The Artifact Page 6

  Accustomed to the aggressive techniques Andrea often used to provoke reluctant interviewees to blurt out the information she wanted in spite of themselves, Sammy squirmed in his seat as she badgered the hedging physician.

  Doctor Lawton tried to smile. “We can’t treat your problem unless we know what’s causing it. I realize the uncertainty can be frustrating, but medical science has yet to provide us with every answer we seek on demand.”

  “You must have some idea what the possibilities are.”

  “Not until we find the causal factor or eliminate enough of them to suggest a diagnosis. Or you develop other symptoms.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. Short circuits in other motor controls, pain, tenderness, vertigo--you’re going to have to tell me, Miz Madigan, when and if they develop. It could very well be the neck bone that’s shifted position through a fall or blow or some internal anomaly. We go in and fix it, you’re fine.”

  “Doc, please do not patronize me. I’m a big girl. I have a lot going on in my life I need to deal with now.”

  A flicker of doubt crossed the surgeon’s face. “You may have to slow down. You’ll be hospitalized for a few days. It’s not life-threatening surgery, but delicate, so plan on a week or two recuperating.”

  “Two weeks!” She was almost shouting. “I’m up to my eyeballs in the biggest story of my career! I can’t afford two days.”

  Sammy shook his head in obvious frustration, his tone resigned. “If you’re not interested in improving your condition, you’re not going to finish this story. What’s the point in me betting my future prospects on a dead-end investigation?”

  She turned to examine his face as though she had never seen it before, her expression puzzled, as though she was trying to recall something she had known once, but couldn’t remember. She turned away for several moments, frowning, breathing deeply. Her eyes were moist when she placed her fingers on his arm and dared to look at him again. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  He covered her hand with his and met her gaze without smiling. “No more of this Scientology craziness, OK?”

  A little laugh escaped her lips. “Sam, I don’t even believe in God.”

  “You better start taking care of yourself, then.”

  She squeezed his muscular forearm, her look contrite and serious. “Promise.”

  The physician seemed to regain his composure from Sammy’s support. “Your symptoms are good reason for concern, but by no means discouraging. With intensive diagnostic techniques and remedial action we should be able to reverse the problem.” He pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket and thumbed through the pages. “I want to perform the neck procedure as soon as possible, Andrea. How about Thursday, next week?”

  * * * * * *

  Andrea’s initial aversion to the Preacher Lady assignment stemmed as much from her reluctance to abandon her artifact leads as her confirmed atheism that made her uncomfortable in any religious context. Once she had studied the paucity of information on Hannah Ogie, however, her innate curiosity started her scheming to secure the on-camera interview that would either expose the woman as a non-issue or prolong her incipient fame and prominence.

  The evening before the Ogie woman was due to arrive in Macon, Andy and Steve Sarno checked into the Holiday Inn. At mid-afternoon the following day, Andrea hired a car and driver to follow the Preacher Lady’s unmarked van to the sprawling Toyota plant on the outskirts of the city. Steve elbowed his way through competitive cameramen to the forefront of the gathering crowd to capture the voice and image of the woman’s oration to several hundred day-shift employees of the car manufacturer as they emerged from the factory into their east parking lot through chain-link gates. Andrea mingled with the hesitant audience reminiscent of a herd of deer caught in headlights on a dark road, their expressions wary as they listened intently to the compelling woman dressed in a long-sleeved beige blouse with a high collar and black slacks, standing on the roof of the white van surrounded by five burly guards. A wireless microphone in hand carried her pleasant voice to the gathering crowd through large speakers atop metal poles attached to the four corners of the vehicle.

  Her anti-organized religion message was basically the same as it had been during the past year since she had caught the interest of local media in California, which had fueled the aggressive response of practically every religious denomination in the country.

  An agitated group of protesters, including several men wearing Roman collars and clutching bibles, heckled the woman with angry epithets, waving handwritten signs denouncing her message, the most aggressive antagonists held in check by laconic plant security guards and local police.

  Andy and Steve left the parking lot in their hired car before the Preacher Lady had finished speaking, getting back to their room in time to see the white van pull up under the motel portico, and her bodyguards rush Hannah into the motel. The battered yellow school bus that followed immediately began disgorging placard-bearing men and women chanting, “Anti-Christ, anti-Christ, blasphemy and sin advice!”

  Their advance toward the lobby entrance, however, was prevented by two uniformed policemen who swerved their black and white with flashing roof lights around the bus. Several minutes later Andy heard the Preacher Lady’s entourage entering their rooms across the hall and peered through the sight hole in her door to determine which one the woman would occupy.

  Steve watched the evening news after dinner in her room while Andy stretched out on her double bed reflecting on her discouraging phone conversation with Corporal Davidson at Fort Campbell who was fortuitously available on TAD in his company headquarters.

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Davidson said after Andy explained the reason for her call.

  “Did you see my broadcast last week?” she asked him.

  “I heard about it.”

  “Had you known about the artifact theft before that?”

  “You hear lots of stuff in the army. Ninety percent’s bull... baloney.”

  “What makes you think this is?”

  The ex-trooper answered with his own question. “You got this from a bunch of Ay-rabs, right?”

  “Along with specific details that reinforce their contention.”

  “They’re pretty good liars,” Davidson said. “Besides, I don’t think a few ordinary grunts like me could pull it off.”

  “Not smart enough?”

  “Got nothin’ to do with it. The army watches for stuff like that, they ain’t stupid.”

  “Did you have any interaction with Lt. Frank Mitchell’s second platoon? Hear or see anything that might suggest the Bedouin allegation is true?”

  “Hey, lady, I could make it up, you wanna put me on TV.”

  At nine o’clock that night Andrea knocked softly on the door of Hannah Ogie’s room so as not to alert her guards. The Preacher inspected Andrea through the peephole, then waited several moments before opening the door six inches that the fastened safety chain would allow.

  “The reporter who is searching for the stolen artifact,” Hannah exclaimed.

  “Now attempting to enlighten the American people with a more interesting story.”

  “There is no story other than my message.”

  “That may be true,” Andrea agreed, “but people are asking ‘why’ and ‘who.’ Your message would have much more appeal if your listeners could understand your purpose, your rationale, your background.”

  “I have considered that argument before.” She started closing the door. “My message must not become secondary to the messenger.”

  Andrea instinctively jammed her cane onto the threshold. “You’re making people angry. Not just your premise, your high-handed tactics, your bodyguards, your inaccessibility. Is that your purpose?”

  Hannah’s posture slackened. “That does concern me.”

  “Then let your hair down. You’re stuffing this radical idea down their throats and giving nothing of yourself.”

  “
What would you have me do?”

  “Give me an interview. On camera, not on the air. You don’t like my questions, don’t answer them.”

  Hannah smiled at her for a long moment, then closed the door. Andy thought she’d been rejected until the door opened again minus the safety chain. Hannah said, “I feel like Daniel walking into the lion’s den.”

  Steve sat in a chair just inside the tiny foyer, his tripod mounted camcorder, directional mike and lights aimed across the double beds at Hannah and Andy seated at a round table angled toward him. Ceiling-to-floor white window curtains had been drawn behind them.

  ANDREA: First of all, who is Hannah Ogie? What is your background, your religious or philosophical training?

  HANNAH: Those details are irrelevant. People should focus on my concept, not on me.

  ANDREA: You would have more credibility if you opened up to your listeners.

  HANNAH: I am my message.

  ANDREA: Why, then? What do you hope to accomplish by your exhortations to eliminate all religions and obviate their infrastructures?

  HANNAH: I am trying to bring people closer to God. We should not require intermediaries to commune with our Deity, whomever we perceive Her to be.

  ANDREA: I have heard you refer to God in the feminine gender before. Is that part of your message, also?

  HANNAH: God can be whoever or whatever you perceive your Supreme Being to be. Buddha, Mohammed, Yahweh, our Christian God or any other benevolent entity.

  ANDREA: That’s the way it works now. You are born to or choose whatever religion suits you.

  HANNAH: No religion achieves its professed intent of helping us lead moral lives. The church, synagogue or mosque is designated as a place of worship and prayer; so the core congregation goes there once a week and most of us rarely think of God or morality between times.

  ANDREA: That’s quite an accusation.

  HANNAH: Then to what do you attribute the suburban familyman who bludgeons another driver with a tire iron in a fit of road rage an hour after he leaves religious services? Child molestation, wife beating, rape, murder, theft, white-collar crime, sexual perversion by clergy?

  ANDREA: Criminals are usually not God fearing, church-going people.

  HANNAH: I am not referring to just professional criminals. The crimes I mentioned are perpetrated by husbands, fathers, neighbors, public officials. But hasn’t religion failed them and avowed criminals, alike?

  ANDREA: Wouldn’t the elimination of organized religions leave a vacuum of prescribed methods of worship, doctrines, historical tenets, the basis for belief and moral behavior?

  HANNAH: Do you really think people need to be told how to worship? How to talk to their God? How to pray? Some of the ancient Biblical stories and admonitions have very little to do with our personal relationship to God in the twenty-first century.

  ANDREA: Most people understand them as guidelines for behavior.

  HANNAH: I think we all know the difference between right and wrong. Our distance from God created by meaningless rules, tenets and practices imposed on us by religions and clergy allows us to make poor choices. Greed, thirst for power, the exclusion of alternative means of worship, secular divisiveness. Religions do not set good examples in any of those areas. Religious wars throughout history, the Crusades, Inquisitions, terrorist-based jihads today.

  ANDREA: If you were able to disband organized religions, with what would you replace them?

  HANNAH: Nothing. I am not trying to eliminate religious beliefs, just the flawed, ponderous structures that purport to administer them. We should not revere human saints instead of God; we do not need ritual sacraments invented by man to worship God; we do not need the gold chalices, expensive vestments, circus-like gatherings by up-start, self-proclaimed ministers, gothic structures, clerics, tithing and resultant huge church bank accounts that could be better applied to battle genocide, famine and disease.

  ANDREA: Self-proclaimed ministers like yourself?

  HANNAH: I do not profess a ministerial agenda. My purpose is to disband religious organizations not create one.

  ANDREA: Then where would we go for knowledge of God, and comfort in distress provided now by the clergy?

  HANNAH: Understanding God should originate in the home. More dialogue and discussion of God by parents would benefit children and adults.

  ANDREA: The Family that prays together stays together?

  HANNAH: An excellent notion. I am not attempting to undermine the basic premises of religions, Ms. Madigan, only the unscrupulous hierarchies and factions that impede their stated objectives--unwittingly or otherwise.

  ANDREA: How do you think people should worship God?

  HANNAH: God is not so insecure that She requires adulation from mortal beings. We should talk to God as friend and confidant anytime, day and night; at work, stalled in traffic, or quiet meditation. God is whatever we wish Her or Him to be. She is not, however, an entity who will solve our petty, worldly problems. Prayer should be for the forgiveness of sins against others; for eternal salvation; for knowledge of our individual purpose in this life and the strength to achieve it. People must refine their image of God and Her requirements based on the modern world we live in, rather than ancient strictures and mystical legends.

  ANDREA: Some critics think you’d have a better chance overthrowing the federal government than organized religions. Do you honestly believe this radical idea has any chance of succeeding?

  HANNAH: I am not trying to overthrow anything. If people abandon the rituals of established religions and concentrate on getting nearer to God, those outmoded practices will fall of their own weight.

  ANDREA: You must realize you have a great deal of opposition to this concept.

  HANNAH: Another preacher espoused an equally unpopular theory 2000 years ago. His intent was not to establish a new order, but also designed to bring individuals closer to God. I would not be repeating that message if His followers had not encumbered those simple guidelines with the complex doctrines and accouterments that impede His basic teachings now.

  ANDREA: “Do you equate yourself and your message with Jesus?

  HANNAH: I leave that for others to decide.

  Mohamed Massoub listened intently until he was certain that the international connection had been broken on the other end of the line, then replaced the handset gently back on its cradle.

  “Abu Musab al-Zarqawi is not pleased,” he said in Farsi, extending his clasped hands before him on the scarred surface of the wooden table behind which he perched on the edge of a plastic chair. In contrast to the younger agents seated cross-legged on either side of a worn path in the rug of muted colors, Mohamed was in his mid-thirties, his European-cut suit expertly tailored, the dark facial skin surrounding his thick, black mustache cleanly shaven.

  He had entered the United States several months before the glorious coup of Osama Bin Laden against the Americans infidels in 2001 September 11, but had no part in or knowledge of that seminal incident. A devoted member of the Iraqi rebel Shiites, Mohamed had been educated in Great Britain and trained in urban guerrilla terror tactics in Jordan. His original mission was to establish a cover identity in New York City as an independent OPEC trade consultant from Kuwait, thereby solidifying his commercial credentials while establishing the innocuous routine of a harmless visiting businessman, remaining inactive in the holy assault on the western infidels until called upon to execute some critical future plan against the complacent Americans.

  It was not until the leaders of his al Qaeda group had been convinced of the veracity of the artifact theft by the Madigan newscast that the valuable asset of Mohamed Massoub had received his assignment from al-Zarqawi direct from his chief lieutenant, Omar Hussein Hadid.

  Mohamed turned to the young men who had remained silent during his cryptic transatlantic dialogue, unable to conceal his disdain for the two recent immigrants from Canada similarly attired in ill-fitting suits whose buttoned jackets bunched the cheap material at their wai
sts. Their pitiful attempt at imperial beards, and gray kaffiyeh with brown swirls reminiscent of the infamous headdress affected by the belligerent deceased Palestinian would attract attention even on the streets of Manhattan. He would need to change their appearance completely before releasing them in daylight from the tiny room in the dilapidated brick building in Spanish Harlem on the East Side of Manhattan where he worked and lived.

  Though he had no doubt regarding their willingness to die in the sacred war against the American heathens, which they had professed repeatedly during their initial meeting the previous night, or their militant terrorist training, Mohamed would have preferred to have been sent agents with greater intelligence and initiative. Unfortunately, the United States had been screening foreign tourists and immigrants more diligently since 9/11, particularly people from Arab nations.

  Terrorist organizations similar to his own were generally forced to work with their operatives already in place or raw recruits. If he had not been forbidden to risk his own cover by his personal participation in the quest unless absolutely necessary, he would keep these untried pawns on a very short tether. Perhaps he could instill a more focused attitude within them regarding the singular goal of their mission.

  “The Artifact treasure is not only rightfully ours,” Mohamed told them, “but its discovery will represent either a great victory for our cause and billions of dollars to fund it; or the monumental embarrassment of its possession by our accursed enemy.”

  “No one knows where to seek it,” Amar Razzaq said.

  “Omar assured me that if we do not produce a solid lead in two weeks time that we will all be recalled,” Mohamed warned them.

  “Ahiih!” Sadiq Samarri exclaimed. “It is that cursed newswoman! She has the power of their irresponsible media that is feared by their entire government.”

  “This is true,” Mohamed admitted. “Regardless, Abu Musab cannot understand why our American resources have not been used to better advantage before the entire world knew of the treasure.”

  “Our weak-willed Americanized cousins,” Sadiq corrected, leaning forward to quash the brown cigarette in an empty cardboard coffee cup on a low table beside him. “They were not so zealous because they feared deportation if attention of the Federal Police was called to suspicious activities.”