Stone of Truth Read online

  The Stone of Truth

  Adam Hiatt

  Variance Publishing

  Copyright © 2013 Adam Hiatt

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information email all inquiries to:

  [email protected]

  Published by Variance LLC (USA).

  www.variancepublishing.com

  e-ISBN: 978-1-935142-66-9

  Cover design, interior format, and map designs by Stanley J. Tremblay

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I must begin by thanking my wife Jenica for allowing me to take on this herculean project. Life as a college basketball coach is not easy. In fact, it consumes almost every waking moment of my existence for half the year. If not for her support, encouragement, and patience, I would not have been able to do this. Also, thanks to my wonderful children.

  A number of friends and family deserve recognition for their insights and time while I was writing this novel. First, my brother Shon who gave me access to Cornell University. To Martha Byers for being the first person to read the manuscript and offer sagacious advice. To my faithful parents, Russ and Sulet Hiatt, Drew, Troy, Samantha, Erin, and Katy, Robert and Julie Salazar, Colton, Jake, and Aubri. And a special thanks to Mrs. Iverson, who many years ago got me excited about writing.

  I'd also like to thank Tim Schulte and all those at Variance LLC for taking a chance on me. Without you, none of this would have been possible. Many thanks to you all.

  Chapter One

  The two men shuffled slowly along the inner perimeter of the courtyard. The rhythmic lapping of the Nile River against the shore line created an auditory delight. The air was dry and warm and the night’s sky was black, but the courtyard was anything but serene. Surrounded by sandstone walls reaching eight feet in height, it resembled a high security prison. Cameras, floodlights, and concertina razor-wire fencing were set high above the walls to discourage anybody from gaining entrance uninvited. Guards, heavily armed, stood in each of the four corners smoking cigarettes made from a harsh black Turkish tobacco.

  Both men looked similar in appearance in the dim lighting. They wore traditional desert robes, one dark purple and the other navy-blue; the traditional long ghutra head cloth, both white, concealed their faces. They walked with their shoulders slumped and chins in their chests, casting long shadows over the stone flooring. Both men spoke a short, clipped Arabic.

  “Are they here?” one asked.

  “Yes, Imam. The Americans arrived early this morning,” the other answered softly. “As you predicted, they have refused to speak.” He peered at the man known as the Imam carefully, watchfully, assessing his reaction. It was an honor to be in the presence of such a noble warrior. The title Imam was traditionally given to a mosque congregational prayer leader, but the true followers of Muhammad knew it to be much more. It was a designation earned, not given, to a sagacious man of eminence, an anointed leader in the fight against the infidel, a caliph. In short, it was reserved for a man who was to be respected, and feared.

  The Arab in the purple robe, the Imam, slowed considerably. “What are our chances of getting what we need, Amjad?” he questioned.

  “We shall soon see,” Amjad said.

  A door on the left side of the courtyard swung open, revealing the figure of a hooded man on his knees. A guard lifted him by the collar of his stained, soiled white dress shirt and dragged him into the open area. The guard threw him to the ground and kicked him in the ribs. Despite having his hands bound behind his back, the defenseless man struggled to protect his wounded side. Amjad stood over the man and removed the burlap sack covering his face.

  Blood-shot eyes circled by shades of purple looked up at the Arab. The face was bruised and looked gaunt and haggard. A stream of dried blood ran from the nose to his upper lip. He smelled of vomit and bodily waste. The man had clearly been tortured, beaten to submission.

  “Allah has blessed you with one final chance to speak truthfully, Dr. Green,” Amjad said in Arabic.

  “I’ve told you all I know, which is nothing,” Dr. Green replied in English. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You lie!” Amjad screamed. He viciously struck Green’s face with the back of his hand, a gesture used not only to convey contempt, but utter disrespect.

  “You are mistaken if you believe you’re life is the only one at stake.” Amjad turned and nodded to one of the guards. From a door on the opposite side of the courtyard another man was heaved into the court and pushed to the sandstone flooring. The guard pulled the sack off his head.

  “Robert?” Green asked tentatively. “Is that you?”

  The man, Robert, looked up with sad eyes. His beaten face looked relatively benign compared to the distortion of his displaced nose.

  “Ben,” he said with relief. “You’re alive.”

  Amjad grasped him by the hair and pulled his head back, exposing his neck. He brought forth a small stiletto dagger and pressed it against Robert’s trachea. He pricked the skin just enough for a few beads of blood to spill out.

  “You’re colleague’s life is in your hands, Dr. Green,” Amjad said. “Now tell me what the key is?”

  “Tell him nothing!” Robert shrieked. “He’ll kill us both anyway.”

  “You will never learn the name,” Green stated with resolve.

  “So be it.” With one violent motion Amjad brought the dagger across Robert’s neck, filleting the tracheal tissue like a fish.

  Amjad released his grip on the body, letting it fall to the courtyard floor. Muscles twitched in spasmodic intervals as nerve endings fired their final signals. A pool of blood quickly swelled around the lifeless corpse.

  Green’s face looked ashen. He had just witnessed the execution of one of his dearest colleagues. He had the look of a man defeated; a man who knew his life was close to ending; a man on the verge of vomiting, again.

  The Imam stepped forward and stood behind Dr. Green. “Leave us,” he commanded in Arabic.

  Without hesitation, Amjad ushered the guards out of the courtyard. He closed the main doors and faced inward, several yards away from his mas
ter. The Imam pulled a compact pistol from his robe and aimed it at Green’s forehead.

  “You disappoint me, Ben,” he said in English. “We could have shared the prize had you realigned your loyalties.”

  Dr. Green’s head shot up. His face registered an admixture of confusion and alarm. He seemed to be studying the Imam’s eyes. Fear soon swept over his face.

  “It’s you,” he managed to say through a whisper.

  “Yes, it is I,” the Imam replied, right before he pulled the trigger, sending a bullet through the man’s forehead.

  He slid the gun into his robe and briskly walked over to where Amjad stood.

  “There is another in America who knows the key,” he said. “You must not fail me again, Amjad.”

  Amjad stiffened at the tone. “I will not fail you, Imam.”

  “Good. Now take this,” he said. He held out a small business card. “This man is my American contact. He has the resources to carry out our quest. He will lead you to an American university in New York. That is where you will find the name.”

  Amjad took the card and absorbed the script. He looked up at his leader and nodded. He knew the name. Many people in the world probably did too, he surmised. But he was American, an infidel, the great Satan. The Imam surely had a higher purpose for using him as an asset. After all, no infidel could be trusted.

  “This is our rightful inheritance, my loyal servant,” the Imam said, clasping Amjad’s shoulders. “We cannot lose it again.”

  Chapter Two

  Reddic Smith stood along the curbside outside of the small New York airport. He looked across Cayuga Lake at the rolling hills and the densely forested landscape and breathed in deeply. The air on the east coast felt different to him; he found it to be heavier and more humid, but he loved it. The West was fairly forested, but nothing like this part of the country. Every inch of terrain seemed to be draped with a green mask, nearly camouflaging the town of Ithaca that sat at the south base of the lake between two slightly elevated hills.

  A copy of The Spokesman a local newspaper circulated in Spokane, Washington fell out from under Reddic’s arm. He had taken it on the flight because the sports section featured an article chronicling his meteoric rise in men’s college basketball, leading the Gonzaga Bulldogs to their deepest run in postseason play. The column examined his NBA future, comparing him to other high-profile players that were eligible for the draft. The article made it clear that most experts were uncertain of his “stock”, citing that he didn’t exactly have the prototypical NBA physical characteristics.

  A large color photo of him filled nearly half of the front page. Reddic peered closely at it, trying to find truth to the experts’ comments. From a physical standpoint he certainly didn’t standout. That much he would concede. He measured only a couple inches over six feet and was moderately built, disguising his above average strength. In fact, there was really no characteristic that distinctively stood out. His face was handsome yet forgettable, his hair was dark and short, his eyes brown, and his body was well proportioned. He could pass through a crowd and never receive a second glance. It was that very detail that allowed him to excel at his real job—a covert operations officer.

  The job title always amused Reddic. The government’s proclivity for using a technical nom de guerre to generate a sense of importance was silly. He was a spy, short and simple. There would be no newspaper articles, no profiles, and no fanfare for this aspect of his life. Nobody outside of his immediate handler knew he was anything other than an aspiring American athlete, not even his only brother.

  Two rapid honks pulled Reddic’s attention away from the newspaper. He turned toward the source of the sound and smirked. A 1991 yellow Yugo GV tailing cloud of exhaust approached him. The car parked in front of Reddic on the curb and shook wildly as the driver struggled to take it out of gear. The driver opened his door and stepped out onto the roadway with two small blocks. He reached down, placed one on each side of the front left tire and walked over to the curbside.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” the driver said.

  “The belle of the ball,” Reddic retorted sardonically. “Thanks for picking me up. Let’s get out of here before somebody sees me in this thing.”

  “Don’t worry. This is an Ivy League town. The people around here suffer from a rare disease called sports apathy.”

  “That’s really a sad story. I don’t know how you survive out here,” Reddic said.

  “I manage,” he responded. The driver picked up Reddic’s duffle bag from off of the sidewalk and carried it to the rear of the Yugo. He lifted the hatchback and threw the bag in the cargo hold. Reddic walked to the passenger side and jumped in with his backpack.

  “Seriously though Jax, when are you going to buy a car that doesn’t embarrass the family?” Reddic asked as the car slowly began to move forward.

  “I see you haven’t lost your uncanny wit. Unfortunately, not all of us can play games for millions of dollars,” he replied.

  “Oh, you know I’ll be worth every penny,” Reddic joked. He looked over at his brother and saw him smiling despite himself. Reddic had always been able to get that reaction out of him. They had been the closest of siblings for virtually their entire lives, but not without their differences. Jaxon was a few inches shorter, wore steel rimmed glasses, had long, straight black hair, and tan skin. As the older brother of almost twenty months, he had always been an indefatigable overachiever. He believed that he had to be the example, the conservative voice, and a protective force. Reddic, on the other hand, was the complete antithesis; he was precocious, a risk taker, and fearless. He knew that it sometimes annoyed his brother, but, as he always understood it, that’s the role of a younger brother.

  After the tragic death of their parents he and Jaxon planned to spend more time together each summer. Yet until this year they had not been able to make it happen. Working for a covert branch of the government had its benefits; unfortunately leisure time was not one of them. The extent of any quality vacation time happened two years previous. Reddic followed his older brother around campus before another job “emergency” pulled him away. This year, however, Reddic made it a priority to see his brother. In actuality, his handler did. Reddic did his part by calling Jaxon on a whim to tell him he was flying out to Ithaca. There was nothing that would prevent it from happening this time. Reddic’s whole assignment made sure of that.

  “At any rate, I’m glad you’re here,” Jaxon said.

  “I’m glad I’m here too,” Reddic replied, reaching for the radio. “We’re going to have some fun, you know?”

  “I know. Just like old times.”

  The Yugo stammered along the highway for four miles until the road forked before entering Ithaca from the north. They merged left to avoid the labyrinth of city streets that seemed to arbitrarily divide the parcels of land below campus hill. The back road gradually became UNIVERSITY AVENUE, a campus motorway that passed between several Colonial and Neo-Classical fraternity complexes on the northwest limits of Cornell’s campus. After another quarter of a mile they turned right and drove down a narrow street called CENTRAL AVENUE for about a tenth of a mile. The Yugo pulled in behind a four-story bluestone building. It cast an elongated shadow across the grounds.

  “What’s up?” asked Reddic.

  “I need to stop by my professor’s office real quick.”

  “It’s Saturday,” Reddic said.

  “I know, but it’s a scheduled meeting, and I don’t have to tell you how much tenured faculty dislike coming to campus on weekends,” Jaxon stated.

  “You couldn’t have seen him earlier in the week?”

  “I tried to, but he just got back into town last night. I’ve been working with this guy for a couple of years trying to hammer out my dissertation. He’s good, Reddic. I’m lucky that he even agreed to mentor me. You know, he’s been a little distracted with other things lately, so I’m hoping that having you around might help refocus his attention.”

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p; “Excuse me? Didn’t you say something about athletics being considered irrelevant around here? Last time I checked I’m kind of an athlete. Why would professor ponytail think otherwise?”

  “What makes you think he has a ponytail?” Jaxon asked.

  Reddic thought quickly. He couldn’t let Jaxon know that he already knew who his professor was. The academic was the very reason why he was sent to Ithaca. “Doesn’t every guy in this town have one?” Reddic retorted.

  “Nice, very politically correct,” Jaxon said, disapprovingly. “For your information he’s a former basketball player. In fact, he played two years for the Minneapolis Lakers.”

  “Really? You do know the Lakers are in L.A. now, right?”

  “Why don’t you just wait outside then,” Jaxon snapped.

  “All right, settle down. I would be honored to meet your professor. What do you want me to do?”

  “Just talk about the season and your chances of being drafted. You know the game. It’s not like you’ve ever been uncomfortable talking about yourself.”

  “Touché,” Reddic said.

  They walked around to the front of the building and started to climb the brick stairs that led to two massive solid oak doors. From the artificial rise in terrain Reddic saw that they were inside of one of the university’s quads. It was composed of ten edifices of similar external appearance and numerous mature, well-manicured deciduous trees. The distance from one side to the other looked to be at least one hundred yards in width and three hundred in length. There were several concrete sidewalks diagonally crossing the grassy landscape of the interior quad, each leading to the entrance of a building.

  Jaxon opened the heavy doors and walked inside. Reddic followed, taking in the less than grandiose entranceway as he moved. By the look of the exterior of the building he thought he would be walking into a museum with spectacular vaulted ceilings, historical exhibits, and comfortable open space. This particular building, known as McGraw Hall, home of the esteemed history department, was certainly not that. A few sofas and armchairs draped with sheets rested above the dark tile floor. Situated in the center of the room was an arched entryway that divided into diverging narrow halls, leading to lecture rooms in the wings. Jaxon headed straight toward an old wooden staircase, reaching it as the main door closed unexpectedly hard behind them.