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Authors: Gary Williams, Vicky Knerly
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eyes radiated briefly as moonlight cut in through the window on the left side of the fuselage. He opened the armrest of his chair and picked up a telephone handset. Jade watched him push a single button and speak, “Reba Zee, change in plans. We’re not leaving the country quite yet.”
CHAPTER 9
September 11. Tuesday – 1:42 a.m. McLean, Virginia
Morris Vakind strolled down the tiled corridor, passing scores of people engaged in conversation. Every conference room he passed was in use with the doors closed. Somewhere out of sight, he could hear printers at work and the whirring of surveillance monitors. While most governmental facilities in the Washington, DC area had long since gone dormant, the Langley headquarters building was a beehive of activity. The CIA never stopped working.
Vakind reached the end of the hallway and veered into a small conference room, closing the door behind him. As usual, the tiny enclosure was chilly. He walked to the podium and punched a series of buttons on the control panel. A flat panel screen promptly slid from its recessed groove in the ceiling, and the static CIA symbol displayed onscreen. He took a seat at the short walnut table and glanced at his watch. It was 7:45 a.m. in Madrid, Spain.
This was not a meeting to which he was looking forward.
Suddenly, the screen came to life. It was segmented into two panes. The right portion remained as it had been, showing the CIA symbol, although now only half of it was visible. On the left appeared a live head-and-shoulder shot of the President of the United States, Gretchen Fane. Her black hair, with its signature gray streaks, was pinned up. There was a general weariness in her gaze. Her deep, dark eyes indicated another long day. Vakind realized that he probably exhibited the same signs of fatigue.
“Good evening, Madam President,” Vakind addressed her, “or more appropriately, good morning.”
“Director Vakind,” she acknowledged. “I’m bringing the Spanish officials on now. Presidente del Gobierno, Luis Jose Tezman will be in attendance.”
President Fane’s Spanish counterpart; although he was known as the prime minister in most worldwide media, in the constitutional monarchy of Spain, his official title was president of the government.
The heat was about to be turned up even higher. Vakind gathered his thoughts.
The right half of the screen flickered and then burst to life. In the center of the picture was President Tezman. Two men sat on either side of the Spanish president. One had a mustache and the other was bald and clean shaven. All three men were dressed in dark suits and light-colored ties. None of them were smiling. In fact, they wore a collective scowl.
Thirty-one minutes later the audio/video feed from Madrid cut off, and half of the screen displayed the partial CIA logo. President Fane remained on the other half. It had been a brutal meeting with the Spanish president reiterating his demand that the Sudarium be returned before the start of the Feast of the Cross in 73 hours.
“Jesus Christ, Vakind,” President Fane started in now that they were the only ones left on the video conference. “I know it’s water under the bridge, but why did Tannacay ever promise to find the Sudarium by this Friday? Not only has Boyd Ramsey disappeared, but no one’s ever heard of the ‘True Sons of Light’.”
It was a rhetorical question. Tannacay was the former Director of Operations who had convinced the Spanish government to deny that the Sudarium had been stolen after the communiqué from the ‘True Sons of Light’ hit the press. He was trying to cover up that an ex-CIA agent was responsible. From there, the situation had snowballed. Somehow, additional information reached the press—an unconfirmed leak—that a CIA agent was involved. Again, the U.S. convinced the Spanish officials to deny it, but by that time, religious fanatical groups had become suspicious of a cover-up. Sentiment toward the U.S. was
CHAPTER 9
September 11. Tuesday – 1:42 a.m. McLean, Virginia
Morris Vakind strolled down the tiled corridor, passing scores of people engaged in conversation. Every conference room he passed was in use with the doors closed. Somewhere out of sight, he could hear printers at work and the whirring of surveillance monitors. While most governmental facilities in the Washington, DC area had long since gone dormant, the Langley headquarters building was a beehive of activity. The CIA never stopped working.
Vakind reached the end of the hallway and veered into a small conference room, closing the door behind him. As usual, the tiny enclosure was chilly. He walked to the podium and punched a series of buttons on the control panel. A flat panel screen promptly slid from its recessed groove in the ceiling, and the static CIA symbol displayed onscreen. He took a seat at the short walnut table and glanced at his watch. It was 7:45 a.m. in Madrid, Spain.
This was not a meeting to which he was looking forward.
Suddenly, the screen came to life. It was segmented into two panes. The right portion remained as it had been, showing the CIA symbol, although now only half of it was visible. On the left appeared a live head-and-shoulder shot of the President of the United States, Gretchen Fane. Her black hair, with its signature gray streaks, was pinned up. There was a general weariness in her gaze. Her deep, dark eyes indicated another long day. Vakind realized that he probably exhibited the same signs of fatigue.
“Good evening, Madam President,” Vakind addressed her, “or more appropriately, good morning.”
“Director Vakind,” she acknowledged. “I’m bringing the Spanish officials on now. Presidente del Gobierno, Luis Jose Tezman will be in attendance.”
President Fane’s Spanish counterpart; although he was known as the prime minister in most worldwide media, in the constitutional monarchy of Spain, his official title was president of the government.
The heat was about to be turned up even higher. Vakind gathered his thoughts.
The right half of the screen flickered and then burst to life. In the center of the picture was President Tezman. Two men sat on either side of the Spanish president. One had a mustache and the other was bald and clean shaven. All three men were dressed in dark suits and light-colored ties. None of them were smiling. In fact, they wore a collective scowl.
Thirty-one minutes later the audio/video feed from Madrid cut off, and half of the screen displayed the partial CIA logo. President Fane remained on the other half. It had been a brutal meeting with the Spanish president reiterating his demand that the Sudarium be returned before the start of the Feast of the Cross in 73 hours.
“Jesus Christ, Vakind,” President Fane started in now that they were the only ones left on the video conference. “I know it’s water under the bridge, but why did Tannacay ever promise to find the Sudarium by this Friday? Not only has Boyd Ramsey disappeared, but no one’s ever heard of the ‘True Sons of Light’.”
It was a rhetorical question. Tannacay was the former Director of Operations who had convinced the Spanish government to deny that the Sudarium had been stolen after the communiqué from the ‘True Sons of Light’ hit the press. He was trying to cover up that an ex-CIA agent was responsible. From there, the situation had snowballed. Somehow, additional information reached the press—an unconfirmed leak—that a CIA agent was involved. Again, the U.S. convinced the Spanish officials to deny it, but by that time, religious fanatical groups had become suspicious of a cover-up. Sentiment toward the U.S. was
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