By Peter Clenott
At the eve of the yankee invasion of Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, a global forged of schemers, spies, clergy, and scientists race to say the best prize the area has ever visible. American archaeologist Molly O’Dwyer has unearthed a long-lost burial mound in historical Babylon. Whose continues to be are in it? Are they regarding the mysterious Gospel of Hannaniah, the alleged daughter of Jesus of Nazareth? Will the revelation of her stunning findings wreck the church and the religion of billions? This tale of intrigue, betrayal, and ruthless ambition set opposed to the treacherous heritage of the center East on the point of conflict, piles at the suspense till the ultimate gripping scenes.
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Call Saddam. Tell him to contact the American president. Tell him we have proof of the remains of a descendant of Jesus. Perhaps of Jesus himself! Tell him we’ve run DNA tests and can pinpoint the age of the body. Tell him accompanying evidence will lead us to even more. Jama kept a diary, Ghazi. Buy me time and we will save our country! ” Shifting into reverse, Tikriti paused. ” he said. ” Fawzi hesitated. Tikriti shot one more glance down at his wrist and his expensive timepiece. Fawzi had nothing, he thought, but what the hell.
As at Mohamoud Jama’s house, looters were hard at work even here at the center of Saddam Hussein’s secret service. Except that these looters were not thieving neighbors or treacherous students. These were soldiers of Hussein’s elite guard, carting off anything they thought might have black-market value. No one, least of all Fawzi, tried to stop them. He would have thrown himself into the intelligence officer’s arms when the door to Ghazi’s luxurious suite of offices opened, but Tikriti’s arms were already filled.
H U N T I N G T H E K I N G n 41 Chapter 4 April 8, 2004 Boston, Massachusetts Smoke. That was always the first thing she saw. And smelled. Enough fire, black and toxic, to blind her and choke her. To kill her. She was five years old again, a desperate child, screaming for her mother. But her mother was gone, lost to the dark and the flames, long, long gone. ” She did, though she was far away from the man who had spoken to her. Thirty years away. ” Five-year-old Molly coughed out the words as if she were forcing them against the cloud of smoke that was trying to kill her.
Hunting the King by Peter Clenott