The Spear of Tyranny Read online

  “You’ll notice, sir” the aide leaned forward—“that the man’s wife works for the Shin Bet. Though this is the man recommended by the IDF, I suggest we reject his application.”

  Archer rubbed a finger hard over his lip, quelling a sudden urge to laugh. “Why not hire a man whose wife is a spy? As we control him, we control the information his wife and Shin Bet receive.” He handed the file back to his eager and naïve assistant. “We will always encounter spies, Gregor, they are as inescapable as death. Never forget the old adage: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

  “I’ll see to it, then.” Gregor inclined his sleek head, then accepted Ben-David’s file. A look of discomfort crossed his face as he cut a quick glance to the remaining folder. “There, ah, remains the other matter—”

  “Yes.” Archer picked up the folder and opened it, then stared at photographs of the two religious fanatics who had made Jerusalem almost intolerable for Adrian Romulus. The photos featured two men, both of whom appeared to be in their late fifties. Long burlap robes covered their gaunt bodies, while leather sandals shod their feet. Both men wore unkempt beards and carried walking sticks. After the historic press conference in Jerusalem, they had stood outside the Knesset and shouted that Adrian Romulus was the spawn of Satan and the beast of John’s Revelation.

  Archer had been tempted to walk over and put a bullet into each of them, but Adrian had forbidden him. “Ignore the lunatics,” he had said, climbing into his limo, “we’ll get them, General, but we’ll do it properly. Find out all you can first.”

  Archer had put a team of crack intelligence operators on the case, but those fools would have been more successful at unraveling the mystery of Amelia Earhart than discovering the background of the two Israeli troublemakers. According to the Israeli government, the two men had never been born, never held jobs, and never served in the IDF. They had no known family names. Their fingerprints were not on file with the Shin Bet or the police. They were religious madmen, to be sure, but neither the liberal Christian movements nor the right-wing haredim would claim them. They called themselves Elijah and Moses, and no one, not even Mossad, had been able to find any record of them before they began to bedevil Romulus.

  Archer stared at the report in disgust. “Where were they today, Gregor?”

  The aide blushed. “They demonstrated outside the sealed Eastern Gate. They arrived at sunrise and spent the day shouting that the Messiah would soon come and open the gate to usher in his kingdom.”

  Archer ran his hand over the stubble on his head. “They say anything else?”

  Gregor cleared his throat. “Um—‘Repent while there is yet time,’ and ‘God has not finished with the earth.’”

  Archer forced himself to chuckle. “A pity they can’t even be original. Well, leave them alone this weekend. Next week, however, we will have our troops remove them. Romulus is addressing the national Parliament Monday morning, and he’s likely to lose his temper if he sees them anywhere near the building.”

  “Yes sir.” Gregor jerked his head downward and clicked his heels, an affected gesture that Archer disliked intensely. He was, however, in Europe, where style and substance were too often confused . . .

  Archer slid the folder toward his aide. “And Gregor?”

  “Sir?”

  “Assign a permanent surveillance team to Moses and Elijah. I want them quietly watched, twenty-four seven, for the next two weeks. I want to know where they eat, where they sleep, who they talk to—and who listens to them. Offer a reward for anyone who can provide the history of these men. They didn’t just materialize out of thin air.”

  “I will do it immediately.”

  Gregor picked up the folder, snapped his head and heels again, then spun and whirled out of the room. Archer watched him go, then shook his head slowly and pulled a pouch of tobacco from his desk drawer.

  Living in Europe had its advantages. Working with Romulus, de facto leader of the remaining world, had even greater benefits.

  Life could be sweet when you held the reins of power.

  SEVEN

  SARAH SAT SILENTLY, LISTENING TO THE TICKING OF THE schoolhouse clock on the wall.

  The Shabbat afternoon was quiet, but bright, with the sun jabbing brilliant fingers of light into the courtyard off the Ben-Davids’ living room. Sarah and Isaac sat together at a small table, silently sharing a platter of cold chicken sandwiches. Even though she no longer cared to strictly observe the Sabbath, something in Sarah had grown accustomed to quiet Saturdays and cold lunches. She had also grown accustomed to a quiet house and a cold husband.

  The telephone rang, startling her with its bright sound. Isaac gave her a polite smile, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, then stepped into the living room to answer the phone.

  He was back within two minutes. “That was Colonel Barak,” he said simply, dropping his napkin onto his lap again. “I’ve been assigned the position of military liaison for Adrian Romulus and the Universal Force. I am to leave for a briefing in Paris within the hour.”

  Though she had strongly suspected that his appointment would come through, Sarah remembered to play the part of a surprised wife. She nodded wordlessly, fingering her napkin. Isaac continued eating, but his eyes were wide and as blank as windowpanes, as though the soul they had mirrored had long since flown away. Though he tried to behave as if nothing unusual had happened, his sandwich disappeared in three quick gulps.

  “Where will you be staying?” she asked.

  His dark brow slanted in a frown. “I’m not sure. But I’ll make sure you have the contact information. I won’t be out of reach . . . if an emergency should arise.”

  She pressed her lips together and looked down at her hands. He said nothing about missing her, nothing about coming back, nothing . . . personal.

  Isaac sipped from his drink, then stood and paused a moment to pat Lily’s head. After murmuring some sweet foolishness to the dog, he moved toward the bedroom.

  A thousand questions raced through Sarah’s mind about where he was going and whom he would meet and what they would ask of him, but those were the questions of an intelligence agent, not the queries of a loving wife.

  She waited until he came out, in full uniform and with a small suitcase in his hand, before she asked the one question she could. “How long will you be away?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He kissed her then, lightly and on the cheek, then went out the front door.

  Sarah sat silently, alone with the ticking schoolhouse clock.

  EIGHT

  ISAAC HAD ONCE WORKED WITH A GROUP OF AMERICAN operatives who spoke of inviting “Mr. Murphy” along on every mission—a reference to Murphy’s Law, and that if something can go wrong, it probably will. Shortly after taking off from Jerusalem, Isaac became convinced that the invisible Mr. Murphy was riding shotgun on his military aircraft. Somewhere in the midst of the Mediterranean, the pilot announced that he had to turn back on account of shifting cargo in the hold. The unscheduled return was annoying, but upon returning to base Isaac discovered that the pilot’s Labrador—who shouldn’t have been allowed aboard the jet—had somehow escaped his kennel. The frantic canine had cut himself by scratching on an electrical panel and had tripped an alarm, and the entire cargo hold and nearly everything in it, including Isaac’s small suitcase, was smeared with blood and dog drool.

  Irritated beyond words, Isaac wiped his suitcase clean, strode to the ticket counter, and arranged to take a commercial flight to Paris. Because of his last-minute booking, however, he found himself sandwiched between a talkative grandmother and a sullen teenager with black lips and dark circles above and below her eyes. He finally pulled the book he’d just purchased from his briefcase and pretended to read How to Survive in France on Forty Fabulous Phrases.

  Rain was pelting the runway when he finally disembarked in Paris. Isaac fought his way to a pay phone and called his contact number. A man with a nasal voice answered the phone, then told Isaac that
Monsieur Romulus could not see him that night. He should find a room in the city and call again on Sunday. Romulus would be pleased to send a car to pick him up the next morning.

  “Any suggestions about where I might find a room?” Isaac asked, feeling suddenly inept.

  “One moment, please.” The smarmy voice fell silent, then returned to fill Isaac’s ear with an adenoidal drone. “We suggest the Fleurs de Soleil,” the man said. “It is a bed-and-breakfast, the perfect place for an extended stay.” He gave the address, which Isaac frantically jotted on the back of his airline ticket folder.

  A little stunned by the phrase extended stay, he hung up and stared at the address. What, exactly, did Romulus have in mind for him, and why would he need to find accommodations for a lengthy stay?

  Half an hour later, he found himself inside a small but functional room with the luxury of its own toilet and shower. The hostess, a charming Frenchwoman who spoke little English and no Hebrew, had stared at Isaac in confusion until he mentioned Romulus’s name. At that point, Isaac had been ushered into the best room available. After five minutes of searching, however, he discovered that the only telephone in the house was located downstairs in a public hallway.

  He fell into bed without calling home.

  Though it was but early October, nearly all the leaves had fallen from the trees on the outskirts of Romulus’s Paris estate. On Sunday morning, Isaac sat silently in the backseat of a limousine and stared out at bare trees lifting black, bony arms toward a somber gray sky. He had not seen a ray of sunlight since arriving at the Paris airport.

  The skeletal forest ended in a long stretch of driveway leading to a stately chateau. A meadow that might have once been green bordered the massive house, and a small flock of sheep huddled beneath a stand of trees a few yards away. At the sound of the limo’s approach, they scrambled off, black legs working awkwardly beneath shaggy bodies.

  “Nice place,” Isaac remarked casually, raising his voice so the driver would hear.

  “It used to be,” the driver replied, his accent heavy. “There is a vineyard here, but nothing is growing now. With no rain, things are brown and—how do you say it?—withered. If ze rain does not come soon . . .” He shrugged, leaving Isaac to fill in the blanks.

  “Things are dry everywhere,” Isaac remarked, staring out the window. “We haven’t had rain—”

  “Since ze Disruption.” The driver looked up in the rearview mirror and caught Isaac’s gaze. “No one will admit it, but I know ’tis true. Everything has gone bad since they left.”

  “Since who left?”

  The man shrugged. “Ze godly ones. Ze honest Christians.”

  Isaac wanted to hear more, but they had pulled into the circular driveway in front of the chateau. As the car stopped, two guards, clad in the blue-and-red uniforms of the Universal Force, stepped forward. One opened the car door while the other waited, a wandlike metal detector in his hand.

  Isaac stepped outside the car and lifted his arms as the guard waved the metal detector over his clothing. When they were satisfied that he did not carry a weapon, the guard who had opened the door saluted sharply. “Welcome, Major Ben-David. You are expected. I am to usher you immediately into the reception hall. President Romulus is in a meeting, so you are to take a seat in the back of the room and wait.”

  Isaac nodded his thanks, then followed the man through a marble foyer and into a high-ceilinged chamber luxuriously crowded with antiques. A circle of chairs ringed the room, each occupied by a man dressed in a dark suit, the uniform of a European politician. Adrian Romulus sat in the circle, but next to the commanding fireplace, the focal point of the room.

  Isaac’s escort pointed to an empty chair near the double doors. He slipped into the seat, grateful for a few moments to acclimate himself before meeting with Romulus.

  As the men debated, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, Isaac studied his surroundings. The walls of the room glittered with gilded ornaments and frames as shadows played flickering games around the high frescoed ceiling. Heavy Persian carpets lay scattered over the stone floor while the warmth of the fire provided a pleasing contrast to the gray day visible between the panels of velvet draperies. Isaac inhaled deeply. The décor was too ostentatious to suit his taste, but the scents of burning wood and furniture polish reminded him of home.

  Isaac sank back against the gilt chair’s upholstery, grateful that his entrance appeared to have gone unnoticed except by a handful of soberly dressed men in dark glasses who stood along the wall—security guards, undoubtedly, for most of them stood within a dozen steps of Romulus, though they blended into the shadows in an attempt to be inconspicuous. While the gentlemen in the chairs relaxed, these guys remained vigilant, their heads moving slowly from left to right as they surveyed every movement.

  The object of their attention sat with his head turned toward a tall gentleman clad in a dark suit accented by a bright red tie. Isaac blinked as he realized that the man speaking was François Ibert, the French president. He addressed the group in French and spoke so rapidly that the content of his remarks escaped Isaac completely, but Romulus seemed to have no trouble following his guest’s comments.

  Isaac settled his attention upon his host. Adrian Romulus appeared younger in person than he did on television. Before leaving Jerusalem, Isaac had picked up a background brief which listed Romulus’s age as fifty-two, but he could have easily passed for forty. His body was long and slender, his hands well shaped, his clothing classic. His handsome face was unlined but for laugh lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes, and a pair of parenthesis around his mouth gave him a look of firm resolve. He wore his thick hair in a contemporary style, short on the sides and top, longer at the nape of his neck. One stubborn lock tended to drape across his forehead.

  Sarah would probably find him attractive. According to the brief Isaac had read, Romulus was often seen in the company of beautiful women, but had never married or expressed any desire to do so. Investigators who hoped to uncover sexual secrets and unsavory activities had tailed him for months without finding anything with which he might be coerced.

  The French president stood and abruptly switched to English. “And so, my dear President Romulus,” he said, bowing slightly, “it is with my whole heart that I pledge our service to you. As but one voice in the European Union, France stands behind you in this time of crisis. Because the EU is the single remaining world superpower, we must exercise strength and wisdom in this time of trial. We are willing to support you entirely. Whatever you say must be done, we will do.”

  A smattering of polite applause greeted this announcement. Romulus bowed his head in a gesture of humility, then stood and reached out to take the French president’s hand. The applause strengthened, and as he joined in, Isaac looked around the room and recognized at least half a dozen European leaders. Apparently this was a meeting of European heads of state, perhaps a time for Romulus to reinforce loyalties and strengthen his support base before carrying the Universal Movement to the entire world.

  Romulus released the Frenchman’s hand and smiled as Ibert sat down. “You understand, then,” Romulus said, looking around the circle, “that we must encourage the other nations to adopt our identity chip. We cannot effectively manage the global economy, world health, and the exchange of international currency unless we are all united through a common system. The Millennium Chip, introduced many months ago in Europe and the United States, has proved to be effective. Those countries that lie outside our jurisdiction must be persuaded to join us. We have the chips available—we lack only the manpower and legal supervisory authority to insure that every citizen of earth is correctly identified and recorded. Only then can we guarantee the rights of every human being on the planet.”

  Michael Moriarty, the British prime minister, stood and bowed his head toward Romulus. “With half the planet in a state of upheaval, someone must provide world leadership,” he said simply. “You, Adrian, are that leader. You can count on u
s to supply manpower, technology, whatever the job requires. We urge you to move into the Middle East, the broken West, and the Far East. Do what must be done, and we will support you. We pledge our efforts to aid in your cause.”

  More applause filled the room. Isaac lifted his gaze from the circle of men and examined those who did not sit in the chairs, but stood around the room at various defensive positions. Directly behind Romulus’s chair stood a balding, stocky man Isaac recognized as Gen. Adam Archer, the American who had gone to work for Romulus shortly before the turn of the century. Isaac had heard rumors, none of them confirmed, that Archer had been the mastermind behind the White House assassination attempt that resulted in the death of the former American president’s wife. Archer now served Romulus exclusively as head of his military and security forces.

  The man at Romulus’s right hand seemed familiar, but Isaac had to search his memory to match a name to the swarthy face. Elijah Reis—a rather shadowy man who had risen to power with Romulus in the last decade of the twentieth century. Born of German Jews who survived the Holocaust and immigrated to Israel, Reis was a Sabra, a native-born Israeli, but he had not lived in Israel since affiliating himself with Romulus. He, too, worked solely for Romulus, and Isaac recalled that the brief he’d read stated that the two men usually traveled together. Unlike Romulus, however, Reis had often displayed a fondness for beautiful women.

  Isaac flinched slightly when the object of his study spoke. “There is one other thing,” Reis said, his cultured voice filling the room. “Many citizens of Asia and Africa are clinging to outmoded customs and ideals. They are refusing to relinquish their right to total privacy.” The grooves beside his mouth deepened into a knowing smile. “As if the rights of the individual could outweigh the rights of the majority during a time of crisis. In any case, we have instituted a new program, one that will define and reward any individual willing to join our global community. We are encouraging all who receive the identification chip, or who have already received it, to also sign a statement of cooperation with the Universal Movement.”