SIXTY-THREE

Curtis Belltether had been gathering tidbits from some of his news contacts about the war in Israel. For a split second he wondered what he was doing on Wilshire Boulevard, in Los Angeles, instead of trying to get a scoop on what was really happening in the Middle East. Or maybe covering the breaking news about Hank Strand, the president’s chief of staff, who had just abruptly resigned from the White House to “pursue other opportunities in the private sector,” whatever that meant.

But as Belltether strode to the front desk of the Hilton Hotel to ask about a guest who was staying in the big penthouse upstairs, he remembered why he was there. He was working on a piece about the unification of world religions and how it was the force behind the global-warming movement, and this was the last hair on the dog’s tail for his investigative report.

This climate piece would be the second of two blockbuster exposés he would soon be publishing. The first one, which he’d already finished, uncovered what really happened when the Chicago flight was shot down by terrorists. He had discovered that the Return-to-Sender system on that jet had not failed after all. The fact is it had been disabled by the airlines because they mindlessly thought that FAA regulations required it.

But Belltether was running short on cash. He needed to fund some travel for the rest of his climate report. So he started looking around for a publication that would buy the RTS article. He had contacted Phil Rankowitz, the retired television exec who ran AmeriNews. To his joy, Rankowitz jumped at the offer to buy the piece. When Belltether further found out that RTS designer Joshua Jordan and his wife, Abigail, were friends of Rankowitz’s and that they were all connected with a group that had launched AmeriNews in the first place, Belltether knew the article would be a perfect fit.

Belltether already had a title for his second article: “The Gods of Climate.” The guy he was about to interview in the L.A. Hilton was practically the “Zeus” in this new religious-environmental movement.

The web reporter announced himself at the front desk. “I’m here to see Alexander Coliquin.” The desk clerk gave Belltether a second glance and left her post to go to another phone to check on something out of earshot. Belltether had tracked Coliquin down in Los Angeles where he knew that the Romanian ambassador was scheduled to address a large convention the next day sponsored by something called the “World Religious Unity Coalition for Climate.”

Thirty minutes later, Belltether was sitting in one of the burgundy velvet chairs in Coliquin’s massive suite, and the two were engaged in a conversation that hadn’t gone anywhere. Yet. The reporter found the guy to be every bit as charming and intelligent as he’d heard. Coliquin did not allow any taping but permitted Belltether to take notes.

Toward the end, the writer honed in on his subject. “I find it ironic that you’re leading a global religious movement about climate.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve heard from several sources that you’re actually an atheist. Is that true?”

Coliquin’s eyes lit up and he laughed. “Not at all. I’m a firm believer in the divine supernatural.”

“From what I can determine, this is the closest thing that history has ever seen to worldwide cooperation among all religions. You must be very proud.”

“Pride is not what I am about. It is simply the right time now for us to put aside petty differences, the things that separate us — like dogma and doctrine — so we can achieve something remarkable, like saving the planet.”

Belltether was about to light up a cigarette, but Coliquin politely asked him not to. “Hotel rules,” he said. “Also, I don’t care for smoke.”

The reporter complied. “Where are you going with this international union of religions?”

“Toward a more perfect world, a safer climate, a future for humankind that won’t spell disaster. Don’t you want that too, Mr. Belltether?”

“Sure, but I just wanna know when I buy my train ticket where it’s going to take me. I’m trying to get a fix on your destination, your ultimate goal. I’m not seeing it yet.”

“You should come to one of my orphanages or my leper colony. You’ll see what my goal is.”

Belltether said only, “Hmmm.” He jotted some notes and then added, “You know, a month ago I actually traveled to one of your Romanian orphanages, in the Village of Coplean, the one you founded after the floods there killed a bunch of families, and a lot of kids had been left homeless.”

Coliquin maintained a smile, but there was an almost imperceptible flicker of his eyelids.

“There’s a bishop in a Christian church in the village,” Belltether continued, “who had very strange things to say about you. He says he knows you and that the people in the town who tried to speak out against you had a habit of disappearing.”

Coliquin laughed. “People disappear for a lot of reasons.” But then his expression changed to a look of paternal gentleness. “A person who really tries to do good, like I’m doing, sometimes steps on the toes of those in the power structure. And then the local power structure strikes back. Hurtful things can be said. But as for those who speak lies against me … I forgive them.”

Belltether said nothing, but his pen never stopped.

Coliquin added, “In fact, the exact same thing once happened to a famous man named Jesus. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Grigori kept muttering to himself and shaking his head as the helicopter cut across Syrian airspace. They could see the troops massing on the ground below. Then they passed over several crashed fighter jets. They couldn’t tell at first who they belonged to. There were smoldering piles of smashed aircraft and trails of black smoke spiraling up from the wreckage.

Then they spotted a parachute on the ground. It was dancing and rippling in the wind. Nearby was an injured Israeli pilot, surrounded by enemy troops.

“Hey, I think that’s a downed Israeli,” Joshua cried out. “We could try to — ”

“Forget about it!” Grigori shouted. The Georgian pilot was gesturing wildly. “Lucky we don’t get shot … boom, boom … right out of sky …”

Nobody was going to debate the point. Joshua and the team had all been waiting for the first missiles to come flying. After all, they were passing through a war zone.

Grigori and his copilot checked their bearings.

“Okay. Soon be leaving Syria and crossing Israel border. Golan Heights coming up. Pickup point dead ahead. Thanks for flying Georgian Airlines.” Grigori laughed.

Now the fear was that the Israelis would blow them out of the sky. As they crossed into Israel, they saw the multiple lines of barbed-wire fence along the DMZ corridor as they followed the brown rolling hills on the Golan plateau. The barren landscape was dotted with yellow and red signs warning of land mines.

They passed over a defensive line of Israeli antiaircraft guns and makeshift bunkers where the IDF was dug in along the border. As the helicopter passed, the soldiers scrambled to their posts. Grigori pointed to the long barrel of the big gun that was being wheeled around to track them. He started swearing loudly in his mother tongue.

They waited.

But no incoming fire. Nothing.

“Thank You, God,” Joshua muttered.

“So the Georgians are friendly with Israel after all,” Cannon said with a smile.

A few miles past the last Israeli defensive outpost, they came to an open plateau surrounded by a few scruffy trees. On the ground, was an Israeli Blackhawk helicopter. The rotors were slowly idling, cutting the air. They could see a pilot in the cockpit.

Joshua peered down. “Only one pilot?”

Cannon joined in. “Looks like the newer generation, the faster ones. Doesn’t need a three-man team like the older models.”

Grigori started bringing his big helicopter down about fifty yards from the Blackhawk. When they were on the ground Grigori turned and said, “Joshua Jordan, I want you know something … that I read about you. I know all about you. You’re good man. You have big luck, okay?”

Joshua stepped up to shake his hand and his copilot’s too. Then he grabbed the hands of each of the four special-ops guys, one by one.

“I owe my life to every one of you. I’ll never forget what you did.”

Joshua had a momentary hesitation as he studied the faces of the four Americans. Was it a fear for their safety or for his own?

Jack said, “Be safe.”

“God’s speed, Colonel Jordan,” Cannon said. Then he saluted.

Joshua saluted back and then slid down from the helicopter and started jogging toward the Blackhawk.

The Georgian copter lifted straight up in a whirl of dust. By the time Joshua reached the Blackhawk, Grigori had piloted the commercial helicopter out of sight.

Joshua climbed into the open door and sat in the passenger seat. The pilot had the sun visor of his helmet down. There was a smile on his face. But something didn’t seem right. Joshua glanced behind the pilot’s seat. A tarp was spread out over something. He looked again. Two fingers of some dead man’s hand were sticking out.

When Joshua looked back, the pilot was pointing a handgun directly at Joshua’s chest.

The pilot flipped his sun visor up. Suddenly Joshua felt a queasy feeling of weightlessness and the shock of recognition as he stared at the face of the deadly assassin in the pilot’s seat.

When Atta Zimler addressed his stunned passenger, there was an oily tone of arrogance to his voice. “Good to see you again, Joshua Jordan. Sorry to leave you so abruptly last year at the train station in New York, but I had to slip away before your idiot police and FBI got any closer. You had to know I would never give up …” Zimler was enjoying himself. “… that I would come after you no matter how long it took, that I would never allow you to win. Admit it. You knew deep down it would come to this. Shortly you are going to give me your computer password to the RTS design files — which will then make me obscenely rich.”

Then Zimler gave a wave with his .45 caliber Glock 39. “So come on. Let me hear you say the words: ‘Mr. Zimler, sir, you win …’”