The inside man, p.31
The Inside Man, page 31
Jax took a step back so that he could get a clear view of the writing and translate it later.
And that was when he felt the Serpent’s breath on the back of his neck.
Jax repositioned his torch as he spun around. He’d been holding it like a pen as he studied the wall, but the one-inch-wide tube of metal was firmly in the middle of his fist by the time he completed his turn, a ready-made weapon as well as a light. And when Jax brought his metal-laden fist up to his chin, the bulb was just three inches away from the Serpent.
FACE to face, toe to toe, only a slither of light between them. Jax began to circle as the Serpent remained statue-still.
Rising onto the balls of his feet, fists ready to fire, Jax waited for the Serpent to strike. He would hit after he made the monster miss, then use his speed and the Serpent’s momentum to turn his superior strength into a weakness.
But the Serpent, fully clothed but no less terrifying, did not move.
The anticipation was harder than any hit.
‘You need to leave,’ the Serpent whispered into the dark. ‘Please. Go. He will be back soon.’
What the fuck? Nah . . .
Jax raised his torch. Not far. Just enough to light up the Serpent’s eyes.
Nah . . .
Not yellow. No black slits.
Jax looked harder.
No death. No rage. No thirty-three souls. They were not the same eyes he had seen in the clinic. Or in this cell. These eyes were sad eyes. They were desperate eyes. They were defeated eyes – like eyes Jax had seen in Afghanistan after a swap deal with the Taliban.
Hostage eyes.
‘Please,’ the Serpent continued. ‘You shouldn’t be here. Leave. Now. Before it is too late.’
Jax could not believe what he was seeing. What he was hearing. And now saying: ‘Professor Wensley?’
‘For now,’ Wensley said. ‘But he could be back any moment. I can’t stop him. You really have to leave. Please. I beg you.’
This hadn’t been in any of Jax’s plans.
‘Not until you tell me what this means.’ Jax lit up the wall.
‘Means?’ the Professor said. ‘Nothing, something, everything, who knows? He is a lunatic. And so are you. Leave. Please. Too many already. I don’t want any more. Please. Before he takes you too.’
‘851,’ Jax said urgently. ‘Does 851 mean anything to you? Have you seen it written anywhere? 851 followed by another two numbers?’
Wensley began blinking. An involuntary twitch of the eyelids.
‘He’s almost here. Last chance. Please. GO!’
Jax took a step back when Wensley stopped blinking. His eyes were no longer sad, desperate or defeated, they were deathly.
Fuck this . . .
Jax didn’t believe in any of this, but Wensley did. And if Wensley said the Serpent was coming, then Jax was leaving. He had what he needed in his head. He kept both his eye and the flashlight on Wensley as he backed towards the door. The Professor had still not moved when Jax let the darkness swallow him, taking one last look as he swung the torch away from the madman and towards the electronic lock.
Beep. Beep.
An electronic acknowledgement.
Then snap, the lock opening. But there was more.
The sound of feet slapping hard against the floor. The sound of the Serpent.
Fuck.
Jax dropped the torch and heaved at the heavy door. He saw yellow eyes and fangs again, as he slipped through the opening. While he might have been imagining the teeth, the terror was real.
The Serpent was two steps away.
With one foot in the corridor and one still in the cell, Jax pulled the door with one hand and reached back for the external keypad with the other.
One step away . . .
Beep. Beep.
The Serpent went crashing into the door just as the lock snapped the cell shut. Jax waited for the tantrum. For the banging, bashing and shouting. Instead the Serpent disappeared into the darkness. All Jax could see was his torch. It had rolled into the middle of the cell and it lit up the Serpent’s hand as he bent to picked it up.
Jax watched as the light beam slashed its way through the dark then the Serpent lit up his centrepiece, the group of numbers.
‘And he shall rise!’ the Serpent roared.
Then he turned off the torch – and vanished.
CHAPTER 46
Goulburn Correctional Centre, Goulburn, NSW, Australia
THE Mahdi had a hell of a time trying to separate the SIM from the plastic card that it came in. He always struggled with this part.
‘Oh my,’ he said as he pressed a little too forcefully and his thumb sent the SIM high into the air.
He got down on his hands and knees and scoured the floor.
‘There you are,’ he said when he found it.
Eventually, he got it into the fresh burner phone.
‘There,’ he said, tray replaced and phone turned on.
Christmas night, long past lights out, the prison silent, everyone asleep. The Mahdi beamed a broad smile as he logged on. It was finally time.
Username: Mahdi_93/241. Password: Hewillrise_85/159.
He clicked on ‘Account details’ and then ‘Transfer funds’, keyed in all the details and moved down to ‘Send’.
But he didn’t click. Not yet. He wanted to savour the moment. The anticipation was the best part.
Now.
He hit ‘Enter’ and made the first deposit: sixty-one cents. And then, as quick as he could, he made the next three. He took a deep breath before clicking his way to the ‘Transaction history’ page. He knew he’d got it right, but only a fool wouldn’t check.
25 December
04:00:00 Withdrawal –$0.61
04:00:06 Withdrawal –$4.80
04:00:13 Withdrawal –$0.19
04:00:16 Withdrawal –$4.58
He checked the numbers against his prepaid $20 SIM card. Correct. He looked at the silver Seiko strapped to his wrist.
Tick, tock.
‘WE’VE intercepted the first transaction,’ a clad-in-black ASIO tech said as he turned away from his computer screen. ‘Sixty-one cents. I repeat: sixty-one. The first two digits of the number are six and one.’
‘Do we have a name? Clarke yelled. ‘A location?’
‘The betting account is registered to Walid Salim. But we don’t have a location. He’s using a VPN, so we don’t even know what country he’s in.’
Sami turned and walked to the back of the truck. The command vehicle was part of a convoy parked in the reception area of the prison, which had been deserted since dusk. He talked into the walkie-talkie he’d been strangling since the operation began.
‘Get me everything you can on an Australian male named Walid Salim,’ he ordered. Then he paused as the tech belted out the next three numbers.
‘Travel records first,’ Sami continued. ‘We need a location. And photos.’
WALID read out the final three numbers as Chris punched them into the brand-new mobile phone.
‘Er . . . eight?’ Chris asked after hitting the keypad twice.
‘Yes,’ Walid roared, ‘the last number is eight. Are you fucking retarded? Can’t you remember three numbers?’
‘I was just checking,’ Chris said as he punched in the final digit.
‘Give it here,’ Walid said, dipping his head towards the phone. ‘Hand it over.’ He ignored the shaking hand that passed him the handset. Too late to get rid of him now, he thought.
The phone was already ringing as he raised it to his ear.
‘THE number is active,’ the ASIO tech said. ‘Tracking is up. We are now live.’
Clarke grabbed his radio. ‘Samurai to Ronin One. Tracking is live. I repeat, tracking is live. Stand by for orders.’
‘Ronin One to Samurai. Copy. Standing by.’
The flashing green circle that had suddenly appeared on Clarke’s screen covered the entire map. Clarke turned to the technician. ‘Isn’t that thing supposed to be a dot?’
‘We’ve only just begun triangulating the signal, sir,’ the technician replied. ‘It will get smaller as we close in.’
Clarke remained hunched over the screen, watching the circle slowly shrink. Right then it was a green beach-ball bouncing over the entire prison, and the phone could have been anywhere in the jail.
‘Come on!’ Clarke rode the circle like a racehorse. On-off, on-off, the ball returned again and again to the screen, getting a little smaller with every bounce.
Clarke picked up the radio when the circle was half its original size and positioned on the right-hand side of his screen.
‘Samurai to Ronin One,’ Clarke barked. ‘Move to the Echo Gate. I repeat, move to the Echo Gate and wait for further orders.’
‘Ronin One to Samurai,’ the call came back. ‘Copy. We are on the move.’
JAX locked his cell then grabbed his iPhone and laptop. Back on his bed and connected, he went straight to his search bar. He typed in ‘And he shall rise 93:241’ and pressed enter. The screen filled. Jax clicked on the first result.
And he shall rise on the day he was born, scorched altars, numbering his resurrection, burned. 93:241
Jesus Will Return with Imam Mahdi: The Return of Jesus in Islam
Muslim scholars, irrespective of their denominations, are quite unanimous that upon the reappearance of Imam Mahdi (may God hasten his reappearance), Prophet Jesus will also descend to Earth from the heavens. During that time, Jesus and Imam Mahdi will spread peace and justice on earth and the earth will attain unprecedented peace, justice and welfare. Jesus will be like the minister for Imam Mahdi and his main mission will be to correct the dogma of Trinity and to clarify his humane personality and servitude to God.
The Islamic doctrine of the descent of Jesus to Earth is derived from two Ayah in the Quran and many hadith which are narrated by both Shi’a and Sunni narrators.
‘And when Allah said: O Jesus! I will take you and raise you to Myself and clear you of those who disbelieve, and I will make those who follow you superior to those who disbelieve till the Day of Resurrection. Then you (Believers and disbelievers) will return to Me and I will judge between you in the matter in which you used to dispute. And he shall rise on the day he was born, scorched altars, numbering his resurrection, burned.’ 93:241
Jax was pretty sure what the number of the resurrection would turn out to be. He hastily banged a new search into Google and clicked on the first result.
The number 8 is very significant, such that it is used seventy-three times in the Bible. It is the symbol of resurrection and regeneration. In Bible numerology, 8 means new beginning; it denotes ‘a new order or creation, and man’s true “born again” event when he is resurrected from the dead into eternal life’.
The madman behind the attacks had turned a Quranic verse into an action plan. He believed he could resurrect Christ by destroying eight scorched altars – in the form of eight previously attacked churches.
But where was the eighth church?
THE BEAST was waiting for him. Rather than reflect the sun, the black blast-proof steel of the Cadillac XT6 seemed to devour it.
‘Good morning, Mr President,’ said Agent Neil Wallace as he stood by the open door, wearing shades as black as his suit.
The President did not even acknowledge Wallace, the senior US Secret Service agent in charge of the protective detail for the presidential motorcade. He never did.
‘Merry Christmas,’ the First Lady said with a smile as she followed President Forrester into the plush tan leather of the oversized back seat. ‘Make sure you take time out to call that beautiful wife of yours. Her name is June, right?’
Wallace confirmed his wife’s name and said he would comply, before closing the door. ‘Package is secure,’ he said, directing his voice into the small radio receiver on his lapel.
The President and the First Lady were now sealed in an airtight chamber with their own oxygen supply and protected by almost 10,000 kilograms of ballistic armour. The Cadillac looked similar to all the other Presidential limousines Wallace had seen during his eighteen years on the job: big, black, and bulletproof. But the Beast was far superior to its predecessors. Capable of withstanding a biological attack, the 6.7-metre-long vehicle could deploy a smokescreen, cover the road with an oil slick, and shoot canisters of tear gas. Wallace had never had to order the use of any of these defensive measures, and hoped he never would.
Wallace nodded as he walked past the next vehicle in the convoy, today totalling twenty-eight cars. Sometimes there could be as many as forty vehicles accompanying the Presidential vehicle, but this was a low-threat route.
The head of the President’s personal security detail responded with a thumbs-up from the front passenger seat of the SUV called the ‘Halfback’, a Chevrolet Suburban jam-packed with would-be first responders and their FN P90 submachine guns. Wallace worked his way down the line, giving vehicles that included decoy limousines, sweepers and an intelligence truck a final check before reaching the end, where he climbed into a truck-sized van and approached a wall of LCD computer screens.
He gave them a once-over before picking up a radio. ‘Roadrunner to Overwatch,’ he said. ‘Are you in position?’ He heard the rotor blades before he heard the reply.
‘Overwatch in position,’ said the helicopter pilot.
Wallace responded then picked up the radio that was connected to every vehicle in the convoy. ‘Operation Stagecoach is a go,’ he said. ‘Roll out. ETA to delivery: twenty-eight minutes.’
THE GREEN circle had halved in size again, the ball now bouncing over a single prison block.
‘Samurai to Ronin One,’ Clarke barked. ‘Move through Echo Gate and proceed to Block Bravo. I repeat, move to Block Bravo and wait for further orders.’
‘Ronin One to Samurai,’ the soldier said, ‘Copy. We are on the move.’
Organised as a single brick of four for this operation, the Ronin burst through the door beside the East Gate of Goulburn prison. Dressed in full operational night gear – head to toe in black with body armour, balaclavas and tactical gloves – they charged across the birdcage and took cover behind a wall, two of them standing on each side of a steel gate.
Ronin One issued a series of orders via hand signals and the gate began to open, a technician remotely flicking the switch.
One. Two. Three!
Ronin One swung his Colt M4A1 assault rifle around the corner and provided cover for Ronins Three and Four as they sprinted across the freshly opened space to take the far flank. Watching through his holographic gun-sight, Ronin One waited until they were in position before ordering Ronin Two to the near flank. With the corridor taken and secure, they jammed their rifle butts into their shoulders and stormed along the passageway. They stopped when they reached a double set of steel doors.
‘Ronin One to Samurai. We have reached checkpoint Delta Block.’
Clarke swore as he stared in astonishment at the screen. The green ball had finally became a dot. But it was now on the other side of Delta Block.
‘Copy,’ the soldier said when he was given the coordinates.
‘GREETINGS, my child,’ said the Mahdi, phone pressed firmly to his ear. ‘Is all in place?’
He listened to the reply.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I am proud of you, my son. Proud of both of you. Hold on a second.’
The Mahdi thought he’d heard a noise. Something outside his door. He placed the phone under his leg to hide the glow and listened hard.
Just his imagination. What had begun as nothing more than a mild concern following the raid on the Terror Twelve had turned into paranoia. The text message he had received from the Serpent about the interloper was a problem that would have to be solved. And soon.
‘You there?’ the Mahdi asked. ‘Good. Now, do as I have instructed. Do everything else exactly as we have planned. Remember: you fall so He can rise. He will call you Shahid and reward you with paradise. Remember that He selected you for this mission. The most important mission. The final mission.’
The Mahdi ended the call and placed the phone in his pocket. He then reached into his drawer and pulled out a knife. The sharpened steel edge of the blade glistened silver as it caught the moonlight, but the Mahdi was seeing only red.
WALID turned off the phone and placed it in the bag with the bomb. He had practised destroying phones back on the farm in Australia, but the Mahdi had told him it wasn’t required for this mission. The final mission. That news had pleased him because he had not been looking forward to eating the SIM card. They’d also been told they didn’t have to shave or cover themselves with tracksuit pants and hoods – also a relief, as it was hot now, even though it was winter. He and Chris both wore collared shirts and cargo pants.
‘You see that guy,’ Chris asked as they walked east along a sparsely populated city street. ‘He was looking at us.’
‘No he wasn’t,’ Walid said. ‘You’re just being paranoid.’
‘Nah, they’re on to us,’ Chris said. ‘I don’t think we sh—’
‘Shut up,’ Walid said. ‘We are almost there. Just shut up and do your job. You know what is going to happen if you don’t. Say one more word. Go on. I dare you. I’ll do you right here.’
Chris held his tongue.
Walid reached into his pocket, pulled out a white plastic pill container and opened it. ‘Here, take a few more of these,’ he said as he pushed the container towards Chris. ‘They’ll sort you out.’
He tipped the contents into Chris’s outstretched palm. Chris shoved the pills into his mouth and swallowed.
‘We are almost there,’ Walid reassured him as he pointed toward a box-like block of concrete that stood adjacent to a bell tower and soaring triangle of glass topped with a crystal crucifix.
‘WHAT?!’ Clarke yelled. He pointed to his screen. ‘No, that can’t be right . . . can it?’
