Read Online Edge of Apocalypse by Tim Lahaye, Craig Parshall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tim Lahaye, Craig Parshall
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Suspense fiction, Mystery, Christian fiction, Christian, futuristic, Fiction - Espionage, End of the world, Crime thriller, Fiction - Religious, Christian - Suspense, Christian - Futuristic
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tries to stall us on this, we will subpoena you with the full weight of both houses of Congress and the United States government, and it is your duty to honor any such subpoena as a citizen of this great country you profess to love. Anything less, Mr. Jordan, would be an affront to this committee and the honorable men and women who serve on it and to everyone in America, as well as an outrage and a crime. If necessary, we will put you in jail, sir, if you persist in your refusal to cooperate."
The senator let that sink in for emphasis. "And I'm sure my feelings are shared by all my colleagues on this committee." The senator sat back in his high-backed chair, feigning disgust.
"I'll tell you what I find to be an outrage and a crime," Jordan spoke calmly. "But, Senator, it has nothing to do with this committee. What it has to do with is the fact that out there, right now, in terrorist cells, in dark rooms, in rogue nations, and in the palaces of dictators and international drug lords, there are men who are willing to do absolutely anything to get their hands on my technology."
Joshua had one more word on the subject. He spit it out like a bit of rotten apple.
"Anything..."
THIRTEEN
Bucharest, Romania
Atta Zimler, also known as the Algerian, swung open the stylish French doors, causing the first abrupt rays of dawn to invade the sixthfloor suite of the elegant Athenee Palace Hotel. As he peered from the narrow balcony, which overlooked the famous Piata Revolutiei below, he couldn't help but notice the long, oddly shaped shadow created by the Iuliu Maniu statue, which sat in the center of the historic square. Wrapped in a luxuriant hotel robe, Zimler sipped his Turkish espresso and contemplated the upcoming day's events. He wiped his mouth with his napkin as he ran through the checklist in his head.
He'd always been a careful man, organized, some might even say obsessively meticulous. He knew the outcome of each of his actions in advance, along with the potential reactions of those around him, and he planned for every possible scenario. He credited this preparation for his ongoing success in his chosen line of work--preparation, and a total lack of emotion. Had anyone else been in the room, they would not have been able to discern from his calm demeanor that he was in the process of formulating the minute details of the murder he would soon carry out.
Turning back to the room, he set his cup on the dining room table, removed his robe, and folded it neatly over the chair. Clad only in his undergarments, he lowered himself onto the Oriental rug and began his daily rapid-fire routine of fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and as many leg raises as he felt were needed. By the end of the workout he was breathing heavily, though not exhausted in the least.
For years he had trained his body far beyond the capacity of most human beings. He had mastered karate, judo, and aikido. His strength was not obvious, not like those American bodybuilders and football players. But that was what served him. He was stronger than most athletes, yet on the street, he looked like everyone else. He had accepted that most people were either too stupid or too self-involved even to notice him.
After a shower Zimler extracted some clothes from his Louis Vuitton suitcase. Today would be casual--an imported silk shirt from Italy, nicely tailored linen pants, leather shoes from Spain. As he dressed, it occurred to him, albeit briefly, that it would be the last time he could wear these particular items.
The phone rang. A male voice on the other end was direct and emotionless.
"Is this the Algerian?"
"Who is calling?" Zimler countered while simultaneously fastening the last button on his shirt.
"I am calling on behalf of someone who has a serious problem."
"Oh?"
"His mail keeps getting returned..."
"Sounds like he has a bad mailman."
"Yes," the voice responded. "A very bad mailman. The mailman needs to be eliminated."
"Is that what you are really
The senator let that sink in for emphasis. "And I'm sure my feelings are shared by all my colleagues on this committee." The senator sat back in his high-backed chair, feigning disgust.
"I'll tell you what I find to be an outrage and a crime," Jordan spoke calmly. "But, Senator, it has nothing to do with this committee. What it has to do with is the fact that out there, right now, in terrorist cells, in dark rooms, in rogue nations, and in the palaces of dictators and international drug lords, there are men who are willing to do absolutely anything to get their hands on my technology."
Joshua had one more word on the subject. He spit it out like a bit of rotten apple.
"Anything..."
THIRTEEN
Bucharest, Romania
Atta Zimler, also known as the Algerian, swung open the stylish French doors, causing the first abrupt rays of dawn to invade the sixthfloor suite of the elegant Athenee Palace Hotel. As he peered from the narrow balcony, which overlooked the famous Piata Revolutiei below, he couldn't help but notice the long, oddly shaped shadow created by the Iuliu Maniu statue, which sat in the center of the historic square. Wrapped in a luxuriant hotel robe, Zimler sipped his Turkish espresso and contemplated the upcoming day's events. He wiped his mouth with his napkin as he ran through the checklist in his head.
He'd always been a careful man, organized, some might even say obsessively meticulous. He knew the outcome of each of his actions in advance, along with the potential reactions of those around him, and he planned for every possible scenario. He credited this preparation for his ongoing success in his chosen line of work--preparation, and a total lack of emotion. Had anyone else been in the room, they would not have been able to discern from his calm demeanor that he was in the process of formulating the minute details of the murder he would soon carry out.
Turning back to the room, he set his cup on the dining room table, removed his robe, and folded it neatly over the chair. Clad only in his undergarments, he lowered himself onto the Oriental rug and began his daily rapid-fire routine of fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and as many leg raises as he felt were needed. By the end of the workout he was breathing heavily, though not exhausted in the least.
For years he had trained his body far beyond the capacity of most human beings. He had mastered karate, judo, and aikido. His strength was not obvious, not like those American bodybuilders and football players. But that was what served him. He was stronger than most athletes, yet on the street, he looked like everyone else. He had accepted that most people were either too stupid or too self-involved even to notice him.
After a shower Zimler extracted some clothes from his Louis Vuitton suitcase. Today would be casual--an imported silk shirt from Italy, nicely tailored linen pants, leather shoes from Spain. As he dressed, it occurred to him, albeit briefly, that it would be the last time he could wear these particular items.
The phone rang. A male voice on the other end was direct and emotionless.
"Is this the Algerian?"
"Who is calling?" Zimler countered while simultaneously fastening the last button on his shirt.
"I am calling on behalf of someone who has a serious problem."
"Oh?"
"His mail keeps getting returned..."
"Sounds like he has a bad mailman."
"Yes," the voice responded. "A very bad mailman. The mailman needs to be eliminated."
"Is that what you are really
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