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 MY LEGATION, a novel

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FIRST PAGES

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When America falls, what remains?

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ACT ONE

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It is a thundering noise for such a small room.

The air is tense. The walls shake. Glass rattles. The reverberations loose dust and small bits of tile from the ceiling.

Abrahm sits alone in the corner of the room, away from the window. A suit jacket drapes over an ornate wooden chair. He wears an old leather watch and a sharp white shirt. He is waiting, motionless, staring at the door. Hours pass. The door stares back at him, silent and unmoving.

To break the boredom, Abrahm rises and saunters to the window. The glass is opaque, but you can discern the gray outlines of figures moving in the streets outside. More than just a crowd of people, it is a mob.

Knock.

The door cracks. A voice from the hallway, "It's time for you to speak. Come on."

Abrahm collects his jacket from the chair and twirls his arms through the sleeves. The door slams as he leaves the room, shaking the last bits of white tile from the ceiling.

***

The Great Hall of Congress is a symphony of dissonance. Abrahm strides past the gilded columns framing its main entrance and walks to the center of the floor. The hall smells of sweat and cigar smoke.

Surrounding him is three floors of Senators, Congressmen, and Elected Officials - every man and woman elected to a position of authority in The City. They are all arguing, politicking, and conversing in hundreds of miniature conversations and stump speeches. The Chief of Police argues with a bushy-eyed Assemblyman. A Clergyman lectures the Mayor. No one is paying attention to the man who is supposed to be allotted time to speak.

Wham...wham...wham...! A fool with a gavel attempts to bring order to the room by slamming it repeatedly upon his podium "My friends, my friends, let the man speak!"

No effect. The cacophony continues.

Abrahm stands straight and unapologetic. This situation isn't going to solve itself. This pompous audience won't quiet for someone as insignificant as a fool with a gavel.

Walking to left corner of the floor, Abrahm grabs hold of an empty chair. Lowering his legs into an athlete's squat, he raises his body along with his chosen piece of furniture.

Whoosh...! The chair flies across the room and lets loose a deafening !Cra-Crash! as it slams into wooden barrier and falls crooked on the far right side of the hall.

The loud, strange sound draws the attention of all. There is abrupt silence.

Abrahm is satisfied. He slips off his jacket and lays it on the now-crooked chair.

We begin.

***

A SPEECH TO THE MEMBERS OF GOVERNMENT

All of you are in a bit of danger.

I do not think the danger is grave, yet. But it will become much worse if you don't listen to what I have to say tonight.

So stop your deal making, stop your gossip, shut your mouth. Just listen.

In this hall of government, you may carry your well-earned authority and lofty status on your sleeve, but not in the streets.

Right now, outside these walls, there is a mob. It intents to burn this building to the ground with you inside. And all that stands between us and it are a few iron fences, locked doors, and glass windows. Your guards and policemen cannot hold back the tide for much longer.

If this government falls, this city falls. We cannot allow this mob to destroy the hall, a timeless symbol of our government. We cannot allow this mob to harm any of you, the governing body, and shatter any last signs of civility and order this city has left. Despite your failures as public servants, you cannot all fall at once or the city would embrace chaos. This mob must be stopped, or tomorrow a hundred thousand children will wake up to find the future of their city destroyed by the rashness of a few thousand angry souls.

You have little protection and little time. Urgency is our beauty queen. Cherish her.

What I offer is a hasty solution.

I can give you the time necessary to finish what you have started here tonight - healing the dying government of this city. I can do this. Urgency requires it, and I can deliver. But most of you will not trust me because I am a stranger.

Truth needs no credentials, trust requires many.

So let me tell you why you should trust me. Let me tell you why I should be the person to command the next hour of your lives. Since you are in a bit of danger, listen well.

I am not a diplomat or politician. Not a soldier, not a businessman, and not a priest. I am certainly not a man of the law. I serve no one. The few friends I carry in my pocket are neither rich nor powerful. No one remembers my name, even after they have met me two or three times. I cast no shadow amongst the daylight.

What I am, however, is a solution to the human puzzle set before you.

People like me have no classical name or title, but are understood to possess certain...talents.

Forever making the right choice, at the right moment, at the right place - is one of them.

Do you understand how hard that is to do? Many of you are judges, academics, merchants of the streets, and other intelligent and battle-tested decision-makers. But how many times can you find the right answer, make the right play? Can you choose wisely thousands of times across different disciplines? Can you solve the moral puzzles of humanity for days, months - even years - without error?

Can you trick the devil? Can you do it twice a day?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I can.

The ignorant may call me lucky, but they are mistaken. The results of my actions are more than simple chance. What I do is a profession with established tactics and guidelines, and I am a professional who has studied and mastered them.

It is the curse to those of my profession that History is blind to our names but vigilant to our deeds. So it will be with you. Should I solve your predicament tonight, rest assured that you will receive the lion's share of glory. History will never see me recognized for my achievements. My personal honor is all that sustains me. Honor for the sake of honor.

But there is scarce time for any more storytelling to prove my trustworthiness. As you can tell from the sound of drums and gunshots, you are in a bit of danger. Lucky for you I am here tonight with these talents of mine. Trust in me to exercise them well, and I can stop this mob.

My request is simple. My solution, quick.

Give me your stage. Allow me to speak tonight - on your behalf - to the people of this city and temper their growing anger. I will disperse this mob and give you the time you desperately need to establish order in this government.

I stand for your answer.

***

A brief period of silence gives way to a slow murmur. Whispers fly from every set of lips. Abrahm remains standing in the center of the room, arms folded.

Wham...! A fool with a gavel hammers his podium. Nervously he calls, "Motion to allow our speaker to address the mob on behalf of the Council. What are your votes?"

A tepid wave of "Ayes" sweeps the room.

"Opposed?" A single "Nay" is voiced by a half-deaf Senator sitting cross-legged in the rear. No one abstains. Those who refuse to take sides at times like these are harshly judged, and for good reason.

Wham...! "Motion carries!"

Abrahm collects his jacket, rights the crooked chair, and walks from the hall to a symphony of silence.

***

The mob is a deadly, mindless force of destruction in society. People alone are weak. When many band together for the purposes of protest, their confidence is multiplied by their numbers and a few men can stir a thousand to commit murder, malice, and calamity.

The mob is a Leviathan, and Abrahm intends to slay it.

Yet how difficult a task! Abrahm's mind flickers at a energetic pace.

When the masses are infused with violent emotion, logic cannot sway them. Any appeal to the mind's calmer side will be drown out by its emotive impulses. Abrahm's eloquence is useless here. The ancient Greek idea of logos, or using logic to move the soul, is the wrong tool for this situation.

Abrahm considers the environment. The mob is dispersed across the wide boulevards of the city's downtown palisades. If he could cause it to compact itself and isolate it into a corner, he may be able to create enough physical momentum to control its direction and move it away from downtown. The police could assist him with their tear gas and rubber bullets. But what if the mob pushed back in response, violently? It create a bigger problem than he started with. Violence may be inevitable, but Abrahm is hesitant to strike first.

Night is falling. Darkness is a tool. It could be of use to him. But how?

There is a growing rage as daylight disappears and the mob's presence is ignored. Anger is all-consuming but short-lived. This mob will eventually burn itself out, but will this happen before it burns down city hall? Another factor to consider.

Abrahm thinks of his advantages.

First, he is more nimble. When the mob considers an action, it moves slowly to execute it as the directives for unity are communicated slowly amongst the hundred different heads of the hydra. The muscles are quick to contract, but the nervous system is slow to command. Abrahm has no such impediment. Once he reaches a tactical decision, Abrahm can out-perform his adversary.

Second, he owns the "stalemate position." The mob's objective is to destroy or disrupt the functioning government of the city. Abrahm is void of objectives, he only stands against the objectives of the mob. By having no objectives, Abrahm is more flexible. Abrahm wins if the mob fails. Whether the mob fails by its own fault or because of Abrahm's actions is irrelevant. Either as a participant or an observer, he can still claim victory. The mob is the aggressor and must be a participant to effect its victory.

Abrahm's strategy slowing coming into his mind's view.

***

Knock-knock..!

Abrahm stands outside a heavy metal door in a strangely-lit hallway. Falling dust from the ceiling catches the light from the dim florescent bulbs overhead to fill the hall with a creepy glow of limelight. Rusty pipes protrude from the concrete walls. The air is musty. He knocks once more.

Knock...!

The door opens. A rough, bearded face leans out.

Abrahm smiles, recognizing the bald head of his friend. "Camilly."

"Abrahm - good to see you. Come in."

Abrahm follows Camilly to an antique missionary table at the center of the room. The door slams behind them and self-locks with a Sha-Bolt..! Various maps lay stacked in neat piles next to metal cases of bullets and lines of cellphones.

Camilly's official title was Chief Military Liaison Element, or "C-Mi-Li-E," pronounced "Camilly." Some men are named by their mothers, others by a convenient string of consonants and vowels collected from their government acronyms. Rumor was that even Camilly himself didn't know his real name after years of using nicknames and aliases. It was hidden in a top-secret government file and long forgotten. If he did know it, he didn't tell anyone else. He preferred his title. Besides Camilly's title, nothing else about him was official.

He unfolds a large urban map of the city and lays it across the table, pointing to the building designated as City Hall.

"We have two options." Camilly looks the way he talks - short, sharp, and forceful. "We evacuate the building and relocate the Assembly to our designated safe haven..."

Abrahm cuts in, "Not an option."

"...or we try and move the mob into an area where we hold an tactical advantage. Right now, the mob occupies the Palisades next to City Hall. If we can move everyone to the other end of the Palisades, it will give us some space to work with. The mob would be stretched out and the police could take back parts of the surrounding area. Way I see it, moving 3,000 angry bodies three city blocks without using violence or the threat of violence is not going to be an easy task. Any ideas?"

"We are going to trick them. What I need from you is field support. How many of your team members do you have in-country?"

Camilly answers with a smile, "That City Hall knows about? None. That are operational for tonight? Two."

"I need eyes and ears in the streets while I coordinate my moves. When can they be ready?"

"I'll have them staged at the rear and flank of our position in one hour. They will be our spotters - read the mood of the mob, tell us what it's doing."

"Good, good. What kind of police support do we have from City Hall?"

"Nothing useful. There are 32 riot police here in the building to protect the Assembly, but the Chief of Police won't let us borrow more than a handful of them. They can't help us much. They're mostly unarmed except for batons, shields, and non-lethal explosives - flash bangs and smoke grenades. Regardless, I'll get you a dozen policemen in full gear. They should be ready in one hour."

"OK, very good. I'll arrange for the building engineer and police to do their part. You have me on the radio. I'll count on your team to watch the mob. Remember, no one gets killed. No blood. No bodies."

"Understood - a professional operation. See you in one hour."

Sha-Bolt...! The metal door opens. Abrahm enters the limelight.

***

Abrahm gazes out from the balcony on the upper terrace of City Hall. Dusk frames the silhouette of the mob. Its snake-like shadow is an unnerving sight. Anxiety. Fear. The smell of Gasoline.

The circle-alley is a rolling sea of fists and black flags. Great masses of people lunge forward like tidal waves from all sides of the crowd. They come to a crashing halt against the police barricades with a clamor of shouts and cheers.

Abrahm turns to to the city clerk standing by his side.

"Bring me the building engineer and a police radio. I have decided."

***

In nature, weaker animals can defeat a stronger predator by using a technique known as "mobbing."

Crows are experts at using this defense mechanism. When a hawk invades the crows' hunting territory, the crows will band together and deny the hawk the ability to hunt by "mobbing" it.

The crows will swarm the air around the hawk and harass it through excessive squawking, mock-dives, and even defecating on their opponent in a mass effort to distract the hawk from its intended goal - the hunt.

Each crow knows it cannot defeat the hawk in single combat, but a mob of crows can deny the hawk from achieving its objective by redirecting all of the hawk's sensory resources - sight, sound, and strength - towards the mob and away from the hunt. The hawk eventually exhausts itself and flies away to the delight of the crows.

The tactics of "mobbing" have been applied to politics, war, and even to the corporate workplace.

Abrahm's mob was using the crows' tactics. By distracting the city council from holding their meetings and tending to the city's affairs, the mob was effectively denying the government its ability to govern by holding its civic authority hostage. City employees left work to protect their homes and families. Schools and shops closed for fear of collateral damage. Radio and television stations stopped transmitting. Only the automated electrical grid remained operational. The "mobbing" was working.

Fortunately for Abrahm, the mob holds this power for only as long as it exists. If he could disperse it, he could unfreeze the government. Police would return to the streets. Water, sewage, and broadcast services could begin again. Schools and shops would re-open. The city would have a chance to climb back out of the grave.

Complicating his actions is the fact that the mob is not faceless. It contains the very people who Abrahm wants to save - the shopkeepers, teachers, mothers and fathers from all over the city. The fact that these people are hostile and self-destructive tonight does not change the reality that he needs their support and cooperation after this crisis has passed. It is a game of hearts and minds. The mob could not be harmed in any serious manner or Abrahm risks loses the heart of the city. If the mob suffers tonight, the city will suffer tomorrow. An enemy defeated yet saved is a friend recovered.

Abrahm's challenge is becoming more difficult by the second.

A mob is not a static force. It is versatile and can evolve organically and without any central command. Through the act of "mobbing," a group of people can unknowingly increase their power and lethality in a number of ways.

The first and most obvious way is through sheer numbers. The more people who join the mob, the more destructive it becomes. However, increasing the size of the mob also decreases it mobility. It is more sluggish. It loses much of its focus each time it moves.

Eventually, every mob collapses under its own weight. Continually adding more people while pursuing its "mobbing" tactics ultimately results in the destruction of the mob itself. Each time the mob moves to ram an barricade or seize a street, it is slowly pulled apart as random groups of individuals send its energy away from the center and off into winding peripheries. When a thousand people rush down a street, the stragglers in the back are left behind and lose themselves in the side alleys. Piece by piece, the mob skims its human bulk until it dissolves into an ineffectual crowd.

The right way to increase a mob's lethality without decreasing its mobility is by generating a current of special energy known in science as "collective effervescence," or group bubbling.

Common in small groups such as sports teams, group bubbling is the indirect amplification of an individual's strengths, senses, and skills when that individual finds himself or herself among a group of others. One Strongman can barely lift a 500 pound bolder, yet when he joins another Strongman, that group of two Strongmen together can lift a 3,000 pound bolder, each lifting 1,500 pounds. By lifting next to his partner, the Strongman convinces himself that he is lifting his limit of 500 pounds, but the collective environment allows him to lift much more. This special energy is collective effervescence. It allows people in groups to out-perform their individual limits.

There is also a dark side to this release of secret energy.

Imagine a carbonated liquid in a bottle, such as a Coca-Cola. The soda will sit on the shelf undisturbed and remain trapped inside the bottle. But if you shake that same bottle vigorously and uncap it, you can create a burst of foam which causes the soda to overflow its glass container.

The special energy required to "bubble" and overflow its container lies dormant in the soda liquid until it is shaken. Similarly, the act of "mobbing" shakes the mob and lets loose its collective effervescence. Dormant energy is unleashed with no central authority to control its direction. Mindless destruction, previously caged, is unleashed.

Abrahm looks again from the balcony. The mob is moving differently than before.

Banners are waved in unison. Isolated yells become group chants. The mob rhythmically pushes against the police barricades in a single, crushing multitude instead of scattered segments.

Pressure is building. The mob is shaking itself.

Our bit of danger is turning to grave danger.

***

A scared guard stands in the foyer, nervously peeping through the main entrance's glass doors at the shaking barricades less than 30 yards away. Through the doorway and across the circle driveway there is erected a wall of metal plates, each plate as wide as a car and as tall as two men. The plates are stood upright, shoulder to shoulder, and linked together in the middle by taut heavy support chains. A wall of metal stands between the empty circular parking area and the chaotic streets beyond. Sight of the mob is obstructed by the height of the walls, but there is no doubt it is there. Hundreds of people slam themselves against the barricades, creating small spaces between the seams of the linked metal plates. One member of the mob uses the iron rod of a street sign as a crow-bar to pry two plates apart. Car tires, rocks, and other hard objects are jammed between the seams of the barricades, bending the plates and stretching the metal chains holding the wall together. If the support chains are snapped, the barricades would fall over at the slightest touch, releasing the calamity upon city hall.

Wha-thud..! The barricades convulse as they absorb the non-stop pounding. The support chains are stretching tighter and tighter.

Abrahm enters the foyer accompanied by three policemen wearing full riot armor and bearing body-length plastic shields. Two carry a long aluminum ladder, folded in half. The other carries a thin cloth scarf tied at its end to a long metal wire. Abrahm wears a flak jacket and a helmet. Wrapped prominently on his right sleeve is an arm-band with a large gold insignia bearing the symbol of city government. A radio and pistol holster are fastened to his belt. He holds a loudspeaker.

"Open the doors."

The guard obeys hesitantly, opening the glass doors half-way, then quickly closing them as Abrahm's party exits.

City hall is decorated with ten massive glass pane windows on the front exterior of the building, two on each side of the main doors and six on the second floor. The facade is simple, yet beautiful with decorative beige sandstone columns and ornate bronze metal frames around the windows, roof tops, and terraces. Abrahm looks up to the windows and recognizes small, shoe-sized black cylinders attached to the inside of each one. The game is set. Time for play.

Strolling down the stone steps from the entrance to the parking area below, Abrahm approaches a large white cargo truck parked in the center of the circle driveway. Two policemen move in front and unfold their ladder, laying it diagonally against the truck. The third policeman unscrews the gas cap of the truck and uses the metal wire to stuff the cloth scarf down the tube into the inner gas tank. He slowly pulls the wire back out until a short section of the scarf protrudes from the gas cap soaked in gasoline. The policemen take positions by the ladder look back at Abrahm for his word.

"Ready."

All three policemen scramble up the ladder to the roof of the truck. As they reach the top, a frenzy of yells erupts from the mob as it sees the policemen come into view above the level of the barricades. Abrahm's bodyguards squat down and raise their shields in a protective diamond, creating space in the middle for Abrahm to stand. Abrahm climbs up and hunkers down between the shields. He is already sweating. From this elevated position, he can see the mob and the mob can see him. We just crossed over into grave danger.

Abrahm grabs his radio. "Alpha one, Alpha one, this is Bravo."

The building engineer returns his call, "Bravo, this is Alpha one, go ahead."

"Alpha, we are staged and ready. What's your status?"

"Bravo, my men are positioned at the windows. We are ready."

"Copy. You know when to act? Your men know the signal....copy?"

"Alpha copies. We are good-to-go."

"Copy. Out."

Radio silence goes into effect. Abrahm sits less than 10 yards - a few arm-lengths - from thousands of hostile faces and menacing fists.

Abrahm takes a deep breath and then stands straight and tall, exposing his body above the shields and making himself fully visible to the mob. He places the loudspeaker to his lips and raises his open palm above his head, gesturing for silence.

Sensing a moment of importance, the mob responds. The yelling slowly ceases, and a hush settles over the streets.

We begin.

***

// AN ADDRESS TO THE PEOPLE OF THE CITY (speech not written)

***

Just as Abrahm finishes his final words, HAVOC STRIKES.

Sha-Boom! An Explosion rocks the air - the large window at the end of City Hall's second floor erupts in a burst of white light. Shards of glass and metal scatter across asphalt. The echo of the blast is heard on the far side of the Palisades.

The mob is frozen, quiet. Abrahm, unfazed and unsurprised, squats behind the shields.

Sha-Boom! Sha-Boom! Two more windows blast apart in the upper deck.

The mob reacts at random. A man cheers, others scream.

Sha-Boom! Another window, this time on the ground floor, sends glass scattering through the parking area. A robust cloud of gray smoke begins to pour out of first window. Flickers of light - fire! -can be seen inside the room.

Confusion and surprise sweep the streets. Some duck and cover their heads. Others stand up and strain to see over the walls.

Sha-Boom! Sha-Boom! Sha-Boom! Three more. Smoke starts to drift upward from each of the blown windows.

Unknown to the mob, Abrahm's operatives are the source of the explosions. Flash bang explosives, followed by smoke grenades, create the necessary havoc. Metal file cabinets are pushed to the windows while the papers inside the shelves are set ablaze to produce the effect of a building fire.

Sha-Boom! Sha-Boom! The people on the front lines of the mob, seriously unnerved, begin to lunge away from the barricades and back into the crowd.

Their "collective effervescence" is shattered along with City Hall's facade.

Sha-Boom! The final window blows. Huge plumes of smoke now carry themselves skyward from the demolished front entrance.

Seeing that all of the windows have blown, Abrahm turns to his bodyguards.

"Move!"

The party of four side-steps to the edge of the truck's roof. Each policeman slides down the ladder in one fast, graceful motion like a fireman sliding down a pole. Abrahm throws himself off the roof and tumbles to the ground, rolling into a standing position. Graceful, it was not.

One policeman removes a flare from his chest pouch and strikes the cap until it turns into a star burst of red flames. He moves to the gas tank and touches the flare to the protruding scarf, instantly igniting the gasoline-soaked cloth. The policeman throws the flare into the cabin of the truck and turns back to face Abrahm, who nods approvingly.

Abrahm's human triangle of shields retreats in a protective formation back up the stone steps. The guards see them coming and hold the glass doors open. Pieces of broken glass crunch under their feet. One policeman produces a smoke grenade from his chest pouch, pulls the pin, and sends it rolling down the stone stairs. Ka-Pfft! A cold blast of compressed air fills the main entrance with smoke and obscures Abrahm's view of the barricades.

Just as they pass the mantle of the entrance, a KA-BOOM! pierces the air. A strong pressure wave sweeps the room, cracking the thick glass doors and knocking everyone to the ground. Outside, the white cargo truck has been transformed into a fireball of orange heat. The fire quickly burns itself out until the truck is a smoldering cauldron of thick black smoke.

"Is everyone OK? Sound off!" Abrahm's voice is coarse. His breath was sucked out of him during the pressure wave.

The three policemen call back in short order, "Fine!...OK!...Good!" The guard is slower to respond, "Damn near killed, but I'm here!"

"Very good. Let's finish this."

Abrahm jumps to his feet and races down the marble halls, dusting himself off along the way.

***

Abrahm emerges from the stairwell door and races to the balcony on the upper terrace of City Hall. He sees the last rays of daylight disappear behind the dark outline of the city's skyline. The streets are now illuminated by street lamps and the lights from nearby houses and office buildings. Eyesight is muted by the diffusion of dust particles from City Hall's smoking facade. A heavy gray haze is fills the air around the mob. Night is upon us.

The upper terrace usually commands a wide view of the Palisades, but right now the rising smoke from the windows below is obstructing any clear sight lines. Leaning over the guardrail, Abrahm strains to see the mob through the smoke and darkness. Flickers of light and shadows, nothing more. He grabs his radio and adjusts the channel selector dial.

"Delta, Delta, this is Bravo. Do you copy?"

"Bravo, we have you. Go ahead."

"Delta, do you have eyes on the Palisades?"

"Copy. We are positioned to the rear of the crowd."

"Delta, we are blind here at Point Zero. We can't see through the smoke. What are you seeing down there?"

"Copy, Bravo. The mob is still bunched up in the middle, but no one is really moving much. A few people seem to be leaving the big group, wandering off. It's getting dark out there."

"What about the barricades? Are they still trying to punch through?"

"Negative. The crowd seems to be moving away from the smoke. Be advised - there are some guys down here who are still trying to stir up the crowd, yelling and directing others back towards you."

"Agents provocateur? Ringleaders, do you think?"

"Tough to say. The crowd doesn't seem to be responding to them. I just don't know."

"OK. Listen, send our snatch team to grab one of them. I want to know for sure."

"Copy that. Will do."

"Copy. Out."

Abrahm thumbs the dial on the radio, selecting a different channel. He glances at his watch.

"Alpha one, Alpha one, this is Bravo, do you read?"

"Bravo, go ahead." The building engineer's voice is is half obscured by the loud buzz of machinery in the background of the radio transmission.

"Alpha, have the window teams extinguished the fires inside the building?"

"Copy that, Bravo, they are all put out."

"Very good. We are a go in under five. Are you ready?"

"Copy. All set down here."

"Copy. Standby for my word. Out."

Abrahm disappears back into the stairwell, reappearing one floor up on the roof of City Hall. He unbuckles the gun hostler on his belt and grasps the handle of a large red pistol - a flare gun. He glances at his watch. Tick, tick, tick.

Three minutes to go.

Abrahm gazes outward, seeing nothing more than black sky and gray smoke. This last part of his plan needs to be executed perfectly for maximum effectiveness.

Two minutes.

He aims the flare gun vertically up, towards the smoke and directly over the Palisades.

One minute.

Abrahm closes his eyes and fires - Pfftt-sss! - a blinding light of red exits the muzzle of the gun and pierces through the smoke. It continues past City Hall's entrance and floats in a gentle arc over the heads of the mob.

All eyes in the mob shift upward focusing their attention on the bright - ever so bright! - light in the sky. The darkness of the night accentuates the intensity of the flare. The crowd squints their eyes to watch it float over them to the other end of the Palisades.

Abrahm finds his watch. The clock hits zero.

"Alpha one, Alpha one. Lights out!"

Deep inside the mechanical bowels of City Hall, the building engineer grasps a lever, a very old and special lever. This lever hasn't been pulled since 1944, a time when the Old City suffered nightly bombing raids and air strikes during the Second World War. His hand shaking, the engineer yanks the lever downwards with a Th-unk...!

Instant darkness.

The electrical current is cut to everything within a seven mile radius of City Hall - all street lamps, building lights, and power grids immediately go dark. Everyone within the limits of the Old City is plunged into a veil of black.

The only light left is from Abrahm's flare. It drifts over a building and lands on the far side of the Palisades, still burning.

Outside City Hall, the mob is completely blind. After squinting at Abrahm's bright flare, the instant darkness combined with the smoke diffusion overloads the capacity of human eyesight. City Hall has disappeared. There is only blackness.

The people of the mob try to move, but find themselves stumbling over each other in the night. Grunts and yells are heard. People focus on the only source of light available - Abrahm's flare. Pockets of the crowd begin to move towards the flare - away from City Hall. Soon, the entire momentum of the mob shifts in the direction of the light at the other side of the Palisades. Anger and blood lust disappear. Confusion reigns.

Abrahm keys the radio.

"Delta, Delta, this is Bravo, what's your visual?"

"Bravo, we're looking through our night-vision goggles and see the crowd dispersing away from Point Zero. It's working."

"Good to hear. What's the status of our snatch team?"

"I just dispatched them. No update yet."

"Copy. Out."

Abrahm exits the roof and returns to the unlit stairwell, feeling his way down using the handrail to the main foyer.

The Chief of Police emerges from the darkness, shining a flashlight in Abrahm's face. "What's happening out there?"

Abrahm shields his eyes and snaps back, "The mob is dispersing. Where are your men?"

The Chief turns giddy. "Are you serious? The mob is gone?"

Abrahm seizes his arm and leans in close, "Listen to me. It's not over yet. We need to consolidate. Have your policemen move out the side entrance and occupy the Palisades as the mob disperses. Put teams of men on all streets within a three block radius. Don't let the mob regroup. When the lights come back on in one hour, I want the people to see us on every corner. I want them to see us on guard. Then we will own the streets again."

The Chief's face stiffens. "Yes sir." He twirls and rushes back into the darkness, barking orders into his radio.

Abrahm removes his helmet and sheds his flak jacket with a heavy sigh.

The danger, thankfully, is over.

***

The snatch team moves silently down the brick alley. They are dressed in dark clothes, each of their faces concealed with a baseball cap and scarf. Camilly leads the pack, the other two agents follow one step behind him. They pause at the end of the alley, looking outward onto a small intersection of streets.

The space is illuminated by the headlights of nearby cars and people waving make-shift torches. A crowd of seventy wanders through the intersection while taxis, trucks, and cars honk incessantly in a vain attempt to make their way forward.

Camilly points. "That one, in the green shirt and beard."

The other two agents nod and break off. They circle the intersection in a flanking maneuver, moving closer to the target with each step. Camilly walks straight towards a taxi cab.

The man in the green shirt stands on the curb, talking on his cellphone. He is oblivious to the men approaching behind him. He also doesn't notice a taxi cab pulling up next to him curbside. The vehicle's rear door pops open.

The two agents loom behind their target.

They react with a quiet intensity of force. One agent grabs the target's belt and lifts him up off his feet. The other agent controls his head, covering his mouth and directing it into the taxi cab. The agents stuff themselves and their target silently inside the cab. The taxi lurches into motion recklessly, nearly hitting a group of bystanders. It mounts a sidewalk, steering around a section of stopped vehicles, and drives off into the night.

***

The Great Hall glows from the light of a hundred candles. The mood is jovial. Laughter and playful banter resound from every seat in the hall. Senators and Assemblymen shake each other's hands and congratulate themselves.

By all appearances, disaster has been averted. Their lives are safe. The mob is gone.

When Abrahm enters, a loud applause sweeps the room. All stand and acknowledge their rescuer.

Abrahm gestures for silence. "Thank you. It's been a long day, but we're home now. Let's keep this home of ours in one piece so that we will never have to live through another day such as this."

The Assembly nod their heads in approval.

He continues, "I have given the Speaker of the Assembly a letter stating my recommendations on what this government needs to do in the next 30 days to keep this victory alive and win back the trust of the people. I expect you to execute these recommendations without delay or debate. Act now, and claim your city. I will leave you with one wish - May you never have need of me again! Agreed?"

The Assembly, in unison, "Agreed!"

Abrahm walks off to a second applause, this one more grandiose than the first with cheering and thumping of fists upon desks.

Abrahm thinks of what he just accomplished - the defeat of the mob. He confused and blinded an enemy of 3,000, denying it victory while also giving it satisfaction. Abrahm saved both the people of the mob and the people of City Hall from harm. A few busted windows, sure, but no one was killed. Tomorrow, both parties can negotiate with a clean conscious and without the irreconcilable wall of blood spilled.

He laughs quietly, amazed at himself.

We have tricked the devil once again.

***

Abrahm is alone, lounging in the back seat of a car. The windows are blacked out. The ride is bumpy. His cellphone buzzes to life. "DIAMOND calling..." reads the screen. He answers.

"Camilly. Did we get our guy?"

"Yes, Abrahm, we did."

"Good." Abrahm cracks a smile. "Turn him over to the local police as soon as you can. Our job is finished. The original departure time still stands."

Camilly breathes heavily into the phone. "There's something else." Camilly always breathes heavy when he is stressed. This is not good.

"What is it?"

"He's one of ours."

Abrahm sits up straight. "What do you mean, ours?"

"He's one of us. He had a foreign passport on him, but once he saw me, he changed his story. Abrahm, he's telling the truth - he recited part of the Creed. I didn't believe it at first, but I just verified his fingerprints."

"He's...American?" Abrahm is shocked.

"Yep."

Abrahm leans forward, slowly articulating his next words, "OK. We need bring him with us. You know the rules when it comes to Americans - no one gets out, ever. Especially over here. How do you want to do this?"

"We have a mummy-case on the plane. I'll bring him to the departure zone and zip him up there. The police don't know we have him yet. No one will miss him for a couple of days."

"Very good. Keep it quiet. See you then."

Abrahm punches the seat in front of him in frustration. He found an American! Another one!

This is not good. No one at home will be pleased.

He did not expect this.

The devil has flanked him.

***

The early dawn hours are illuminated by two massive airport runway lanterns, each flashing their blue lights simultaneously, modern-era lighthouses to signal approaching planes. Abrahm's aircraft is barely visible through the torrential downpour of rain. It sits on the far edge of the runway next to a section of tall grass. Two propellers frame each side of the small, eight-seat aircraft. Rain is striking its wings and running off to create a variety of miniature waterfalls. There are flashes of lightning and a murmur of thunder. The marking on the plane's tail reads, "CNUSA."

Under the wings, two black figures shove a silver man-sized casket - the mummy-case - into a cargo bay under the plane's cabin. Abrahm's car circles the runway and stops yards away from the aircraft. He runs to a small ladder on the side of the plane and enters the cabin, covering his head from the drenching rain with a newspaper. Camilly is sitting in the pilot's seat conducting a pre-flight equipment check. Abrahm leans his head through the small cockpit door.

"Is this weather going to be a problem?"

Camilly's response is curt. "Nope."

"Good. What's our flight time?"

Camilly answers without looking up, fiddling with the aircraft's inboard computer. "About five hours. Our guest is secured in the cargo hold. He'll make it home - no problem."

"OK."

Abrahm turns to enter the cabin, then leans back into the cockpit.

With a mock smile, "And how is your morning going?"

Camilly looks up with a smirk, "Just peachy."

"Great. I'll get you some coffee and peanuts." Abrahm ducks out.

Camilly chuckles and returns to his duties, calling back, "No cream this time! You know I like my coffee black."

The cabin of the plane is spartan. The length of the interior has been gutted except for two tan leather seats occupying the first row. Bags, suitcases, and cardboard boxes fill the rear of the plane. Four circular windows bring light into the space. The rain beats against them and drips down the slick exterior. Outside, two figures seal the cargo bay and depart the runway in Abrahm's car. Camilly raises the ladder and fires the engine. The propellers whirl to life.

Abrahm collapses into the first chair and looks at his cellphone. He thumbs the side dial and accesses his "Contacts" list. Scrolling past "CLUB," then "DIAMOND," he selects an entry labeled "HEART." It rings.

A female voice answers.

"Hello?"

"It's me. Where are you?"

"Hey, there. I'm home. Where are you?"

Abrahm sighs. "Far from home. It's raining where I am. What's the weather where you are?"

"Sunshine. Always sunshine. Don't you remember?"

"It's been a long time."

There is a long pause. Abrahm stares out the window as the plane jerks into motion.

She breaks the silence, "It's not easy anymore, Nick. This distance is killing us."

Nick Abrahm closes his eyes. "I know."

The world slows when he thinks of her. He remembers the brightness of her eyes when she laughs. He misses that starlight smile - so much, so much!

She is so close to his heart, so far from his touch.

"Listen," Abrahm whispers, "We're going to make a stop in Rome in a few days. I'll meet you in the terminal, just like before. Can we talk then? I have to go now - we're about to take off. "

"Of course."

"Good. Love you."

"No trouble this time. Okay? Love you too. Bye."

"No trouble, I promise. Bye."

Abrahm's white plane floats skyward amidst a tempest of rain and lightning.

***

Home for Abrahm is an ancient 'island' of history encircled by two oceans - one of water and the other of sand.

Tangier, Morocco.

The Kingdom of Morocco is called Al-Mamlaka al-Maghribiya in its native language of Arabic, meaning "The Western Kingdom." It received its name from the Islamic conquerors of the seventh century. The Arab general Uqba ibn Nafi was dispatched from Damascus in 670 AD by the Umayyad dynasty to conquer North Africa in the name of Islam. When his forces reached Morocco in 683 AD, their western conquest was stopped on Morocco's coastline by the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. They appropriately called the land "Maghreb al Aqsa," or "The Far West." Various factions warred for control of Morocco for centuries until it was unified under the Saadi dynasty in 1554. Sultan Moulay Ali Cherif of the Alaouite dynasty assumed control in 1631 and Morocco has been ruled by his royal descendants ever since.

Tangier, one of Morocco's largest cities, is a dusty coastal outpost with a long history of pirates and politics. It has been ruled by all manner of peoples - Phoenicians, Romans, Berbers, Arabs, and Europeans.

Its main promontory, Cape Spartel, touches both the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean and serves as the western entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar. Legends tell that the lost city of Atlantis lies in Spartel Bank, a submerged island near Tangier's coast.

Abrahm's plane flies over the city outline and touches down on a lone dusty runway, surrounded on all sides by towering dunes of sand. The aircraft leaves a rising cloud of brown dust as it taxis to the far end of the runway. It stops near a large canvas tent and a motorcade of white vehicles. The three boxy frames of the trucks, all Land Rover Defender 90's, stand out against graceful curves of the sand. Two local Berbers, dressed in their traditional vivid blue robes, appear on the dunes above and curiously watch the scene below.

The cabin door opens and Abrahm is greeted with the oppressive heat of the desert. Hotter than when we left, he thinks. The sun glares overhead and sends its sharp rays of warmth upon Abrahm's exposed skin. He secretly wishes for snow, fully aware that this desert hasn't seen snowflakes since the Ice Age.

Men in emerald scarves and white robes appear from the tent and begin unpacking the plane. The mummy-case is carefully loaded into the back of the first truck.

Abrahm and Camilly walk into the tent. The temperature inside is slightly cooler and the shade shelters them from the stinging rays of the sun. The Berbers, Morocco's indigenous people, have lived in these desert dwellings for centuries. Multi-colored rugs occupy the interior of the tent, sprawled across its dirt floor. A tea kettle steeps in a corner.

As Abrahm's eyes adjust to the darkness, he catches a female figure lying in the center of the rug. Her long blond hair falls haphazardly around a emerald neck scarf. She wears a tight white tank-top and loose military khaki pants. As they enter she raises her head, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Camilly kneels and ruffles her hair, "Sarah - caught you sleeping on the job again, huh?"

"You guys are two hours late! We've been waiting here for you all afternoon. I was just resting my eyes and keeping cool." Her youthful voice betrays her teenage immaturity. "If you gave me a more exciting job then I wouldn't get so bored."

"For my favorite daughter? I'll see what I can do. But you know the rules - you have to be 20."

Sarah sits up and pouts, "I'm 18! That should be close enough." She turns to Abrahm, "Right, Nick?"

"Keep me out of this." Abrahm is quick to reply, all-too-familiar with this old game of teenage politics.

"Patience, little one." Camilly lovingly slings his arm around her neck. "Let's get home and see your dad."

The motorcade glides over the dunes, racing towards the urban sprawl of Tangier.

***

Winding through the city streets, the motorcade enters a gated wall and rolls to a stop in the outer courtyard of an old stucco building of elaborate Moorish architecture. White walls, tall pillars, and zig-zag arches frame the two-story structure.

One feature catches the eye, a large circular seal affixed to the exterior of the main entrance. It is old and worn, but its icons are clearly visible to all who enter through its door. It is an official seal - America's Great Seal - depicting a bald eagle, with wings spread, clutching an olive branch and a bushel of arrows. The eagle's eyes look west, and above its head is a celestial cloud of 13 stars. Lettering encircling the seal reads, "Legation - United States of America."

The building is called the "Old American Legation" by the people of Tangier. A gift from Morocco's Sultan Moulay Suliman, it is famous for being the first overseas real estate assumed by the infant United States government in 1821.

It is America's first official embassy - the place where America physically established its democracy in a foreign land. When the Revolution-era patriot Charles Thomson designed America's Great Seal, he described the symbolism of the celestial cloud of 13 stars as America's rise to its rightful place in the world, "a new State taking its place and rank among other sovereign powers." The Old American Legation is not only a humble structure of stucco and stone, it is the physical fulfillment of this dream - the original patch of dirt where America first hoisted its own star amongst the constellation of nations.

A man sits cross-legged against the side of a white stone fountain at the center of the inner courtyard. Lush green palms in clay pots surround him. He is dressed in a crisp gray suit and smokes a cigar. His face is wrinkled and bearded. He strokes back his silver hair, revealing an oblong scar along his upper scalp. The smoke from his cigar drifts lazily upward to the second-floor terraces of the courtyard.

Sarah appears from a nearby door and dashes into the man's arms. Abrahm and Camilly amble into the courtyard behind her.

"We're back!" she squeaks happily, "Where's Abby at?"

"Downstairs. How was your day?"

Sarah frowns, replying with a terse "Just OK" before racing down a series of stone steps in search of her 'Abby.'

"Marcellus!" Camilly shouts as he approaches the fountain, "I found my daughter sleeping on duty again. Is that how you train her to watch our backs?"

Marcellus smiles, "I can't help it. She's a teenager - the only thing she takes seriously is her games with Abby."

Abrahm cuts in, "Well she's going to have to grow up quick. Things are bad for us out there."

Marcellus replies sternly, "Give her time, Nick. She's not like us, yet, and I don't want her to be. Let her enjoy her youth."

"I'm just saying, when the time comes she better be. No weak links in his house. We can't afford another incident like yours."

Camilly grabs Abrahm's arm, "Come on, you two. These trips are getting tougher, I know it, but lay off each other. Let's go downstairs and introduce Marcellus to our guest."

"Another one?" Marcellus sits up, dismayed.

"Yep, and you'll want to talk to this one."

Tossing his lit cigar into the pot of a nearby palm, Marcellus follows Abrahm and Camilly out of the courtyard.

***

The mummy-case lays on the dusty floor of the small, enclosed interrogation room. Florescent lights hang from the ceiling, and a wooden table with two metal chairs occupies the center. The walls are bare except for a large rectangular mirror.

Camilly enters the room and kneels in front of the silver casket. He unlocks the three side bolts and slowly raises the lid, releasing a burst of compressed air. Inside, a figure wearing medical scrubs lays motionless like a corpse, arms crossed and handcuffed. The figure is wearing a gas mask with blacked-out eye pieces and a long breathing tube hanging from the upper lid. A needle protrudes from an arm vein and attaches to a bag of fluid tucked along the side of the casket.

Camilly carefully removes the intravenous needle and unmasks the figure - the same man in the green shirt abducted by the snatch team. From a room on the other side of the mirror, Abrahm and Marcellus watch Camilly lift the unconscious man into one of the metal chairs, laying his head and handcuffed wrists across the table. He closes the lid of the mummy-case and drags it out of the room.

Abrahm enters, sitting in the chair on the other end of the table. Slowly, the man regains his senses, roughly rubbing his bloodshot eyes and coughing heavily. He looks around the room with a solemn disposition, neither shocked nor pleased with his present situation.

His eyes settle on Abrahm. Folding his hands, he sits straight up and stares defiantly back at the silent Abrahm.

We begin.

THE INTERROGATION

***

END OF PREVIEW