The Face of God

Publisher: FaithWords
ISBN-10: 098260789X
ISBN-13: 978-0982607893

About the Book

What if you could hear the voice of God or actually see His face?

Two men of opposite faiths share the same quest.

The Pastor: His wife of twenty-three years has been murdered. His faith in God is crumbling before his very eyes. Now, with his estranged son, he sets out to find the supernatural stones spoken of in the Bible. Stones that will enable the two of them to hear the audible voice of God. Stones that may rekindle their dying faith and love.

The Terrorist: He has also learned of the stones. He too must find them–but for much darker reasons. As the mastermind of a deadly plot that will soon kill millions, he has had a series of dreams that instruct him to first find the stones. Everything else is in place.

With the lives of millions hanging in the balance, the opposing faiths of these two men collide in an unforgettable showdown. From America to Israel, to France to Africa, the men race to find their quarry. But ultimately what they reach is deeper understanding.

The Face of God is another thrilling and thought-provoking novel by a master of the heart and suspense, guaranteed to open reader’s eyes to re-examine their relationship with God and their attitude toward non-believers.

The Face of God

CHAPTER ONE

“Jill . . .” She gave him a brief nod, indicating that she’d heard. “Come on,” he urged, “the rest of the group is waiting.”

Her brief nod was followed by a brief smile, indicating that she’d heard but was in no particular rush to do anything about it. “Jill . . .”

Another nod, another smile.

He shook his head, frustrated and amused. After twenty-three years of marriage he knew the futility of trying to hurry his wife when she wasn’t interested in being hurried. He sighed and glanced around the tiny shop, one of a hundred stalls squeezed next to each other inside Istanbul’s Spice Bazaar. Every inch of floor space was covered and every shelf was filled with spilling bags and open barrels of nuts, candies, fruit, seeds, pods, stems, leaves—some fresh, some dried; some ground, some whole—more spices and herbs than he’d ever seen or smelled in his life.

The aromas were dizzying, as were the bazaar’s sounds and colors. A menagerie of vendors beckoning the passing crowd to “come, see my jewelry . . . perfume for your lady friend . . . a souvenir for your children . . . beautiful key chain to ward off evil eye . . . finest gold in all Turkey . . . natural pirinc, good for much romance . . . Visa, Mastercard accepted . . . come, just to talk, we have some tea, my friend, just to talk.”

It was that last phrase that did them in yesterday. They’d barely left the hotel lobby before a merchant was escorting them into one of the city’s thousands of oriental rug shops. They’d made it clear they were not buying. The rugs were beautiful but there was no room in their house nor their budget. The owner nodded in sympathetic understanding. But after two hours of chitchat, pictures of a brother who lived in America, and more than one glass of hot tea, they found themselves viewing his wares and feeling obligated to at least purchase something—which they did. Seven hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of something!

But today was another day—he hoped.

“Jill . . .”

She nodded. She smiled. And she continued talking to the leatherfaced shopkeeper. The bartering was good-natured. Jill had purchased a quarter kilo of halvah—a deadly rich concoction of ground sesame seed and honey. She’d already paid for it, but before passing the bag to her, the old-timer tried to persuade her to buy more.

“I’m afraid it will make me even fatter,” she said, pretending to pat an imaginary belly.

“A woman of your beauty, she could eat a hundred kilo and it would make no difference.”

Jill laughed and the man threw Daniel a wink with his good eye, making it clear the flirting was all in fun.

Daniel smiled back. It was obvious the fellow liked Jill. Then again, everyone liked Jill. The reason was simple. Everyone liked Jill because she liked everyone. From the crankiest congregation member to the most obnoxious telemarketer, his wife always found something to like. And it wasn’t a put-on. The sparkle in her eyes and delight in her voice was always genuine. Unlike Daniel, who had to work harder at his smiles and often thought his social skills were clunky, Jill was blessed with a spontaneous joy. And that joy was the light of his life. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t thank God for it—even as high school sweethearts, she a cheerleader, he a tall, gangly second-stringer for the basketball team. He could never figure out what she saw in him, then . . . or now. But he never stopped being grateful that she did.

As the years of marriage deepened their love, she had moved from someone who always touched his heart to someone who had become his heart. In many ways she had become his center, a constant point around which much of his life revolved. He cherished this woman. And though he seldom said it, her heart and love for others was a quiet challenge and model that he never ceased striving to emulate.

Yes, her love for people was a great gift—except when they were on a tight schedule, as they were now, as they always seemed to be. Because no matter how friendly you are, it takes more than a sincere smile to keep a forty-five-hundred-member church afloat.

“Jill . . .” He motioned to his watch, a Rolex. It had been presented to him by the elders for twenty years of faithful service.

Twenty hard-fought years of sweating and building the church out of nothing. Originally he’d hated the watch. Felt it was too flashy for a pastor. But because of the politics involved, he’d forced himself to wear it. You don’t keep a forty-five-hundred-member church afloat without understanding politics.

“This I do for you,” the shopkeeper was saying. His good eye briefly darted to someone or something behind them. “I sell you one-quarter kilo and give you an extra quarter for free.”

“No, no, no . . .” Jill laughed, suspecting another ploy.

“Just one-quarter kilogram, that’s all we need.”

“No.” The man’s voice grew firm. “I have made up my mind.”

“But we only have enough to buy one-quarter.”

“This I have heard.” The shopkeeper spoke faster. He turned his back to them, momentarily blocking their view. “But for you, I give a most special gift.” When he turned to them, he was already wrapping it in the same slick, brown paper he had used before.

“Please,” Jill said, laughing, “you don’t understand.”

Again the man’s eye flickered to somewhere behind them. “I understand everything,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “It is free. I make no joke.” He dropped the item into the bag and handed it to her.

“But I can’t. I mean, that is very generous, but I can’t accept—”

“You must,” he said, smiling. “It is the Turkish way.” He glanced behind them and spoke even faster. “It is an old Islamic custom.”

Jill frowned. “An old Islamic cust—”

He cut her off with growing impatience. “It is good for your soul. It will help you hear the voice of God. Go now.” He waved his hands at her. “Leave my shop now. Go.”

Jill glanced at Daniel, unsure what to do.

He hadn’t a clue.

She turned back to the shopkeeper, making one last attempt. “Listen, I don’t think you understand. We are only paying for—”

“Leave my shop now!” His impatience had turned to anger.

“Do you not hear? Leave! Leave or I shall call the authorities!”

Jill frowned. Had she inadvertently offended him? Had she—

“Leave! Allah Issalmak. God keep you safe!” He turned his back on them and set to work organizing a nearby barrel of pistachios.

Again the couple exchanged glances, when suddenly two uniformed men jostled past them. In one swift move they grabbed the shopkeeper by the arms. He looked up, startled. He shouted at them but they gave no answer. He squirmed to get free but it did no good.

“Excuse me!” Jill reached toward them. “Excuse—”

Daniel grabbed her arm. “No . . .”

She turned to him. “What?”

Although he wanted to help, he shook his head.

“Dan—”

“We don’t know him. We don’t know what he’s done.” The shopkeeper shouted louder. He pleaded to the crowd but no one moved to help. The two men dragged him from the stall and out into the cobblestone street, where his shouts turned to panicked screams as he kicked and squirmed, trying desperately to escape.

Again Jill started toward him, and Daniel squeezed her arm more firmly. She came to a stop, not liking it but understanding.

Off to the side someone caught Daniel’s attention. He was a tall man dressed in a dark suit and a brown sweater vest. But it wasn’t the clothing that attracted Daniel’s attention. It was the man’s focus. Instead of watching the shopkeeper, like the rest of the crowd, he was scrutinizing the two of them.

The look unnerved Daniel but he held the gaze—not challenging it but not backing down, either. The man gave a slight nod of greeting. Daniel hesitated, then returned it until his line of sight was broken by more uniformed men rushing in. They shouted at the crowd, forcing the people to step back as they began scouring the premises, rifling through the bags and barrels, tipping them over, spilling them to the ground.

When Daniel glanced back to the man in the suit, he was gone. But Daniel had an uncanny sense that they were still being watched. He leaned toward Jill and half whispered, “We need to go.”

“What are they doing?” she demanded.

“I don’t know but we shouldn’t be here.” He wrapped a protective arm about her shoulder, easing her forward.

“What are they doing?” she repeated. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” He guided her through the crowd.

“Where are they taking him?”

Daniel did not answer. Instead he continued moving them forward. He didn’t look back for the man in the suit. He didn’t have to. He knew he was still there. And he knew he was still watching.

*****

“But, Ibrahim, with the greatest respect, the Qur’an calls for only 2.5 percent of our profit to go to the poor.”

“That is correct. And now I wish for us to double that.”

A palpable silence stole over the Shura, the council of ten men, most of whom were under the age of thirty-five. They came from various countries—Egypt, Iraq, Libya, Afghanistan, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Azerbaijan, and of course right there in Sudan. Each was well trained; many held degrees from universities in the West. Each was responsible for a specific operation within the organization. And now as Ibrahim el-Magd spoke, he knew each was quietly calculating the financial impact his imposed charity would have upon each of their divisions.

Abdullah Muhammad Fadi, in charge of the organization’s European and American businesses, continued speaking as he reached for his laptop computer. “So by doubling it, we are changing it to . . .”

Ibrahim el-Magd already knew the figure. “Five percent of 1.8 billion increases our zakat, our charitable gifts, to ninety million dollars.”

The silence grew heavier. Only the rhythmic beating of the overhead fan could be heard. With quiet resolve Ibrahim surveyed the mujihadeen sitting about the table, his dark, penetrating eyes peering into each of their souls. They were good men, devoted to Allah with all of their hearts and minds. Despite their devotion to family, they had left behind wives and children for this greatest and most holy of wars. They had given up all for this, the most final jihad that Muhammad himself, may his name be praised, spoke of.

Across the table, young Mustafa Muhammad Dahab cleared his throat. “May I ask . . . may I ask why this sudden increase in charity?”

Ibrahim turned to the youngest member of the group. Mustafa was a handsome fellow who had not yet taken a wife and who, according to sources, was still a virgin, Allah be praised. He would make a great father, a great husband. More importantly, he was becoming a mighty man of God. At the moment he was in charge of managing and laundering drug money for the Russian Mafia—a one-billion-dollar operation for which their organization received twelve percent. Ibrahim did not begrudge the boy his question. He knew he merely asked what the others were thinking. For the briefest moment he thought of sharing his vision of the night—the dream that had returned to him on three separate occasions.

The dream of a face. A terrifying, blood-covered face. A face twisted with rage and fury. A face so covered in its opponent’s blood that it was nearly unrecognizable. Nearly, but not quite. Because Ibrahim knew whose face it represented; he sensed it, felt it to the depth of his soul. It represented the face of God—the face of Allah as he poured out his great and final wrath upon all humankind.

Ibrahim stole a glance at Sheikh Salad Habib, his chief holy adviser. Although every man in the room had memorized the Qur’an as a boy, it was Sheikh Habib who helped interpret it in terms of the jihad. Knowing Ibrahim’s thoughts, the old man closed his eyes and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Such truth as the dream was too holy to share; it would be considered blasphemy, at least for now.

Ibrahim understood and quietly raised his hand toward the table. “It is no small honor to be chosen as Allah’s great and final winnowing fork. And for such honor we must all increase our devotion and our commitment. Time and time again the Western infidels have proved how power and money corrupt.” He leaned forward, growing more intense. “This shall not, it must not, happen to us.” He looked about the table. “This small gesture—what is it but merely a reminder that it is Allah and Allah alone whom we serve. Not ourselves. And if necessary, if we need another reminder, I shall raise the percentage again, to ten percent or forty percent or, if Allah wills, to one hundred percent.” He lowered his voice until it was barely above a whisper. “This is the time, my friends, above all other in history. This is the time to purify ourselves. For our families. Our world. This is the time to take charge of every thought and deed, to remove every unclean desire—ensuring that all we say and think and do is of the absolute and highest holiness.”

Ibrahim looked back to Mustafa. The young man nodded slowly in agreement. So did the others. He knew they would understand.

After a suitable pause Yussuf Fazil, his brother-in-law, coughed slightly. Ibrahim turned to him. They had been best friends since childhood. They had grown up together in a tiny village on the Nile. Together they had studied the Qur’an, attended Al-Azhar University in Cairo. And though Yussuf had chosen Ibrahim’s sister for his younger, second wife, it did little to bring them closer—for they were already family, brothers in the deepest sense of the word.

“What about the remaining stones?” Yussuf asked. “What progress is being made?”

Ibrahim was careful to hide his irritation. His insistence that they wait until the stones were retrieved had created a schism within the council, an ever widening impatience lead by Yussuf Fazil himself. Yet despite the group’s frustration, Ibrahim remained adamant. They already had four stones. They would not begin the Day of Wrath until the remaining eight were found and consulted. He turned to the group and gave his answer. “Another has been sighted in Turkey.”

“Only one?” Yussuf asked.

Refusing to be dragged into yet another discussion on the issue, Ibrahim glanced at Sheikh Habib. The old man took his cue. His voice was thin and reedy from lack of use, from his many days of silent study and prayer. “It is our belief—” He cleared his throat. “It is our belief that the remaining stones will surface very, very quickly.”

Ibrahim watched the group. He knew many considered this action superstitious, even silly. And because of Yussuf, he knew that number was increasing. But he also knew the absolute importance of consulting with Allah before unleashing his greatest and most final fury. Still, how long could he hold them off? Plans for the Day of Wrath had been under way for nearly four years. And now as the day finally approached, they were supposed to stop and wait? How long could he hold them at bay? A few weeks? A month? Every aspect of the plan was on schedule. They were nearly ready to begin . . .

Except for the stones.

Sensing the unrest, Sheikh Habib resumed. “There have been several rumored sightings, all of which we are pursuing. Europe, Palestine, here in Africa. It should not be long.”

Mustafa Muhammad Dahab asked respectfully, “And we are certain they will enable us to hear his voice?”

The sheikh nodded. “According to the Holy Scriptures, just as they had for Moses, the twelve stones, with the two, will enable the inquirer to hear and understand Allah’s most holy commands.” “And yet the additional two stones you speak of, are they not—”

The rising wail of an air-raid siren began. Tension swept across the table. Some of the Shura leaped to their feet, collecting papers; others moved less urgently. But all had the same goal—to reach the underground shelter as quickly as possible. The compound, like many others of Ibrahim el-Magd’s, was well protected by armored vehicles, tanks, antiaircraft guns. At this particular base in northern Sudan there were even Stinger missiles. Since the vowed retaliation for the World Trade Center, such precautions were necessary for any organization such as theirs. Ibrahim rose to his feet and gathered his robes. Although he was anxious to join his wife, Sarah, and his little Muhammad in the shelter, he was careful to watch each of the Shura as they exited. He owned a half dozen camps scattered throughout the Middle East. Less than twenty people knew this was the compound where they would be meeting. In fact, to increase security, the location had been changed twenty-four hours earlier. The odds of the enemy choosing this particular time and this particular location to launch a strike were improbably high—unless there was an informant. And by watching each of the men’s behavior, Ibrahim hoped to discover if any was the betrayer.

The first explosion rocked the ground, knocking out power and causing the white plaster ceiling to crack and give way. Pieces fell, shattering onto the table before him.

“Ibrahim!” Yussuf Fazil stood at the doorway, motioning in the darkness. “Hur—”

The second explosion knocked them to the ground. Dust belched and poured into the room.

“Hurry!” Yussuf staggered to his feet, coughing. He raced to Ibrahim, then used his own body as a shield to cover him as they rose. Supporting one another, they picked their way across the cluttered floor. The explosions came more rapidly as they stumbled into the dark hallway, as they joined office personnel racing toward the tunnel with its open steel door ten meters ahead. Ibrahim could see the people’s mouths opening in shouts and screams, but he could not hear them over the thundering explosions.

He arrived at the tunnel and started down the steep concrete steps. The reinforced shelter lay twenty-five meters below—a shelter that security assured him could never be penetrated, even by the West’s powerful Daisy Cutter bomb. The earthshaking explosions grew closer, throwing Ibrahim against one side of the tunnel, then the other. They continued mercilessly, lasting nearly a minute before they finally stopped.

Now there was only silence—and the cries of people down in the shelter. Ibrahim emerged from the stairway and joined them just as the emergency generator kicked on. Nearly forty faces stared at him, their fear and concern illuminated by the flickering blue-green fluorescents. Two tunnels entered the shelter—one from the living quarters, one from the office area. His wife and little boy had no doubt entered through the living quarters.

“Sarah!” he shouted. “Muhammad!”

He scanned the group but did not see them.

“Sarah!”

Still no answer. People started to stir, looking about.

“They were outside,” a voice coughed.

Ibrahim turned to see a secretary. Her veil had fallen, revealing black hair covered in plaster dust, and a face streaked with tears.

“They were outside playing when the . . .” She swallowed. “They were outside playing.”

Ibrahim shoved past her. He began searching the group, holding his panic in check. “Sarah!” The people parted for him to pass.

“Muhammad!”

The Face of God

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The Face of God