian Crosses came from. In addition to the four tombs, the outer rock faces held seven relief carvings depicting seven of the Sassanid kings, the oldest of which dated back to 1000 BC.

Every time he looked upon the magnificent site, Dawoud felt an immense swelling of national pride. The Americans, in all their arrogance, believed they had a great history, but Dawoud knew the truth. History in the United States only went back to 1776—not even three hundred years. Even if you allowed for Columbus’s voyage, America’s Anglo-Saxon history still only stretched as far back as 1492, just over five hundred years.

Iran had been around for thousands and thousands of years. True, for much of that time it was known by other names, most notably Persia, but the rich heritage of his people could be traced back farther even than that of the ancient Greeks, to cities from 7000 to 8000 BC like Chogha Bonut and Susa, the latter of which still existed today. Despite the rest of the world’s seeming refusal to acknowledge the facts, civilization began right here. In his beloved Iran.

The greatest nation on earth, he thought.

More than his sense of patriotism, Dawoud felt pride on a personal level every time he approached the tombs. The instrument of his greatest ambition was stored in a secret room that only he and a few others knew existed. Soon he would let loose a plague upon his enemies, just like the Jews’ Jehovah. Ironically, a western industrialist had made it possible for Dawoud to conceive and execute his grand plan.