Free 2013: Beyond Armageddon by Robert Ryan

different cultures of the world. His favorite times had been sitting in this chair, holding court, looking out at the street, savoring his good fortune, feeling as though it had all been worthwhile. And through it all, inside him had beat the heart of a Bedouin.
    Tarik finished his espresso while making a last feeble effort to convince himself that premonitions and curses were superstitious nonsense, but he could not shake the uneasy feeling. He’d had it that night in the doorway, the last time he’d seen the priest.
    I hope the scrolls brought the priest fame and fortune.
    With a sudden overpowering sorrow he knew he had been kidding himself all these years. A priest does not pay that much of his Pope’s money for two scrolls and then steal them and disappear. Something very bad must have happened. Tarik knew—had always known—that the scrolls had cost the priest much more than money. They had cost him his faith.
    Which meant they had cost him his soul.
    The Bedouin looked at the suit he wore and realized they had done the same to him.
    These last few years had been the worst. His dying business had forced him to find another source of income to keep it alive. Once again he had turned a blind eye to his principles and become a middleman in the antiquities market. Bedouin sold archaeological artifacts to him, and he in turn sold them to the Palestinian who had a thriving market in the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem. Tarik knew the goods were stolen, and that his Arab friend’s hatred of Israel and the West meant some of the proceeds would help to fund terrorism. He had rationalized it away by telling himself that a man had to look out for himself and his family first, and that he was helping his Bedouin kinsmen do the same.
    He could rationalize no more. It was all over.
    He gazed into the bottom of his empty espresso cup. Many Greek customers over the years had told of their custom of reading the grounds to predict the future.
    The Bedouin stared long and hard into the thick black sludge. He saw no answers, only the quicksand that was his life.

CHAPTER 8
    Washington, D.C. October 5
    Leah glanced from their booth at the Bipartisan toward the loud macho posturing at the bar. Happy hour on a Friday. The weekend warriors were five deep, alcohol and testosterone stoking their bloodlust as they got louder and louder about which football team’s ass was going to get kicked. Some of the women were right in there with them, laughing and sizing up the big manly studs. She was so glad to be out of all that.
    Hurry up, Zeke. It had been fun going over strategy for his surprise birthday party tomorrow, but she wished he would hurry. The longer they were here the more it took away from their romantic evening.
    She looked at the happy faces at her table. Hank and Rita Sloan across from her, Zeke’s sister Valerie beside her. She felt a familiar pang of sadness at how much happier she felt with Zeke’s family than she had ever felt with her own. Her parents had divorced over twenty years ago and still couldn’t be in the same room together. Her sister had never recovered from their incessant arguing and had become an alcoholic. Leah hadn’t spoken to any of them in years, didn’t even have their addresses.
    Hank told the waiter to bring the second round of their two-for-one cocktails. Leah watched Zeke’s father with admiration. He was a large man, aging gracefully with a full head of nicely cut white hair. He and Rita were high school sweethearts. They had the kind of loving, comfortable relationship she hoped she and Zeke would have.
    The waiter brought the second round and Hank held up his glass. “Hey, this is a happy hour, right? Let’s take a minute to count our blessings. First and foremost, thanks for our health, our love, all the good things that have happened to us along the way.”
    They chimed their agreement and drank.
    Hank held his glass up again. “Speaking of good things happening along the way, here’s to