One to the Nth Degree: (The Code 17 Conspiracy)

1858

PROLOGUE

ALEX TRIED TO CLEAR the cobwebs from his head.

Face down and in a fetal position, he grew anxious at the searing pain spreading through his body. He felt blood trickling down his one freed arm, while his soiled muscle t-shirt clung tightly to a perspiring torso. The frayed fatigues borrowed a week earlier from a Leatherneck also stuck to aching legs. Trying to roll over, a jolt ran through the length of the arm that was tied behind his back...including the bandaged hand that had been pierced with a nail, as if crucified.

Not smart, bro, not smart, Alex told himself. This has to be a nightmare...

Still, his abduction five days earlier had been real. So was the hooded journey through an arid landscape to this dank and poorly illuminated basement. Particularly sobering were those incessant rhythmic strains of Bolero playing...always suggesting a climax was near...but never ending.

Alex fought to breathe more regularly, inhale more deeply.

Think about an afternoon 420 back in the States...

He managed a feeble smacking of his blistered lips. A hard swallow followed. Oh, God, he softly moaned as the sundry pains welled up again.

Is this what it feels like before dying?

After days without a real sleep, it occurred to Alex he could not remember why he had been kidnapped. Only disjointed images could be conjured up. There were glimpses of two score people strewn about a subway train. Some were on the floor dead, others were spitting blood in their seats. He recalled a zombie-like man and woman staggering across an open park clutching their throats and gasping for air. There were also visions of more dead bodies with skulls exploding after being pierced by...what? And, for some reason, Burnside’s Bridge at Antietam seemed important.

Sweat dripped into Alex’s eyes and stung so as to disrupt what concentration he had managed to muster. Alex was startled upon discerning a deep cough. A chair moved. An exchange of whispered voices could be heard above Bolero, too.

Here we go again, the freaks are going to come at me again...

Then, that familiar Voice called out again, too.

"No Fear."

Suddenly, a burly brute hurled his foot into Alex’s mid-section. Are you awake, my friend? he mocked, while circling his victim.

Meanwhile, his bespectacled accomplice a few feet away talked into a cell phone held between shoulder and ear, while busily tapping messages into a laptop computer.

"Wait for me," the Voice intoned a second time.

Alex hardly noticed the next kick to his stomach...or the recoiling of his body.

You know how to do this. Go within yourself. Remember where you came from.

Countering the macabre Bolero, Alex summoned Puccini’s uplifting Nessun Dorma.

Tell Jamal how do your CIA friends know where we are going to strike next, the burly one bent over to whisper in his ear, then, spit in it. I will kill you quickly, the brute growled, but, I like seeing you suffer, too.

Alex could feel the tormentor’s sour smelling sweat drip onto him as his bloodied, matted hair was grabbed to yank his head backward.

American Pig! the captor cried. "How? How do you know these things?"

Alex looked furtively about the shadows of this make-shift prison. He finally recalled returning to his Old Town Jerusalem hotel when some assholes took him.

Oh, how I’d like to get a shot a wringing their necks...

Tell me! the brute shouted.

You can go to hell, Alex spit back.

More than a dozen fisted blows to the body were followed by several clubbed swats to the head.

"Wait for me," Alex heard the Voice reiterate. He lifted his swollen eyes skyward as if to acknowledge the advice. The unexpected upward glance by Alex made the others also look momentarily at the ceiling, but they saw only a hanging light bulb.

Give him the needle, said the quiet one.

The one with listeria? the brute asked.

Shhh...

All three thought they could hear a whistling sound. It quickly morphed into a whine. In the ensuing seconds the sound seemed to grow progressively louder. Then, the solitary bulb could be seen vibrating ever so slightly. Dust fell from the ceiling. There was a terrible flash of light. A fireball engulfed most of the building. Alex felt himself drift backwards into his dream-like state. There, many recollections were replayed for him. He recognized the series of numbers:

"17...1...7...17...1."

CHAPTER ONE -- February 17

ALEXANDER AVALOV FELT COMFORTABLE in his tony Foggy Bottom high rise apartment on this unseasonably warm, rainy afternoon. He kicked off his shoes and leaned back.

From his oversized red-leather chair , Alex viewed E Street and the towering Washington Monument in the distance. Straight ahead he took in the State Department headquarters and the National Mall’s Lincoln Memorial. To his right, was a slice of the meandering Potomac River and Roosevelt Island within. Alex took off his reading glasses and put down William Manchester’s The Last Lion, then, sipped from his glass of Pepsi.

Maybe hanging out later tonight with the guys over a Sam at Chadwick’s is in the cards. But, for now, an after work joint is company enough, no?

Sporting the usual well-worn jeans shirt and pants, Alex used the remote to turn on the television and hoped a Big East rivalry game was on. Instead, he saw the special CNN news report that was revealing the horror unfolding in New York: The bagged bodies of 51 subway passengers were being carried out of Grand Central Station by a procession of NYFD firefighters.

The grim details of the crime are still sketchy, the slender, long-haired reporter on the scene said. Just about the only thing sources agreed upon, she noted, was that the crowded rush hour train had pulled into the station sometime shortly after 5:00 pm. Only, when the doors opened to the seventh car, those waiting to board saw within the disfigured dead or dying strewn about...

Appearing next was a series of taped interviews with dazed witnesses. Each struggled to tell how panic had quickly gripped the subway platform.

There were so many screams, one woman sobbed.

I heard these terrible cries, said another, while cradling an infant in her arms. But, what could we do? Most of us were just running as fast as we could away from that train.

The people were suffering, gasped a middle-aged man. I saw one lady grabbing her throat and stumbling over a body. I don’t think she was breathing as the firemen carried her away.

The camera returned to reporter now reading from notes, as wailing sirens could be heard in the background. The panic on the station platform quickly spread throughout the subway’s many levels, she said. Hundreds of people fled up the giant escalators into the Met Life Building. And, then, the streets beyond.

Besides the confirmed dead, Alex learned that scores of walking wounded were rushed in ambulances to nearby hospitals. More than a few were now listed in critical condition. Rumors abounded, the reporter said. Some were from authoritative government sources. Many were conflicting. Others seemed implausible. One was particularly worrisome because it mentioned a poison gas attack. That possibility had triggered a journalistic rush to compare this incident to Tokyo’s infamous subway Sarin gas attack by a Japanese cult years earlier. Memories of 9/11 were evoked and went viral on social media, too.

The still young Georgetown professor wondered: Who could do such a thing? How does a person rationalize, let alone understand, the terrorist’s mind? Or, a cultist’s reasoning?

Alex recalled how the causes of terrorism were often a flashpoint of controversy during his lectures and had triggered heated debates amongst his students.

"Hey, did you read this morning’s Daily News and the new study that argues Muslims ‘hate’ terrorism as much as Christians?" he had once asked his Middle Eastern political theories class.

So, then, why are there so many Islamic terrorist incidents out there? one young female Christian student asked.

Well, there’s a lot of terrorist attacks all over the world, Alex remembered saying, and, there is a consistency in the rationalizations used by terrorists in both the Western and the Eastern societies...we’d be smart to take those political and religious similarities into consideration when trying to understand...or fight...what might be classified as a modern form of anarchism.

I don’t see it that way, Professor, a Saudi male had retorted. "Eastern terrorists don’t care so much about politics as Westerners do...to them, history and religion are far more important.

An upper class male Christian suggested that the religious differences between East and West were largely made up throughout the centuries by both sides pushing for their own political agendas.

And so the debate would go on, often for the rest of the lecture. Alex smiled then at having prodded his students’ minds. But, what’s happening now is no hypothetical event.

After an hour of channel surfacing and watching the networks compete for details, Alex’s eyes caught the pile of letters on the coffee table he had been ignoring for several days now. While sorting through several bills and advertisements, he noticed one letter from a Maria Angelini. Picking it up, Alex could smell a fruity aroma. He was immediately taken by one sentence that was partially underscored:

"Do the words ‘One is First’ mean anything to you? If so, please call me..."

Yes, they might mean something. So does the cell phone number that’s listed here and ends in 1717.

Alex resisted picking up the phone and tossed the letter back onto the table.

What the hell is the right move? Think.

It was only a month ago that Alex had received at his office what appeared to be an ordinary enough Fed Ex envelop. He forwarded it to the university’s security department for special screening as part of the government-sponsored safety program offered years earlier after ricin mailings showed up in DC politicians’ offices. Very good thing I had. The suspicious package turned out to be laced with a lethal dose of the powdered biological toxin for which there was no known antidote or cure. But, the FBI’s experts had uncovered few leads, let alone any suspects.

Thousands of pieces of evidence that had been turned up during prior ricin investigations went nowhere. The castor seed and lye ingredients could have been purchased online. And, the package that had arrived was traced to a Fed Ex store on Capitol Hill. But, there the trail turned cold when it was discovered that the order was paid for in cash and store cameras revealed it had been placed by a disguised short man wearing a Nationals baseball cap and sun glasses. Even the National Security Agency’s exhaustive review of all land-based and wireless communications turned up nothing.

So, how do I live with this until you guys can find the person who did it? Alex had asked the veteran FBI agent assigned to his case.

For starters, we recommend a good security system for your apartment, replied the blue suit.

We can have it hooked up to the DC police, if you’d like, a companion FBI rookie added.

That makes sense, Alex conceded. "But, what else? An alarm system’s not going to do me much good outside my apartment..."

I have to be honest with you, professor, the veteran had replied. We don’t have the resources to give you around the clock protection on the basis of this one incident...but, we’ll rig you with a communications device that can monitor your whereabouts and allow you to alert us to trouble 24/7.

The DC police will also be patrolling the neighborhood around your apartment, the junior agent had tried to reassure. And the campus police will keep a close watch on you there.

You’ll of course need to be alert for any suspicious characters attending one of your lectures, the veteran added.

In other words, I was on my own, Alex recalled. Someone had tried to kill me. It still seems unfathomable. Or is it?

Alex retraced yet again everything out of the ordinary that had happened recently. He thought of the FBI’s insistence that he put together a list of enemies for them.

Ok. Some colleagues are upset with me. My Theory of Improbable Certainties had even unified usually warring academics, theologians, and scientists. But, the longer I think about this FBI Clue-like list of suspects, the more I can’t picture a Professor Plum trying to poison me.

Alex reached deeper.

My work has also triggered a number of protests from fundamentalist students. Both Christians and Muslims have complained that I either pay too little attention to, or misinterpret, the Bible or the Quran...or both. Still, the criticism seemed to have been well-intentioned, even constructive... I’ve incorporated many of them into my lectures.

There’s always the chance, of course, that the attempt on my life was simply the work of a very sick person...

Alex retrieved the mysterious letter that had been tossed aside and dialed the sender’s cell phone.

The letter does identify the sender. Check. It had been cleared by the toxicity experts. Check. And what murderer perfumes her correspondence? And, oh, that mention in this latest letter of One is First rings true. The expression was one only I could have known about.

No answer. He tried again 15 minutes later, but still no pick up. The marijuana buzz nearly gone, Alex showered and dressed for that night out with the guys. Yet another call to the 1717 number failed.

There was a loud knock from the hallway. Walking quickly across the room, Alex removed the dead bolt and security chain on the front door and unthinkingly opened it. Violation of FBI Rule No. 1: Don’t open the door to strangers. Too late.

I’m Maria, a young woman softly said.

Alex looked up and down at the disheveled person standing before him. Deep set eyes dripping black mascara made her almost look like an Alice Cooper knock off. Has she been crying? Her lips are quivering.

I’m hungry, Alex said. Want to have dinner?

LISTRANI’S WAS A SMALL ITALIAN RESTAURANT on MacArthur Boulevard in the vintage Palisades district and a short, scenic drive along the Potomac. Taking separate cars gave Alex time to think about what he wanted to ask this woman who had challenged him. He calculated that the restaurant’s pleasant ambiance would help relieve the anxiety she obviously felt. Besides being nestled in a corner of the quaint, tree-lined community, the popular eatery had the best pizza Alex had eaten since relocating from Illinois two years earlier. Hot, tasty, and a touch salty.

After their rendezvous on the restaurant’s elevated doorstep, Alex escorted Maria into another small part of his world. She noticed he gave a friendly salute to several wait staff, who returned the familiar gesture with a wave of their own . In leading the way past several tables and a long walnut bar, Alex patted the wood-carved, almost life-sized Viking fronting two old-fashioned booths. Turning a corner that led to another dining area, he pointed his guest toward a nearby fireplace where a table for two awaited.

You’re superstitious, Maria said while taking the seat facing the large window looking onto the boulevard.

Why do you say that? Alex asked.

I saw you pat the wooden man, replied Maria. It’s ok. I’m Sicilian. And in Sicily ghosts and spirits are big.

Well, I’m from the South Side of Chicago, he quipped, and we’re pretty big on raising people from the dead, too, especially at election time. It’s a Chicago thing.

Maria did not get the joke. She looked down instead, wanting to get to the point and explain her letter, then, her showing up unannounced at his door. You see, I’d been having these dreams at night, Maria began. "And for weeks now, I’ve been hearing this Voice." She looked warily at her dinner companion.

Alex simply asked: "And the Voice said what?"

"One is First, Maria answered haltingly. It means something special to you, too. I can sense it."

Yeah. I’ve been hearing the same ‘One is First’ message since that ricin attack. It can’t be the family gift? Can it?

It might, but...

You really don’t remember me? Maria asked.

I’m sorry...

"Your lecture on the Power of Numbers ‘1’ and ‘7’ in the Bible and the Quran three months ago? I was one of several people who had audited it and gathered around you to ask you questions afterwards."

Alex’s memory of the curious discussion was jogged. He laughed, then, saw it was no laughing matter to the young woman and wiped the smile off his face.

I do remember a graduate student who looked like you..but without the running mascara...waiting patiently for my attention, Alex replied. I was talking to two men. Both were wearing business suits. Frankly, I was trying to end the conversation because I wanted to give some attention to the others who also had questions...including you.

Maria self-consciously rubbed away some of the black dye streaking down her face. I recall you having this pretty intense talk with the man who said he was an editor from a magazine and, I guess, a business partner of his.

"They were asking me questions about the repeat appearance of the numbers ‘1’ and ‘7’ throughout the Bible and the Quran. How they might be considered a kind of code or message used by the kings, generals, holy men, and wise men of the day..."

Alex had noted how 7 is widely viewed as the universal sign for completeness or even heaven. The Bible’s story of Creation itself, he had said, began with the Word on the first day and ending on the seventh. He agreed with the men how every letter in the Arabic alphabet has a numerical value and stands for a number so that numerological calculations or hisab al-jumal are believed by many Islamic faithful to have the power of actually foretelling events...providing the secret of their meaning can be unlocked.

Then, they asked about the superiority of 1 and 7 in the Quran.

"I reminded them about my comments during the lecture about ‘odd’ numbers being considered by many Muslims to be superior, at least, in the sense that every even number is made up of an even part to which the ‘odd’ number ‘1’ is added. I recall also telling them that the most effective codes in relaying any message are the simplest ones, especially if the symbols or numbers being used have easily recognizable meanings behind them. Yes, like one and seven."

But, what of it?

"Then, the suits had asked whether the number ‘1’ is always first in the Scriptures...and how the binary code system all computers and the Internet are built around today start ... and maybe end ...with that number.

I tried to explain that I’m a political theorist who only studies numerology as it’s been used in history and philosophy...I’m no cryptologist or theologian. For that kind of expertise, I said, ‘you guys need to talk to my sister who’s a code breaker for the National Security Agency.’

Maria also continued to replay the conversation: But, then, the short, dark one whispered something to the editor in a foreign language I didn’t recognize...

It was Arabic, Alex said.

"And you asked them, ‘What does ‘locusts’ have to do with my lecture?"

You’re right...I did.

The men seemed stunned..

‘No big deal,’ I had told them. Then, I explained the importance of my being able to read historical texts in Hebrew, Latin and Greek, as well as in Arabic.

They tried to make light of your speaking Arabic, but that surprised look on the editor’s face was real, Maria said. I finally asked one of my own questions. But, he gave me this look to kill. Instead of pushing back, I backed off. I left thinking I could catch you later. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since.

"And the Voice won’t go away either."

I thought I was just taking things too seriously, Maria admitted. "I had just wanted to see what you thought about the meaning of those words ‘One is First’. And, then, New York happened today. The subway attack was crazy. And it happened on the 17th. You know, ‘1’ and ‘7.’ That’s when I knew I had to talk to you. Is it just me going crazy?"

"Well, if it’s any comfort, I also am hearing that same Voice telling me One is First."

Really?

"Yes, really. But, I’ll be damned if I know what it means.

Is it just our imaginations? I mean, these messages?

I guess it could just be our common sense kicking in ... or ...

Or?

Something else...

AS SOON AS ALEX AND MARIA LEFT the warm atmosphere of the restaurant they were struck by the rapidly falling temperatures. It had gotten so cold after the sun had set that black ice had begun forming on the streets and sidewalks. Maria slipped on one such patch, but Alex caught her arm.

Clumsy me, she smiled as the couple walked slowly down the sloping sidewalk towards her car. Maria motioned that she was parked on the other side of the street.

My Mustang is just down the street, too, Alex replied.

Neither noticed the black sedan parked nearby with a suited driver and passenger inside. Nor did the two men take notice of the couple.

Ah, I can see it, Maria said through chattering teeth. A blue Mustang. My favorite color. And it’s a convertible.

The pair continued the small talk while crossing the street, not realizing that at the base of the hill, another idling car began to move forward slowly and toward Mac Arthur Boulevard. Still nearly 200 feet